Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, I just use their creations to have my wicked way with them. No copyright infringement is intended.

Many thanks to Jadsmama and Ladysharkey1, my amazing beta team for this story. You ladies rock!

5.

The patient

"Tell me. What do you know about Fatal Familial Insomnia?"

He had to be kidding. As Edward sat there, across the table, staring at Carlisle with open mount, that was the predominant thought running through his head. "FFI?" he finally managed to breathe, his voice cut off by his barely containable excitement. "Are you sure about that?"

It had to be some kind of mistaken diagnosis. Either that or Carlisle was testing him or merely pulling his leg. As rare as cases of Fatal Familial Insomnia or FFI were, even in his chosen field, he'd never heard of any popping up in the State of Washington.

"I'm sure," Carlisle answered, calm as a summer sea.

"Here in Forks?" Edward rubbed his face again, though this time the gesture came not from fatigue, but from shock.

Carlisle smiled ruefully, quite enjoying the flustered state he'd managed to get his young colleague in. "Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Yes?" Edward was quick to reply. "There's only forty families in the world suffering from this disease and, as far as I know, none of them live around here." Even in the field of neurology, the disease was so rare that only handful of doctors would ever get to deal with it. Even in the US there were only two centers of expertise – UCLA in California and the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio –that studied the disease and dealt with diagnosing and supporting these patients. Supporting being the emphasis of what they did to help those unfortunate enough to have this disease running in their family, since there was little else the medical world could do. It was part of what made the disease so mysterious and fascinating.

"So what do you know?" Carlisle leaned forward again, his keen blue eyes filled with anticipation.

"Let me think." Edward breathed out, mentally surveying everything he'd read about the disease over the years. "It's an extremely rare genetic disease that's one hundred percent fatal. It's limited to only forty families worldwide with every child born into those families having a fifty/fifty chance of getting the disease and dying from it…"

"Good," Carlisle interrupted him, impatient to get to the things he himself didn't know. "So you know your basics. What else do you know?"

"Patient zero – the first recorded sufferer of FFI – is believed to be a man from Venice, or its surroundings, who died at the hospital of San Servolo in 1765, which became the main source of treatment for FFI patients worldwide until the Università di Bologna took over as the main research center in Europe, working closely together with UCLA medical center among other hospitals in the US."

"Yes, yes, yes," Carlisle once again interrupted him impatiently. "But what do you know about the clinical picture?"

Edward chuckled, amused by his Carlisle's excitement. "The disease usually manifests itself somewhere between the ages of eighteen and sixty, starting with an increasing insomnia, psychiatric problems, hallucinations and leading into complete insomnia, loss of motor functions, rapid aging, dementia and finally death. The process can take from seven to thirty-six months to run its course, though most patients don't make it past the eighteen month mark, but eventually…"

"Tell me," Carlisle's eyes lit up as he had Edward where he needed him. "Have you ever heard of a patient who's still lucid and mobile at thirty months after their diagnosis?" He sat back, his lips curling into a smile as he watched Edward's face take on the expected, slack jawed expression; the same that had undoubtedly graced his own face when he found out.

"That's impossible," Edward stated when he finally picked his jaw up from the floor again, his voice resolute and certain. He'd read quite a few articles over the years about this disease that still baffled neurologists today, the way it had centuries ago. If there was anything those articles had taught him, it was that there was a fixed and very rapid pattern to the pathology. Once it started, the patient's days were numbered and rapidly running out.

"It's true," Carlisle stated in a tone that didn't yield pride of place to Edward's where it came to confidence. "It's all in here." He slid a thick file across the table, all of the pages bearing his signature or characteristic doctor's scribble. It was everything he'd managed to witness and discovered over the years about his most interesting and elusive patient.

"This…this is impossible…it can't be…" Edward muttered, repeating himself for lack of better words as his eyes immediately picked up on the date on the first admission form on the stack. Sure enough, it was two and a half years ago. Almost to the date.

