December 2014

Twenty-Five / Twenty-Seven

The twenty four hours after Isabella returned the ring felt like a gunshot. Her actions ripped through skin, muscle, and bone – and he ran away like a wounded animal.

A black town car took Edward Cullen to the airport; he bled out into the leather upholstery, in denial, in disbelief, spinning like he was concussed, faint as though he was bleeding. He needed to cauterize the wound. He needed to stop crying; he was sobbing like a child in the back of a car. In its box, the engagement ring was still firmly ensconced inside his clenched fist.

At the airport, he went through security quickly.

The TSA agent eyed him with poorly concealed concern. Edward knew he looked unhinged - red-eyed, disheveled, still wearing his tuxedo from Alec Voltaire's wedding. His hand was so tightly clenched around the ring box that his knuckles had gone white.

He was so blindsided he felt nothing but shock.

Edward stumbled into the First Class Lounge, ordering whiskey neat despite the early hour. The bartender's pitying glance made him want to scream. Instead, he knocked back the drink, letting it burn down as it coated his throat. For the first time in hours, he uncurled his fingers. The velvet box sat innocently in his palm as if it hadn't just shattered his entire world.

His phone buzzed. Once, twice, thrice. Probably his father, or the hospital wondering where he was. He ignored it, ordering another drink. The ring inside the box had belonged to his mother. Elizabeth had worn it every day until that final morning, when she'd forgotten to put it back on after her shower.

Now Bella had given it back.

The thought of her name alone made him double over, chest heaving. He could still feel her lips on his knuckles, that final gentle kiss-like absolution – and nobody had ever kissed him the way she did, the way she had. His budding anger warred with his diminishing shock, because he loved her.

To Edward, that was the beginning and the end of everything: he could not imagine severing their bond willingly, being parted willingly, and he was certain he would forgive her almost anything.

Even this.

"Sir?" The attendant cautioned him, hovering uncertainly. "Your flight's boarding soon."

Edward nodded mechanically, throwing down cash without counting it. He had to get back to Boston, back to his residency. Edward had to keep moving or he'd collapse completely.

On the plane, he sat rigid in his seat, staring unseeing at the safety card. The elderly woman beside him tried making conversation until his silence made it clear he couldn't speak without breaking. Every breath felt like inhaling glass.

Edward had lost her, and it was so unfathomable that it was permanent, and maybe she needed time.

Somewhere over New York, his hands started shaking so badly he had to grip the armrests. The weight of what had happened - what he had done - crashed over him in waves. Will you read to me, and she would stroke his hair back from his forehead, and her voice would lull him to sleep as it had since he was fifteen. No more falling asleep to the sound of her breathing, to the sound of her voice. No more gentle teasing about his cooking, or the way she'd kiss his temple when he was stressed about work. No more.

He loved her, and that had always been so clear, like a little light at the end of a tunnel to pull him out of the darkness every time.

By the time he landed in Boston, Edward felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The city looked wrong somehow – too bright, too loud, too normal – given his world had just imploded. For how long, he could not say. He couldn't face their apartment yet. They had kept the apartment in Boston in addition to the Springfield duplex. Edward feared that Instead, he took a cab straight to the hospital, still in his wrinkled tuxedo, the ring box burning a hole in his pocket.

He'd do what he always did - throw himself into work until the pain dulled enough to function. But as he changed into fresh scrubs in the locker room, his hands were still shaking.

Five hours later. Two hours before his shift. Edward felt on the brink of insanity.

The fluorescent lights of the locker room cast harsh shadows on Edward's face as he stared blankly at his surgical scrubs. He'd been back at Baystate for two hours, throwing himself into whatever work he could find - running labs, checking post-ops, anything to keep moving. His phone buzzed again - the fifteenth call from his father since Manhattan.

The phone buzzed again almost immediately. But this time, the name on the screen made his heart stop.

One ring. His first instinct was protecting her, and he wondered, and –

Another ring. His shock had started to fade, and he was angry, and…

Third ring. He loved her. It was as simple as that. After all this time, after everything, despite everything.

He nearly dropped the phone trying to answer. "Bella?"

There was a shuddering, raspy breath on the other end. A sob that crushed whatever was left of his heart, his lungs. Her voice was squeaky but sweet, thick with tears. "You're not answering your Dad." It was a sob and howl and she sounded so relieved, and so horrified, and he could hear her trembling, and –

Despite everything, he would never be able to hurt her.

She spluttered her words out - sniffling and unintelligible to almost anybody but Edward and her parents. "Are you OK? I - I want you to be OK. I need time, but I - Just because we - I can't - I can't not know. You can't disappear like that."

The sound of her crying felt like knives in his chest. Even now, even after everything, her first instinct was to worry about him.

Edward pressed his forehead against the cold metal of his locker, closing his eyes against the burn of tears. He wanted to hate her, for shredding him to pieces like this. The love he felt overwhelmed his own sense of self-preservation, his sense of self-respect.

"I'm fine," he said.

Mentally, he berated himself for his tone. The love was gushing out of his mouth because his heart had collapsed like a dam under bombardment; fucking Alec Voltaire had fucking told him he wore his heart on his sleeve with her, that his expression went so soft it was almost reverent.

