Baby You Can Stop Running

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight… And like I said in the last chapter, I unfortunately do not own some of the ideas taken from Midnight Sun… God I wish she would just publish it and put us all out of our misery. I think I love Edward more because of it.

Chapter Nine

BPOV

Edward's clothes were too large for me, I had to roll the track pants about ten times before the crotch was in the proper location, but still, I was comfortable. I lifted the collar of the white shirt to my nose, taking a deep breath and smelling the musky, fresh scent that was all Edwards. I closed my eyes, imagining the shirt tight against his body and I felt my cheeks blush a fierce shade of crimson. I was thankful that I was alone. Still, I wondered what he was doing, was he asleep? I thought of him then, sprawled out on his bed, his beautiful emerald eyes hidden behind his closed eyelids, his messy bronze hair pushed against the pillow. As my breathing changed, I realized that I shouldn't be thinking such thoughts and instead filed them away for when I was in private.

I walked around the room, never having seen a residence look so grand. The guest bedroom was large, and it only made me wonder what the others could possibly look like. The north-facing wall was almost completely made of glass, though to make sure the light would not enter, Alice had pulled the curtains across it. My eyes moved to the bed, so immaculately made that I felt guilty for even thinking about sleeping in it. How could someone mess something so perfect? I was terrified that I might clutter the flawless room. The last thing I wanted, after everything that they had already done for me, was to be a burden, to have them clean up after me.

A found small bookshelf by a large crushed velvet arm chair and as I kneeled down my eyes scanned the hard cover books. I smiled, my thumb tracing the leather binding of a vintage Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre. I pulled it out, bringing it to my nose and smelling the scent of the old book, letting it fill my nose, a temporary relief from the scent of Edward that clung to my body that lingered on the back of my throat so that with each breath I took I was reminded of his inhumanly desirable smell.

I opened the book to one of my favorite quotes, to one of my favorite explanations of human desire, of human love that I had ever been able to come across. "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so old land came broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt, and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly." I felt myself swoon at Edward Rochester's beautiful words. I wondered if a man like that could possibly exist, or if all the great characters, all the great loves and men, only existed in the minds of the women who had created them.

Still, I had never fully understood the words that were spoken by the great fictional character, that is, until I met my own Edward. I laughed at the curious notion that their first names were the same but pushed it away, chiding myself for thinking such an immature thought. Regardless, I seemed to finally understand, to finally know what it meant to feel as though the fiber of my being was somehow connected to another's. From the moment that I first laid eyes on him, there was something, something that seemed to latch onto me and hold me in place, a yearning deep within the pits of my stomach that called for him. It was as though our souls were somehow connected, and they longed to be together. Stupid Bella, it's just a figment of your imagination, a result of too many years alone.

I could hear music playing lightly from outside the door and curiously, I placed the book down on the bed, the page still open and walked to the door. I faintly remember it having a slight squeak so I opened it slowly, the music filling my ears. I found my way to the stairs and slowly descended them, listening to each note that was played and feeling as though somehow I had heard it before, and yet, I could not place the beautiful melody.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw him there, sitting at the piano while his hands moved along the keys. The room was almost dark save from the light that the moon cast through the wall of windows. It made his bronze hair and pale skin seem to shimmer, and though I couldn't see his eyes, I assumed that they too would have sparkled in the soft light. I wondered how he could read the sheet music with so little illumination but as I moved a few inches closer I realized that he was playing from memory, that where the paper should have laid, there was nothing.

I'm still not sure how long I stood there, my eyes on him, watching and listening to him. It seemed that even for the briefest of moments I was seeing in his soul, seeing a part of him that I had never imagined existed. There seemed to be some sort of passion, a deep hidden fervor that anyone would have missed had they not been witnessing what I was. Even though my obvious attraction to him, there had been something mysterious about him, as though he was trying to hide something from the world, something that he feared would give him away, that would make others turn in shame. It was a feeling that I knew all too well, but watching him at the piano gave him a depth that I had never seen before and it only made my attraction to him grow. I wondered how many others had seen him like this, if I was the first or if there had been others before, others who, like me could only stare, unable to find the words to express the moment. For the first time, his cool exterior did not match the warming exterior and it was a beautiful sight to see, one that I hoped that I would someday see again, and one that I knew I would forever keep filed deep within my memory.