"And yet it's happening right in front of our eyes," Carlisle added, nodding as Edward's eyes traveled over one page after the next, widening at every turn of the paper.

"Impossible," Edward muttered again, his eyes scanning over all the details of the patient's file with a growing sense of disbelieve. "How…why hasn't anyone heard of this?" The patient, if he truly was what Carlisle claimed him to be, was a clinical mystery…a medical miracle, the complete lack of progress of his disease being something Edward had never seen or heard of in his entire career.

"I know what you're thinking," Carlisle intervened before Edward's mind could spin out of orbit, "but, as always, the patient's wish is our command and this particular patient wants nothing more than to live out the remainder of his days in obscurity, sticking to the routine that has prolonged his life this far."

"He's not even seeing a neurologist?" Edward frowned as page after page covered in Carlisle's elegant, yet almost illegible, scribble was unveiled. No specialists…no neurology consults…just a general surgeon at a small town community hospital.

"Again, the patient wishes it so," Carlisle shrugged. It had been a point of much discussion between his patient and himself, and one that he had felt increasingly uncomfortable with. It wasn't in his nature to stand by and let a patient die when he knew there might be more that could be done, even if the patient himself didn't want it. "I believe he knows this disease better than anyone. He knows what he's up against and he chooses to face it the way he had planned."

Edward shook his head, the opportunities this patient offered to get a handle on one of the most impalpable neurologic diseases out there seeming too great to give up on. "But that's-"

"The patient's wish," Carlisle interrupted him sternly, "made and notarized when he still had all his mental faculties about him. We cannot do anything but respect his wish."

Edward nodded, his shoulders slumping in disappointment as his mind already spun in a different reaction. "How? How did he do it? How….how can a man evade death when he hasn't been able to sleep in…what, two and a half years?"

"I could tell you," Carlisle hedged, trying to hide his smile. "But how about I show you?"

"S-show me?" Edward stammered, trying very hard not to show how inwardly he was feeling like a teenage girl offered front row seats at a Justin Bieber concert.

Carlisle smiled, strangely enjoying the position of power he held over his new young ward. The fact that he could see Edward's eyes sparkle where before they had been only dull and cautious made him realize how right he had been to give the young doctor a chance. It had been a risk, yes, but if taking the chance would be the thing to bring this very gifted young doctor back to life, then so be it. "Remember how I told you earlier that we might not always have a packed ER but we're busy in a different way?"

He waited for Edward to nod before he went on. "A part of being a country surgeon means taking on some tasks that the medical profession usually reserves for general practitioners."

"You mean…you make house calls?" Edward guessed.

"Around here, you can't really escape it," Carlisle shrugged. "Some of my patients don't exactly live next door to the hospital. With the government constantly cutting back on budgets, insurance companies pushing us to keep patients' hospitalization down to a bare minimum, it's sometimes all we can do to make sure our patients recover as they should." He smiled, memories of some of his more recent house calls popping up in his mind. "Besides, some of them are stubborn enough to think just because we've patched them up, everything is going to be okay."

"Ah yes!" Edward smirked. "We get those in Chicago as well. They think a band-aid and some iodine will fix just about everything."

"Exactly," Carlisle nodded and glanced at the clock immediately making him spring into action. "Let's get going. When it comes to James Harrison, punctuality is of vital importance."

Harrison, where had he heard that name before? He knew the name had come up but between the stress of his first day back, and the sleepless night that had preceded it, Edward couldn't remember where. Much to his own frustration.

They clocked out and made sure Doctor Banner was ready and briefed to take over from Edward, before they piled into Carlisle's Mercedes, the engine purring smoothly as it rolled out of town and onto a small road into the depths of the lush green forest.

"It's like a different world out here," Edward muttered, his eyes following the strange almost alien shapes of the trees as they loomed up from the side of the road.

"You're right about that," Carlisle answered, his hand lightly touching the stick as he pushed the car into a different gear. "I always wondered why, out of all the different places in the world, James Harrison chose this place to spend his final days, but I guess he likes the solitude and tranquility of the forest." He paused, his mind wandering off for a while. "He and Isabella live a very remote life."

