The West End house was built in the shotgun fashion of the old south, with a big center hall from front door to back. The main rooms lie to either side of this hall. You can shoot a shotgun straight through the center of the house. This center hall was so ideal for us as kids growing up. We would be running around, chasing each other silly and getting scolded for running on the hardwood in our sock feet. The house is so grand and large that since Alice and I moved out, it has felt a bit empty. It is good to have two young children back in it.
I run my finger over the batten paneling, the wood feeling alive and warm under my fingers in its rich cherry stain. I listen hard to hear everyone moving through the house. Noise seems to be concentrated, as always, in the kitchen.
Resisting the urge to break into a jog and socked slide, I pick my way along the wall to the kitchen at the back of the house. I wish I could bring myself to walk bold and carefree down the middle, and I can when I am thoughtful about it. But without thinking, I edge closer to the wall like something hunted. Just another problem of my behavior, to be sorted through by some "trained" professional.
I can hear two low voices, but I can sense Bella's silent presence as well. I can hear their careful words around her. My mother and father are in the kitchen. I consider the potential benefits of joining them, and decide that my curiosity about Bella is worth whatever risk there is. Risk of nothing serious, but risk of reminders about therapy, upcoming administrative duties, things I should be doing with or for the babies… plenty of things. Whatever has kept my dear mother awake at night of late.
The kitchen is bright and clean, fresh with morning light and the memory of good energy. I remember tipping the high-backed kitchen chairs as a kid, munching snacks after school. I remember where my mom used to hide the chocolate chips in the lazy Susan.
Esme is bustling through the kitchen with Carlisle. She is making muffins and French toast with ciabatta bread. He is frying some bacon and making a fruit salad. She smiles, twisting around him, and they move fluidly through the kitchen together. My parents work together so seamlessly. My mother's apron, and the whole scene… it's just so picture perfect.
Bella is heart-breakingly beautiful, sitting at the island bar. I love the cut of her jaw, and the way her hair frames her face. She is getting some color into her skin: the blues and greens are fleeing from the advancing rose and warm. She is watching my parents with a secret little smile.
She is relatively relaxed, all things considered. Her posture is both pin straight and hunched defensively inward. She is wringing her hands, but more gently than usual.
Her eyes flash to mine near instantly when I slip into the kitchen. She calms visibly. We soothe each other, I know that.
Before I know it, I am at her side and nuzzling my cheek into her neck. I love that jaw, that shell of an ear. She is warm and finely made.
She places her hands, so soft and delicate, around the back of my neck and returns my almost-hug.
"Good morning, bunny."
"Good morning."
She eases herself out of my grasp and the chair, moving bravely forward to the cooking space of the kitchen. She begins fixing me a cup of coffee, the way she knows I like it. It took once… it takes once, and she learns my preference. I do not like to think about how she got to be so good at… fuck, service, I guess. But it is so very soothing, having her care for me enough to know.
"Good morning, Edward." Esme comes around the bar, leaving her task and rubbing her hands off on her apron. She gives me a big, firm hug. She pulls back, pouring happiness. "We're supposed to have the prettiest day today. I was thinking we could bring the babies to have their tummy time outside."
I nod. I don't really care. It is making me quite proud though, the twins getting so strong at their young three months of age.
Carlisle looks up again at the both of us. He smiles reassuringly at Esme, who has glanced at him nervously. I am not happy about that, and feel instantly even more on edge. Bella is watching our exchange, failing to be subtle at all.
"Well, also, I was thinking that we could call up one of the people that Stephanie recommended… you know, for your therapy." She turns over her shoulder, smiling at Bella too.
I feel a sudden inexplicable fury that she should meddle in not only my mental health, but Bella's. "It's really none of your business at all if Bella goes, I go, or neither of us goes, ever." I growl it out, feeling my eyes harden.
Bella gulps visibly.
"I know it isn't." She says this smoothly, though she could invite further argument by reminding me that it is her roof we have been camped out under the past couple of months. "But I really think it's important."
I want to retort, truly. I actually want to stand and tower over her, I want her to see me and my strength and back down. I can hear that poison thought- show her she has no power over you- and it's really hard not to listen.
But I sigh instead, and I look at Bella.