He stopped abruptly and I realized that his eyes were now open and staring at me intently. The intensity behind his gaze startled me, and I jumped, taking a few steps back. I felt my face grow hot as I blushed once again and I hated that it gave me away so easily, hated that he would know that my thoughts had been on the impure side. Still, I couldn't bring myself to look away from him and I wondered what he was thinking. He merely sat there and it seemed like he was waiting for me to speak first, though I had no words and the silence only seemed to stretch. It was hardly something that I could be blamed for; he dazzled me beyond comprehension and left me speechless, something that no one had ever been able to do before. As we continued to stare at each other, both, I'm assuming, waiting for the other to speak first, I couldn't help but think that my first impressions of his appearance had been so remarkably wrong, his perfections were even greater than I had imagined. In that moment, with the light casting on his pale skin making it look like marble, I thought he looked like David, a perfect representation of a man, though unlike the one that sat in the Accademia Gallery in Florence, there was one very distinct difference. The man before me, unlike the marble statue that Michelangelo had once spent three years chiseling away at, was not made of stone, but rather warm flesh that could be touched and explored with human hands.

His quiet, musical voice filled the silence that had grown between us; he must have grown bored waiting for me to speak. But how could I? There was too much to take in just by looking at him, it didn't help that his voice only added to the perfection that was Edward Cullen. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"You didn't," I assured him, not wanting him to think that such a beautiful melody could ever be considered a disturbance. "I just couldn't sleep." Not far from a lie, the truth being that I didn't want to sleep, didn't want to mess the tidy nature of the room that they had given me to use for the night. I was beginning to regret not accepting his offer to take me home, though if I knew Jacob, he would probably have gone straight there in an attempt to talk.

"Do you need anything?" I couldn't tell but his voice seemed somewhat harsher, annoyed maybe? I had after all interrupted his creativity.

Looking at him though, I began to feel that ache deep within me, like the one similar to what Rochester had spoken of. A pain so intense but neither uncomfortable nor unbearable, rather, I welcomed it, enjoyed it, and savored the feeling, wondering if anyone else, someone that I was worthy to be around, someone more on my level, would ever have this effect on me. "I just didn't really want to be alone I guess." I watched as his face pulled into a grimace and I couldn't help but cast my eyes downward and I hoped that he didn't notice my disappointed reaction. Had I crossed an unspoken boundary? Was I so repulsive to him that it offended him? I wasn't versed on the common practices of beautiful people, never having lived in their world, so was my request unreasonable? Not that it was much of a request, he had asked a simple question and I merely gave him an answer. Did he believe that I was trying to force myself on him, a hope that he would look beyond my plain face and see something more? I accepted that he was far more attractive then I could ever hope to be, but did that mean that our mingling together disrupted normal social discourse?

After what seemed like an hour his voice, as smooth as velvet filled the quiet room once again and I feared my knees would buckle as they had when I had opened the door to meet him at my house earlier that day. "I can stay with you, if you like, for a little while, until you fall asleep."

I merely nodded a response, worried that if I spoke aloud I would tell him that he shouldn't feel inclined to do so. I watched with a mixture of envy and awe as he stood up gracefully, almost as though, if one hadn't been watching, that the transition never existed, it just happened. I admired his stride, the elegant long strides that he took with ease and I wished that I could somehow be that confident in my gait. As he reached me, I felt his hand as it pressed against the small of my back and I took a sharp breath, which he must have misinterpreted because to my regret, he pulled it away, one hand motioning towards the stairs.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't thankful that he was behind me, his presence made me weak and I felt that at any moment I might fall backwards, but it was comforting to know that he would be able to catch me. As we reached the top of the stairs, I began to remember that he would know I hadn't bothered to get into the bed; it was still made, just as neatly as I had found it and when we entered I saw the confused look that he seemed to give me.

"Did you even get into the bed?" He grinned, his lips twisting into the crooked grin that I found so overwhelming.

I bowed my head slightly, afraid to meet his gaze as I realized how insane my reason was. "I didn't want to mess the bed up." He chuckled slightly, shaking his head.

"Bella you have to mess the bed up to get into it. How else did you expect to sleep?"

"I was just going to lie on the floor." I bit the side of my lip slightly as he continued to laugh, a light, gentle laugh. His hands began to pull the pillows from the bed and I fought the urge to protest though I knew it was no use, that he would continue to do it anyways.