Ah yes, Isabella. Isabella Harrison. It was strange how, in the hustle and bustle of his first day back in the field, he'd almost forgotten about her but, what was even more peculiar, was the shockwave even the thought of her name send through his system. His hand clenched over his knee as the memories lingered of deep brown eyes and lush, pink lips sprang back into his mind. Thinking back on her and their strange first meeting sent a flush of excitement pulsing though his body at the prospect of seeing her again, and maybe finding the answers to some of the questions her very existence seemed to raise.

"Do you think that's what kept him alive all this time?" Edward asked. He knew, just like any doctor worth his paycheck, that the human body could not survive without the recuperation and relaxation of deep REM sleep. Where FFI patients could slumber and even drift off into sort of state between sleeping and waking, that rest and energy some usually felt waking up after a night's sleep would forever elude them until, in the end, the body would break down from sheer exhaustion.

It was an interesting thought, however, that by minimizing the impulses his brain would have to process, it might be able to slow the rapid degeneration for some time. Though it could never stall the process indefinitely.

James Harrison was going to die. Soon.

"It is what he believes," Carlisle nodded, the roar of the engine dying down to a slight rumble as he cut back the speed to navigate a sharp turn as the car charged up a steep incline. "It is also what makes him rather a singular man to be around."

"Singular?' Edward had heard that those suffering from FFI were known to develop all sorts of delusions as the exhausted brain started to lose control over itself.

"He doesn't trust anything or anyone, apart from Isabella and, to some extent, me," Carlisle explained. "Almost everything he eats is grown or prepared in the house and no one is allowed entrance without having been properly announced and checked."

Edward nodded. Paranoia is one of the textbook signs of advancing FFI. "He knows I'm coming, right?"

"Of course," Carlisle stated, sounding almost offended by the mere insinuation that he would spring a surprise visitor on a mentally unstable patient. "Do you really think I'd endanger all the long, hard work I've put in, earning his trust just like that? He knows you're coming and, I dare say, almost looks forward to it."

He chuckled, seeing Edward's surprised look. "I think he misses the life he used to lead back east," he clarified. "As many books and records as he owns, there's no deprivation quite like that of having someone to share it with."

"So that's going to be my angle?" Edward asked. "Engage him in conversation while trying to find out more about his disease and mental state?"

"That's the plan, yes," Carlisle answered, slowing down again as the road narrowed. "If there's one thing he dislikes, it's being made aware of the fact that he's sick, so please avoid any obvious forms of examination or even the mention of our profession."

"Tell me more about him." Edward leaned back, his eyes drinking in the beauty of the Olympic National Forest, though his mind was too engaged to really take it in. "You already told me that he likes to keep to himself and trusts no outside influences. What kind of life does he live?"

"He sticks to a very fixed routine, rising early – yes, he does go to bed every night even if it is, as he says, to meditate." Carlisle smiled, answering the unasked question, "and filling his days with study, exercise and, of course, writing."

"Writing?" Edward interrupted him, the idea of a patient suffering from a debilitating neurological disease that caused severe dementia doing any sort of writing, being as foreign to him as a walking, talking dog.

"Of course he gets a lot of help from his niece but yes," Carlisle nodded. "He is determined to finish his last novel before he meets his maker. After all, he has a reputation to uphold…or so he believes."

"Do I know him?" Edward wondered, trying to remember if he'd heard the name of Harrison before.

Carlisle shook his head, his eyes fixed on the road as he went on. "Probably not under his own name, though he did spend a good many years teaching English Literature at Harvard. You might know him under his nom de plume, though. Aro Volturi."

"Shit!" Edward gasped, remembering how he'd torn though all of Volturi's novels, and there were quite a few to say the least, during his rehab. "Aro Volturi is here? And he's suffering from FFI?"