Edward kept his voice steady through sheer force of will. "I'm at work. Everything's fine," he lied.

It was a lie. Edward had not felt as wretched as he did at that moment in nearly fifteen years. He felt like he was drowning like his chest had been cracked open and his heart extracted without anesthesia. But he had hurt her enough. That much had become clear through the fog of pain, even as it warned with his resentment, with budding feelings that feel eerily like hate. But he couldn't hate her – not when he heard her voice.

Edward wouldn't burden her with his pain now.

"Are you OK?" he asked gently, because he could still hear her crying, and his anger was burning, but he couldn't fight back, not when she was breaking.

"I don't know," she croaked, and sniffed, and the honesty in her voice gutted him. "I don't- I can't-"

He made a soothing, shushing noise as if comforting a patient. It was not what he meant to say. He wanted to rage, spitting out thoughts that were budding in his conscience. Sanctimonious fucking – Christ, I would forgive you anything – I never hurt you. I have never in my life hurt you.

Instead, he said something pathetic and achingly gentle, because he still could not hurt her: "You don't have to know, love. Take all the time you need. Just... take care of yourself. Please."

There was a long pause filled only with the sound of her uneven breathing: "You, too. Please. Promise me. Don't disappear like that."

For the first time in his life, he wanted to scoff at her. That they had made so many promises to each other. Not least that they would spend the rest of their lives together.

But his retorts died in his throat. Edward had never been able to purposefully hurt her. Hurting her would be the worst kind of self-mutilation.

In the end, the only promises he had left were the ones he had made to himself: that he would never hurt her again, for as long as he lived, not willingly. That he would never distance himself from her again, not willingly.

"I promise," he echoed softly.

It worked: he could hear her breathing even out and mellow, gradually. "Please. We can talk later," she said pleadingly, sniffing. "Please."

"I promise."

The line went dead. Edward stood there for a long moment, phone pressed to his ear, listening to nothing. His pager broke the silence - the ER needed a surgical consult. Mechanically, he straightened up, wiped his eyes, pulled on his white coat. He had patients waiting. He would do his job. He would keep moving.

If she took him back – and hope was flaming, that she would – then he would go back without thinking twice, pathetic as it would be.

To his father: I'm physically fine but I feel like shit. Don't want to talk about it now. Maybe give her something to help her sleep?

The double doors of the Emergency Department swung open at 6 AM, letting in a blast of December air. Edward's head throbbed as he made his way to the nurses' station, his white coat feeling impossibly heavy on his shoulders.

"Dr. Cullen?" The charge nurse eyed him warily. "You look awful. Are you sure you should be here?"

Edward managed a tight nod, reaching for the first chart. His hands trembled slightly as he flipped through the pages. The words swam before his eyes - something about abdominal pain, possible appendicitis. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus.

"Where's the patient?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Bed 4. But seriously, maybe you should –"

He was already walking away. The fluorescent lights made his vision blur, and he hadn't slept in over 24 hours. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't let himself think.

The patient was a teenage boy curled on his side, face pinched with pain. Edward went through the motions of the exam mechanically - palpating the abdomen, checking for rebound tenderness, noting the elevated white count on the labs. His hands felt clumsy, lacking their usual precision.

"Let's get him to CT," he mumbled to the nurse. "Probable appy."

By 8 AM, he was in the OR, assisting Dr. McClenna on the appendectomy. The familiar routine should have been comforting, but he kept losing focus. His movements were a beat too slow, his hands not quite steady enough.

"Retract here, Dr. Cullen," Dr. McClenna instructed sharply. "No, here. Are you with us today?"

"Sorry, sir," Edward muttered, adjusting his grip on the retractor. Sweat trickled down his back under the surgical gown. The ring box felt like it was burning a hole in his locker, even two floors away.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of routine procedures and post-op checks. Edward's pager kept buzzing - his father again, probably - but he ignored it. During rounds, he presented his patients on autopilot, his voice flat and clinical. If the attending noticed anything off, he didn't comment.

At noon, Ben Al-Farouk found him dry-heaving in the bathroom.

"Jesus, Cullen," his fellow resident said, concern evident in his voice. "When's the last time you ate something?"

Edward couldn't remember. The thought of food made his stomach turn. He straightened up, splashing cold water on his face. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look it," Ben said sarcastically. "Come on, at least drink some water before you pass out and become a patient yourself."

The afternoon brought a trauma - multi-vehicle collision, three critical patients. Edward found himself in Trauma Bay 2, trying to place a central line in a man with collapsed veins. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. After the third failed attempt, the attending stepped in.

"Take a break, Cullen," he ordered. "Get some coffee or something. You're no good to anyone like this."

But Edward couldn't stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering the way Bella's tears had soaked through his shirt, the gentle press of her lips against his knuckles as she returned the ring.

By evening, he was running purely on muscle memory and caffeine. He forgot to document a medication change, had to be reminded twice about ordering post-op labs. The nurses exchanged worried glances when they thought he wasn't looking.

At 8 PM, Dr. McClenna finally cornered him in the residents' lounge.