"I will not have you sleeping on the floor." He stated, pulling the covers up and pointing towards it. "Go on… Get in." I did as he said and I felt my heart race as he pulled the covers over me, his face just inches from my own. I could smell the mint on his breath, could feel the warmth of his skin as it radiated onto my own and I did all I could to control my breathing, not wanting for a moment to give away my feelings. My feet kicked the book that I had sat on the bed and he reached over and picked it up, his hands touching the leather almost the same way that I had when I had picked it up, his face suddenly curious.

"Jane Eyre." His right eyebrow lifted slightly, as though he was mulling over my choice of literature. "A favorite of yours?"

"I studied English Literature at Stanford…"

"Are you implying that you have to study English Literature to appreciate the classics?"

"No…"

"I'm surprised that's all." He assured me, looking down at the page that I had been reading and contemplating. I looked at his face intently, trying to determine if I could learn anything from it. "Interesting place to stop."

"It's my favorite part of the book." I whispered.

"Close your eyes." Though I was sure he meant it as a demand, it seemed so far from it and I did as he asked, listening as he flipped through the book. I felt his weight as he sat beside me and I no longer heard his fingers searching the pages. His gentle voice began to speak again and I realized that he was reading from the book. I found myself smiling; I couldn't remember the last time anyone had read me a story in a means to help me sleep.

"'I will be your companion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.' He replied not: he seemed serious—abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened his lips as if you speak: he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed…" The story had never sounded so beautiful to my ears. So many times I had read it and it never had the same, spine tingling effect that his voice caused. I longed to open my eyes, but I could feel them on me, his intense gaze burning into my soul and I knew better, looking at him would merely cause my breathing to alter, my cheeks to blush, and give away everything that I was trying to hide from him. "I had indeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched me closer. 'No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself—I must have you. The world may laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.'"

It was the last thing I remember hearing, and I drifted off to sleep, wishing that Edward Rochester's words, those that he spoke to Jane, had ceased to exist and it was merely Edward stating his love for me, never once thinking that it might have been true, that he had chosen to read from that page for a reason.

EPOV

Jane Eyre. I'm not sure why I was even that surprised, she seemed exactly like the kind of girl who would love stories such as those. It made me crazy though because it seemed to only add to the innocence that I found so appealing. My eyes glanced over the page that she was reading and I struggled to make sure my face did not pull into a grimace, I knew that page well, and I sympathized with Rochester, I knew exactly how he felt, especially as I stood in the room of this angel. I seemed to understand the inner struggle that he had, the feeling as though one is not good enough, that one's past decisions shape the future making someone incapable of the love of something so pure, so good. I was Rochester, though I wasn't sure my situation was quite the same. His first wife was crazy, he seemed to think his only option was to lock her up; I didn't have to punish James the way that I had insisted the criminal system did. Rochester was merely a tame version of myself, though my growing feelings for Bella appeared to be on par with Rochester's love of the innocent governess.

I sat down beside her on the bed, careful not to touch her, and careful to not to sit too close that I was tempted to lay with her. I began to read, and I as I did, I kept my eyes on her. The book was familiar, allowing me to read without always looking down at the page, giving me ample time to glance from the pages to her face. My fantasy of how she would appear as she slept was nowhere near close enough to do her justice. Her hair fanned over her, slightly obscuring her face from my view and I longed to reach forward and move it, but I refrained.

I continued to read though I heard her breathing change; I couldn't bring myself to leave her. After a few more pages had been read, I placed the book down, resting it on the bedside table, giving me an excuse to dip down slightly and inhale her intoxicating scent one more time. My feet carried me not to the door as they should have, but rather to the armchair and I sat there, feeling slightly disgusted with myself for not being able to leave, for staring at her like a peeping tom. The chair as close to the bed as I would have liked, but it was bearable, it helped that I couldn't smell her from here or feel the warmth of her body as I could while I was sitting on the bed.

She twitched slightly, her arm moving from under the cover and she tossed it above her head. Though she had looked so peaceful when I was sitting close to her, I couldn't help but notice that her sleep gave away her restlessness. I stood up, being so far away I could not see her like I wanted to, and as I leaned against the nightstand, I almost wished that I hadn't. Her face, the beautiful face that had looked so peaceful was now marred by the little furrow that had appeared between her eyebrows, and her lips were no longer smiling but rather trembling with an innate fear. I wanted, in that moment, to lay on the bed, to wrap my arms around her and make it go away.

"Did you ever love me?" She murmured.