"His mother belongs to one of the forty families," Carlisle confirmed. "He has been prepared for the onset of the disease for most of his adult life, which might explain why he has managed to built up this strange resilience against it."

"The routine helps," Edward nodded, remembering how sticking to a fixed pattern in life had helped many patients suffering from different neurological disorders in the past. "But it can't be the only thing that has managed to make him last this long."

"I know," Carlisle nodded, "which is why I wanted to bring you along today. I was hoping that maybe you would see more than I can…shed some new light on the case."

"I hope I can," Edward muttered, holding on as the car turned a sharp right, the wheels struggling as they ambled along an uneven driveway until suddenly they were in the middle of a clearing, the forest receding to reveal an elegant brick mansion, the slightly odd rise and fall of the roofline and the natural building materials making it both stick out and blend into its natural surroundings.

"Do you remember everything we've spoken about?" Carlisle checked as the car rolled to a stop at the end of the driveway, his lips pulling into a smile when Edward nodded, the hard line of his mouth and tense set of his shoulders revealing the young man's nervousness. "Good. Then let's go in." He patted Edward's hand as he stood next to him in front of the polished wooden door, the knocker echoing into the room beyond as it came down. "You'll do fine. Oh, and make sure to address the patient by his alias. For some reason he prefers Aro or Mr. Volturi over his real name."

"Why do you think that is?" Edward's brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the information he'd been given.

"Who knows?" Carlisle shrugged. "You know as well as I do that the minds of FFI patients rarely work in an illogical way. Maybe he's seeing his alter ego as a way to detach himself from his family even more so than the distance is already doing. Or maybe he just likes it better."

All too soon, the sound of heels clicking against a hard wood floor preceded the sound of a lock being opened. Edward's nerves sweeping up to quite ridiculous heights, or so he thought, as slowly, the massive wooden door opened to reveal a familiar face.

"Dr. Cullen." Her voice was hard and cold, her lips pressed into a thin, tense smile as her eyes settled on the new visitor standing next to the man she already knew. For a hint of a second her eyes widened, the façade of cold, calculative control dropping for only a moment until her eyes narrowed and she turned her attention back to the older man. "You were almost late."

"I apologize," Carlisle spoke, his voice even, confident and warm as he meticulously wiped his feet before passing her into the house. "I had to brief my new colleague on your uncle's rather special…circumstances, and I have to admit that I almost lost track of time."

"Hmm." She didn't seem to like that notion at all, her arms crossing in front of her chest, as she glared at Edward as if he'd already done something to offend her. "So this is the man you've been boasting about?"

"The very one!" Carlisle smiled, stepping aside so that he could formally introduce them. "Edward, please meet Isabella Harrison, our patient's niece and caregiver. Isabella…" He nodded benevolently as Edward shook Isabella's hand, though it didn't escape his notice how the woman withdrew hers almost as soon as she possibly could without being rude. And maybe even a little before that. "Edward's a very talented young neurosurgeon from Chicago. I'm hoping he will be able to help us out. I believe you already briefly met?"

Her eyes narrowed again as she ascertained the situation, the fierceness of her penetrating gaze making her look more like her uncle's protector than his caregiver. "Make sure to wipe your feet," she snapped at Edward, her black, knee length skirt flapping around her legs as she turned on her heels and preceded them into the house, not bothering to answer Carlisle's question.

Edward met Carlisle's inquisitive gaze with a shrug, not quite knowing himself what he'd done to bring on the ire this time. He made sure to meet with her demand before he entered the house, though, his already clean and freshly polished shoes scraping along the doormat until he was absolutely certain there wasn't a speck of dirt left underneath them, before he even dared to step into the house.

Something told him that the smug smile Isabella sent him when he did finally take his first, hesitant step onto the hardwood flooring, didn't have as much to do with the cleanliness of his feet as the fact that she had somehow triumphed over him.

He didn't like it. But what he liked even less was how this strange, elusive woman seemed to draw him in with every snide remark and repudiating gesture. There was just something about her…something that went beyond looks and acts and everything else.