"Go home," he said firmly. "Whatever's going on with you, deal with it. Come back when you can focus."

"I can work," Edward protested weakly, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

"That wasn't a suggestion, Cullen. You're a liability like this."

Edward stripped off his white coat, his movements sluggish. The ring box fell from the pocket, landing with a soft thud. He stared at it for a long moment before picking it up, his fingers curling around the velvet case reflexively.

The drive home was a blur. Their apartment in Springfield - his apartment now - was dark, silent and icy. He had not turned the heater back on. No Pancake chirping a greeting. No smell of Bella's herbal tea. No soft tapping of her working at her laptop. Fucking Pancake. Edward wanted to laugh: the fucking cat was still off at a hotel, and soon would become the subject of a custody debate.

Edward made it as far as the couch before his legs gave out. Still in his scrubs, he curled into himself, finally letting the sobs tear free from his chest.

He had nearly killed a patient today. He had lost the love of his life. And he had absolutely no idea how to fix either of those things.

There was just one last thing Edward needed to do before he collapsed. There was a text from his father, and it led to the first smidges of guilt. Gave her an ambien. She's too thin. She's been asleep for a couple of hours.

He was growing increasingly angry – that she was so fragile, that she was so sanctimonious, that she was selfless to the point of stupidity. Who gave a shit about Jane Ashcroft Voltaire? Who gave a shit about Aro Voltaire? Edward was not a fundamentally different person, and it –

It fucking hurt that she would punish him for it, so much so that he wanted to hate her.

But he could not hurt her or let anybody else hurt her.

"How are you, son?" The voice on the other end was oleaginous to the point of being sycophantic.

Edward's tone was icy, and his disgust was plain. "We had a – " Edward paused; winced. From the moment that arrangement had come into being, Edward had treated Charles Swan with the utmost disgust. "The engagement – I don't know if we're still engaged," he admitted. "The terms of our agreement are still the same. You never hurt her, do you understand? She never knows."

He spat out the words with ice-cold disgust and disdain, if only to try to hide how much it mattered to him.

Edward and Isabella had been engaged for nearly eight months. From the moment they had become engaged, Charles Swan had used that to his advantage.

With his thick mane of hair and handsome mustache, Charles Swan had plastered his image across Seattle. The city was jammed with billboards where Charles Swan offered his legal services through the hotline 800 – SWAN – 9828. At the sight of one, Bella had turned scarlet before eventually bursting out laughing.

Charles Swan had been delighted at the engagement. Charles fucking Swan had invited Edward home for a beer, and Edward – eager to earn his fucking father-in-law's approval – had agreed. A single beer into their meeting, Charles Eustace Swan had been blunt. "It's been rough, kid. The house is mortgaged up to the hilt. Credit cards up to their limit."

Edward had hid his surprise well. He'd stopped drinking his beer, like the content spontaneously become frogspawn. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Edward had said coldly.

"I've been paying for Bella's baclofen and other medications for nearly twenty-five years. It adds up," Charles Swan had bemoaned, good-naturedly, looking at Edward pointedly.

"Sir?"

"I'm sure if Bella knew what a burden it's been – my savings would be much bigger, you see, kid? – she'd help out more."

It had dawned on Edward then, quite sharply; and he wanted to punch the smug, oily grin from his fucking father-in-law's face. "I've been meaning to tell her. The last surgery bled me out – just the fucking deductible, and the physiotherapy – It's been a couple of years, and I still haven't recovered financially."

Charles Eustace Swan had gone for the kill. "I hate to ask my own daughter for a reimbursement, but I'm out of options."

Edward had winced, clenched his fists, groaned, understood exactly what was happening – knew Isabella would be gutted. It always embarrassed her – that her father was a swine.

There was nothing more swine-like to Edward than telling Bella she was a burden, when to Edward, she was a gift. A fucking gift.

"The business not going well?" Edward had asked icily, through gritted teeth.

Charles Swan had lifted an appeasing hand. "Barely covering expenses," he had chuckled. "And, well, we're really talking about a long-term financial burden that I'll never recover from."

"Don't use that fucking word. Burden. Not to her face, not ever," Edward had spit, feeling any sense of forced respect evaporating. He was commanding now, standing tall. "Get to the point, would you?"

"A loan would be very helpful," Swan had chuckled. "Well, loan isn't the right word. I'm sure if Bella knew how expensive it's all been, year after year, well – payback isn't quite the right word, either, but … Subsidy, maybe?"

Edward had stood. "How much?"

"Don't – Well, son, I'm not a man that takes handouts. I'm just sayin' – year after year, she's set me back...A quarter million would just cover the beginning – "

Even for Edward, that was a handsome sum.

"You're not getting a quarter million with no strings attached," Edward had barked, disgusted. "Send your mortgage documents over to Jenks and I'll consider what I can do."

"You're a good husband," Swan had huffed proudly, lips twisting into a smirk. "A great man. I – I never wanted to tell her what a burden – "

"And you never will," Edward had snarled. "If you tell her a word of this conversation…"

"Wouldn't dream of it, son. Wouldn't dream of it."