Wide-eyed and shaking, she is flashing her eyes between my mother and me. She looks terrified for Esme, for me, for her own safety. She is always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for us to prove what she knows about how families work and how people work together. I feel immeasurably sad for her. I am feeling fussy and arguing with my mother, picking at a bone with her as we do. But she sees a dangerous situation ready to escalate.
And even though I feel like I am doing this for Bella, there is another very real sense that it's not entirely true. I need it too. I want to hurt my mother, for maybe the first time in my life. Not specifically this instance, but since I have returned.
Every moment that we are around my family, I am fighting the urge to gather up Bella, the twins, and flee. Take them somewhere I know is safe. Somewhere where I can guarantee their protection myself. Especially since still, still that fucker has not been caught. And I don't need to be told what that delay has done to the odds he will be.
"Okay. I'll call today."
"Thank you, sweetheart. I think it will really help everyone in the house."
I know what she's talking about. The staff are all terrified of Bella. They have heard her scream, they have cleaned up her messes, and they have seen the way she lives in terror herself. They pity her.
Esme just wants her to be happy, if not normal. Getting by, even. Able to be in the kitchen with the rest of the family, like this morning.
When Bella first began to wander the house, she did not want to be on the furniture. We weren't exactly sure why she felt that way, but figured it had something to do with being in captivity, or before that, or… who knows. There is so much about her that I don't know at all.
Later, with full bellies and after spending time with the twins, we lie together on the bed in Bella's room. We both fell backwards onto it, laughing as I tickled her. We are holding hands, fingers intertwined and breathing easier now.
"I love spending time with you, just us."
My breath catches. I treasure this little comment. A glimpse inside Bella's head. "I love it too, Bella bunny."
She turns her head to me, smiling, her cheeks brighter and healthier than I have ever seen them. "And with the babies!"
"Yes, with them too."
She wiggles her way across the bed, nuzzling into my side of her own accord. I try not to scare her off, acting nonchalant. For a moment, I can pretend that we are some normal couple, just languishing while our babies take an afternoon nap. If we were normal…
She traces her hand down my cheek, with its stubble no doubt poking her fingertip.
I look at her carefully. "I'm honestly scared shitless to go to therapy."
"Me too." Her voice is small. Little girl.
I look away, up at the ceiling. "What if they tell us to spend less time together? They're always saying that in group, that we use each other as a crutch."
She hums a non-response.
We lay there together in silence for a while, and she breaks it. "Do you think I'm almost ready to go to group with you?"
"No."
It's much sharper, harsher, and firmer than I intended. But I mean it. I do not want her exposed to that shit. I don't want her there. I don't want her to know what the rest of them were put through. I want to shield her, cover those lovely ears. I want to stay in our bubble, together. Heal from this, just us.
She's trying very hard not to tremble now. I turn my head back to her, and she has gone rigid and won't look exactly in my direction. I fucking hate those downcast eyes, and how my outbursts always seem to cause them.
But at the same time, Bella is my responsibility. I want it to be up to me and up to me alone.
She grinds out the words, each one painfully. "Edward," I can almost hear where she wants to call me sir. "I want to go to group when you go."
I keep my voice level. No more snapping. "Maybe in a couple of weeks, once therapy is started. There is no reason for you to take on so much so fast."
She nods, slowly. She turns her head back towards mine, her hand reanimating from where it fell onto my chest. She wiggles even closer, her breasts pushed into me. They yield so deliciously. She tilts her chin up in the sweetest way, breathing in my air.
I kiss her, firmly as I told her what was best for her. She is so close, it seems she is trying to melt into me.
I worry that Bella uses our moments of physical intimacy to appease me. They come after arguments, or when she needs reassurance. They come after tough days, terrible nightmares, and other challenges. As badly as I am searching for some place in my life to take some charge, she seems to be searching for some authority. We provide that for one another.
There is nothing unhealthy here. We are what our experiences made us.
AN: Short, short. But I am doing my best here. Thank you for the reviews, thoughts and theories. I love theories best of all. Let me know what you would most like to see happen... what you dread most... I promise not to cheat you with something so short again. I hope you had a very merry Christmas, or a happy holiday whatever it might have been. Looking forward to the New Year.