Mona Lisa. Unwittingly his lips pulled into a smile as he studied the strange girl. She looked like someone from a different age; a parallel world that survived somewhere within the depths of the Olympic forest. And it wasn't just her looks or the clothes she wore. Her whole being seemed to operate on a different frequency than the rest of the world.

It mesmerized him, and in a way that felt almost frightening.

Great! Edward smirked, letting his eyes wander over the sparse but luxuriously decorated grand foyer. On top of everything else, apparently he had now also developed a penchant for masochism.

"Edward?" He looked up to see Carlisle and Isabella waiting for him in front of a closed door, Isabella's impatience rolling off her in waves as they waited for him to catch up.

"I was wiping my feet," he bit back, making sure to keep his venom restricted to still professional levels. Was it just him or did he see the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement?

He didn't have long to wonder about that, Carlisle wanting to make the most of the situation by testing the waters. "How is he doing?"

"About the same, I guess," Isabella answered as her face turned back into an unreadable mask. "Though he has been a little more agitated over the past couple of days. It might just be the visitor, though." And with that her eyes narrowed again, as they crossed from Carlisle to Edward.

"I agree," Carlisle nodded, the battle of the minds playing out next to him completely evaded him as he focused on the wellbeing of his patient. "But let's see for ourselves, shall we?"

Isabella smiled, genuinely this time, as she opened the door to reveal a large, open sitting room, the floor to ceiling windows bathed the neutral, cream furniture in fresh, bright light.

He noticed how Isabella's whole appearance changed the minute she stepped into the room, her strength somehow toned down into submissiveness and her voice taking on a note of timeless elegance as she spoke. "Uncle? Our guests have arrived."

It was only then that Edward noticed the man sitting in the far corner of the room, his body hidden by the natural stone wall behind him as he looked out the windows. "Isabella?" It was only when his face angled towards the sound that the rest of him shot into action, his previously slumped figure moving upright as he came back into the land of the living. "Carlisle, my dear friend, you have come at last!" He rose up from his chair, his body stiff and uncooperating as he shakily found his balance and started to make his way towards them.

Isabella stood, poised to spring into action should she be needed, her whole body exuding alertness as she followed his progress anxiously.

The way he moved reminded Edward of the patients suffering from Parkinson's Disease, his gait slow, calculative and sometimes disturbed as his mind failed to send the right commands to his limbs.

"Aro," Carlisle's voice didn't yield pride of place when it came to warmth as he stuck out his hand, waiting patiently for his patient to reach him. "It is always a pleasure to see you. I trust you are well?"

"As well as I always am," the patient answered with a small smile. He knew he was ill, there was no denying it. He felt it in his bones, his flesh but, most of all, in his brain. Even little things seemed to be getting worse with every sleepless day that passed.

He knew all of this, yet he chose not to live by it. For most for his adult life he had been aware of the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head; his skin breaking out in a cold sweat every time sleep eluded him or as his usually so astute mind struggled to catch up. He had been so preoccupied with the disease that finally falling victim to it, after almost sixty years of good health, had been more of a liberation than a death sentence.

It had also been the moment he started living in denial; electing to live out the rest of his life the way he wanted to as opposed to the way society dictated. It was why he chose to spend the remainder of his days not with the wife he had grown tired of many years ago, or the children who could never be pleased and grateful for what they were given. Out in the remoteness of the other side of the continent with a young woman he could mold into his perfect companion.

"You've brought your friend!" His eyes shifted hesitantly to Edward, the small, beady eyes taking in his appearance. "Welcome!"

"Yes," Carlisle nodded, stealthily pushing Edward a few steps forward. "Aro, might I present to you my brother in law, Dr. Edward Masen?"

Edward stepped forward, taking the bony, wrinkled hand that reached out towards him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine, I'm sure," Aro answered, determined to play the role of the good host no matter how much his body was trying to undermine him. "You have arrived just in time for afternoon tea. Isabella?"