My head jolted up as I realized that she was talking in her sleep and I was curious. Could this help me see more clearly into her soul? Into her mind? I felt the second wave of self-disgust of the night fill me, the thought of listening to her, to hear the thoughts I could not read on her face aloud in her state of unconsciousness was undeniably tempting. I needed to put more space between us, more space before I made a mistake. So I walked back to the chair and sat in it, still cursing myself that I could not just leave and retreat into my own room.

As I sat there, I began to contemplate my future, and a future that might include her. Was there anyway? Anyway that I could keep her as my own? Hurting her was unbearable and I feared that as soon as she learned the truth about me, that she would realize how much better off she was if I wasn't in her life. I could not hope to rival the other men in the world, those who would look at her and see the same innate beauty that I did. At least they were fully human, not marred with a past that haunted them, not filled with a parasite that sucked all the humanity out of them. How could she see me as anything more than a monster, it was how I saw myself. I was certain that if she saw me, saw the real me, that she would run away in horror, that I would repulse her, frighten her and that, in and of itself made me sick.

One day, somewhere along the road she would find someone, someone worthy of her. And though it pained me to think about it, I knew it was what was right. I was not the person she was destined to say yes to. It was someone else, someone who wasn't tortured and tormented like myself, someone who radiated a warmth that I no longer could. My heart was cold, cold and dead; her presence did warm it, though I knew it could never be enough, she needed someone who didn't need her to make them feel that way. One day she would met him and my jealousy would flare, though I knew that I could never bring myself to tamper with that, regardless of how much pain I would feel. Her feelings were far superior to my own, and if she was happy with whomever it is she would end up choosing, I would find a way to bear. She deserved happiness and love with whomever she chose.

I groaned inwardly, no one had ever caused this stir of emotions within me. For the first time since James' execution someone was attaching themselves to my heart strings and holding on tight. Though I knew it couldn't possibly be her conscious actions, I realized that I had to find a way to distance myself from her, to keep her on a strictly friends level because I could no longer pretend that I was only in danger of loving her. Esme would have told me that it was okay, that it was normal and I deserved it, but I knew that Bella could never see me the way that I wished she would, the way Esme, Alice and Carlisle saw me. She could never see me any other way than how I saw myself, someone not worthy of love. I felt my heart break.

"Edward." She spoke again and I froze, my eyes moving to her face, to her unopened eyes.

My mind was racing with thoughts, had she woken and found me sitting there? The room was dark yes, but my name was spoken with such clarity that I wasn't sure. She still looked, still appeared to be sleeping and as I listened her breathing had not changed from the last time she had spoken. I heard her sigh, a quiet sigh before she turned again, rolling to her side, the side away from me. I realized that I had taken a single breath since she had spoken so I did, just as she spoke again.

"Edward." She was dreaming of me, and my heart raced with the thought. "Stay. Don't go. Please… don't go."

I felt myself unable to breathe again, downing in my own inability to breathe. Could it truly be? Could she really be dreaming pleasant thoughts? As I moved closer, I realized that her face had relaxed, the trembling of her lips had relaxed into a small, breathtaking smile and my heart felt hot, as though it was going to burn a hole straight through my chest. For so many years my life had been dark, unable to see anything but abject blackness and here she was, lighting my way. Could it be that the tug that I felt, the pull of my soul was because I was suppose to be with her? That she was my salvation?

I loved her. I had to admit it to myself so I did. I loved her and I would have to find a way to break free from this. For the first time I could not feel the monster that had become my constant companion, and as I tried to search for him, he seemed gone. Had this new love, had she, exorcised him from me? I closed my eyes and for the first time I could feel my body fill with a warmth that had not existed. I knew that I could not keep away from her, that I needed her in my life and I would have to find a way to do so. I would have to find a way to heal the inner demons and show her that I was worthy, because for the first time, I felt that maybe I was.

A/N:

So I took a little more time on this chapter because I wanted to get it right and I actually am really pleased with how it turned out. I think it has a good mix of Bella's point of view as well as Edwards. Writing from Edwards's perspective is making me love him even more and it sucks haha. Anyways. I hope that you like this chapter as much as I do! My plan for the story was to follow some of the same patters as the original to maintain the integrity of the characters that Stephanie created so I hope I'm doing a good job of that. Like always, I want to thank everyone who continues to add this story to their alerts/favorites! And I want to thank those who took the time to review:

Twilightmoon20
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I can't wait to see what people have to say about this chapter! Enjoy!

And I hope that everyone has a great weekend! I'm super excited because I'm going to visit Forks this weekend at some point thanks for a four day weekend! I am hoping that it allows me to write in a manner that is true to the actual town!