At his command Isabella nodded, indicating that she had understood his unspoken request, before she retreated to a side door into what Edward assumed was the kitchen, the sound of plates and other utensils being produced ringing out soon after.

"It's always an unexpected pleasure to welcome new guests into my home," he went on, cautiously shuffling towards one of his usual seats, a comfortable, yet elegant lounge chair, positioned at a strategic spot that oversaw most of the downstairs area as well as the entresol where Isabella's quarters lay. It was where he felt king in his own realm. "Carlisle tells me you're from Chicago?"

"I am, sir," Edward, ill at ease with the situation, answered. "I arrived here only yesterday." He was unsure of himself, something that hardly ever occurred in the execution of his chosen profession. Throughout his career – though be it a short career since he had only been a fully-qualified neurosurgeon for less than a year before he was caught – he had been called cocky, arrogant, and sometimes even over-confident, but never hesitant or unsure. Yet in this situation, with a patient who didn't want to be a patient, let alone be treated like one, he didn't quite know how to act.

"Ah!" Aro, unaware of Edward's inner turmoil, smiled. "You must find it very dull and uninspiring here."

"I take offense at that!" Carlisle joked, his good humor cutting through Edward's insecurity. "Forks is neither dull nor uninspiring."

"But my dear Carlisle, you have to admit finding anyone deserving of the label 'polite society' in a place like this, is like finding a needle in a haystack!" their patient argued, his smile fading into thought as he turned his attention back to his new guest. "Pray tell me, is Riccardo Muti still affiliated to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra?"

Edward nodded, relieved to be able to answer the question. "It has been a while since I attended a performance at the Orchestra Hall but I believe he still is. If he had moved on I think I'd have heard, since my father pays for a quite substantial part of the man's salary."

Aro appeared shocked, his eyes widening as they once again eagerly scanned Edward's appearance. "Your father…he's Edward Masen of Masen Industries?"

"That indeed he is, sir," Edward reluctantly admitted. Throughout his life he'd always felt horrible, using his family name, even if it could save his career or, in this case, gain his patients' trust.

"I met him once," Aro mused, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "I thought he was a very pompous, unpleasant sort of man."

He heard Carlisle's sharp intake of breath beside him but Edward could only chuckle as he nodded. "Then we agree in our opinion of him."

Their patient appeared quite shocked, his attempt at provocation meeting nothing but acquiescence which completely threw him for a loop. His guest…this young man, he completely befuddled him and, whereas he knew the risk any challenge to his overworked and overtired brain posed, he was quite pleasantly surprised by it.

Mercifully Isabella made her appearance, her arms heaving under the pressure of a full tea tray as she strode in elegantly and aware of the position Aro wanted her to take up in the general pecking order.

"Ah, lovely." Aro smiled condescendingly, his hand reaching out to lightly touch Isabella's skin as she placed the makings of a perfect, traditional English afternoon tea on the table in front of them. "Thank you, dear."

She smiled back, her behavior so completely different from what he knew that it completely threw Edward for a loop. "Do you wish me to pour, Uncle?"

"Please," the patient held out his hands in blessing, watching as his young companion poured the tea through a strain before placing delicate China cups filled with steaming liquid in front of the guests and her uncle.

It wasn't long until Edward noted that everything about this tea ritual appeared to be tailored to Aro's unique position and abilities; the sandwiches and other refreshments cut to bite-sized portions requiring no actions that would test the capabilities of one who was severely encumbered in his motor skills.

They really were a well-oiled, perfectly functioning unit. As well as one completely and blissfully in denial of the horrifying reality that was slowly, but surely, sneaking up on them.

As they settled down, Aro and Carlisle launched into a conversation about some neighborhood project that they were following with a keen eye, their hushed conversation creating an awkward, tense silence on the other side of the table when Edward and Bella sat in their seats, trying to act like nothing was out of the ordinary as they stole sideways glances at the other.

Isabella was beautiful, that much Edward had known even when he happened upon her at the supermarket but here, so close that he could almost reach out and touch her if he wasn't so afraid she'd slap him, he started to note the finer nuances to her beauty.

She was young; Edward figured her to be in her early twenties at the most, her slightly round features putting her at the age where a girl finally turned into a woman but already lacking that full plumpness of childhood. Her face was the kind of pale that spoke of a life lived mostly indoors, her flawless, almost translucent skin stretching over a slender body. With just the right amount of curves to make her look alluring in an almost understated elegant way, especially in the clothes she wore.

She was…something else.

Edward swallowed, forcing his mind back on the right track before his strange, almost unhealthy fascination with the girl could manifest itself in ways too apparent, his fingers trembling slightly as he stirred his tea and diverted his mind by picking out perfectly cut, triangular sandwiches from the plate.

"They taste delicious," Carlisle muttered in appreciation as he sunk his teeth into a small piece of broccoli quiche. "Isabella has become quite the accomplished chef."

"Thank you." Isabella smiled, her posture emanating discomfort as she crossed her ankle behind the other, her back stiff as a board as she picked at some non-existent specks of dust on her turtleneck shirt.

"It is all in the ingredients," the patient nodded along, his movements deliberate and cautious as he brought his own choice of refreshment to his mouth. "I have always been amazed at human kind's eagerness to poison themselves all in exchange for a quick, tasteless meal."

Edward frowned. "Poison themselves?"

"Yes, my dear boy," Aro nodded, the glimmer in his eyes revealing his passion for the subject. "If you would only take the time to read the back of any jar, carton or pack of pre-produced food in your house, you'd soon notice how the food companies of this world are trying to poison you, body and mind." He sat back, his hand twitching as he gathered steam. "They flood our systems with chemicals, salt and a profusion of starch until we are reduced to mere drones, unable to think clearly because of our sluggish minds and constantly at war with our unknown addictions to sugar and salt."

His eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms in front of his chest in an attempt to either stop the twitching or camouflage it. "It is their way of keeping us under control."

"That is..erm…" Edward's brain faltered as he tried to come up with a suitable reply. He knew a satisfactory reaction would be vital to establishing a bond with this patient but he just didn't know how to act or what the old man expected. "That's definitely food for thought."

"In more ways than one," his patient chuckled, lifting his teacup in a shaky salute.

"It's why the professor refuses to eat anything that hasn't been created in this house," Isabella chimed in, her smile tense as she remembered all the hard work she had to put into each and every meal. If only the old man liked his food simple and without much 'to do'….

"We poison ourselves so merrily and unaware…" Aro took over again, his face contemplative. "But not me, not anymore. I choose to live my life free from oppression and enriched by the clarity they seek to keep from me."

The man was definitely suffering the tell-tale signs of paranoia, Edward thought, mindlessly stirring his tea as silence settled back over the room. Carlisle and Aro soon picking their conversation back up as Edward and Isabella drank tea, their minds more constrained by the terse silence between them with every second that passed.

Until Edward had enough. "I'm happy to see you've made it back home in one piece," he finally spoke.

Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew they had been the wrong ones; Isabella's face paling to an almost deadly white before a furious blush started to spread, her hand clenching around her tea cup as she sat in quiet rage.

"Isabella?" James' voice was curious as he turned towards her, his beady eyes watching her closely. "You did not tell me of any incidents."

"It was nothing, uncle," she assured him, her voice calm and sweet as she smiled. "I merely tripped and fell outside the supermarket and Dr. Masen here was kind enough to help me back to the car."

"You should have told me." Her uncle's displeasure was apparent in his voice. "You know how much I hate it when you keep things from me."

"I am very sorry," she insisted. "I know you do but, really, it was such a small ting that by the time I made it back home I'd already forgotten. I did not deliberately keep you in the dark."

Aro needed some time to ruminate on her explanation, his temporarily mental absence giving Isabella time to send a scathing glare at Edward who, now aware of the predicament he'd unwittingly put her in, sat corrected. "Isabella is right, Mr. Volturi," he muttered, scrambling to right the mess he'd created. "She never came to any harm. My concern was merely because of the shock she'd appeared to be in."

"Shock?" Aro's eyes widened at the mention of the word, making Edward realize that, yet again, his choice of words had been unfortunate.

"Nothing bad," he hastened to assure his new patient, "just the kind of shock one gets from making a slight, harmless stumble while your hands are filled with shopping bags." And then, in a sudden fit of genius he remembered something Carlisle had told him about the particular predilection of his patient for the lifestyle of the 1950's. "You know how women are. Their fragile nerves are easily frazzled."

"That they are," James nodded, his approval shining from his eyes. "Well I, for one, am very grateful that you happened to stumble upon her when she needed you. Isn't that right, Isabella?"

Edward could see that it cost the lady no small amount of difficulty as she fixed her lips into a smile and turned toward him. "Indeed, uncle." Her voice was dripping with dishonesty as she spoke. "Dr. Masen's interference could not have come at a more opportune time."

"Splendid!" James smiled, seeing only what he wanted to see. And, as so often those days, his vision of the world was not necessarily one that reflected reality. "I knew that young man would do us a world of good the minute Carlisle mentioned him. I'm sure he will be a very welcome addition to our afternoon discussions."

Carlisle scrapped his throat, his eyes flittering nervously between Edward and Isabella as he tried to assess the situation. Though he was very glad and relieved that his brother in law seemed to have won their patient over with an ease and naturalness that made him slightly envious, he knew the situation between Edward and Isabella was a very precarious one and endangered all the hard work he'd put in over the past years. His gesture succeeded in breaking the tension, however, Edward's eyes immediately falling downward as Isabella started assembling the dirty crockery.

"Why don't you give Isabella a hand?" Carlisle suggested, though there was little in his tone that left room for discussion.

Edward sighed, and then nodded as he reluctantly rose from his chair. Though part of him wanted nothing more than to be closer to her and somehow try to figure out what lurked behind that impenetrable mask of hers, he knew the conversation which loomed ahead wasn't going to be easy.

He was right.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot, her eyes blazing fire as they glared at him and all traces of polished refinery suddenly gone.

"I'm sorry," Edward, still completely dumbfounded by Isabella's red-hot rage, muttered. "I didn't know-"

"No, you didn't," she snapped, the kitchen cabinet slamming shut as she started to gather the makings of tea, "but that didn't stop you from butting into other people's business, did it?"

"I won't be making that mistake a second time, you can rest assured," he snapped back, his patience strained to the limit under her cold, repudiative demeanor. "Don't worry. I won't bother you again."

"Good," she spat back, her skirt flailing around her smooth, toned legs as she moved around the kitchen. "Because I don't want your interference. Or your company."

Edward shook his head, wondering what about her he'd ever found alluring as he made his way out of the kitchen, his head spinning as he leaned it against the smoothed walls of the foyer. She might have been beautiful and entrancing, but the ugliness that lurked underneath was enough to put him off.

Good. He nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. The sooner he forgot his silly boyish attraction to her, the better. She was his patient's nurse, nothing else.

"What was all that about?" Carlisle asked as soon as they were back in the car. It hadn't escaped his notice how Edward had been waiting from him in the foyer and appeared to have been there, on his own, for quite some time.

"I don't know," Edward breathed, leaning his head against the backrest as the car sped off back in the direction of the town.

And it was the truth. He'd be damned if he knew what the hell was wrong with Isabella Harrison but, he did have a feeling that forgetting her might not be as easy as he hoped.

FFI is a real disease and, though I took some creative license with it (as far as I know, no patient at is as lucid as Aro is that far into the disease), most of the information you'll find about it in this chapter is fact. I did my best to research as much as I could about this disease and its patients but I'm no doctor so there are bound to be some errors and/or misinterpretations. If you want to know more about FFI than this chapter offered, you can find some more info and a really great documentary on my blog. The link is on my profile page.

As always, please leave me your thoughts on this chapter.