AN: Thank you, everyone! :)
The Night We Met: Lord Huron
Edward's head pounded like a drum as consciousness clawed its way back to him. Each pulse was a reminder of the hell they had barely escaped, the explosion still echoing through his bones. His lips parted in a low groan as bright overhead light burned through his eyelids. The sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint hum of medical machinery settled over him like a weighted blanket, dragging a memory from the fog.
Carlisle.
Relief flickered through the pain. Of course. He was at Carlisle's—a sanctuary for ghosts like him and the others, a place where questions weren't asked, and lives were patched back together.
He forced his eyes open. The clinical white walls and sharp gleam of medical equipment confirmed his suspicion. Carlisle, a longtime friend, caregiver... had come through for them again.
Edward exhaled and pushed himself upright, wincing as a firestorm ripped through his shoulder.
Fuckin' Aro.
He swallowed down the groan threatening to escape, rolling his stiff muscles carefully. His bare chest was a patchwork of dark bruises and cuts, and his left shoulder was tightly bandaged. An IV pressed against the crook of his arm, pumping fluids into his battered body.
None of it mattered.
Bella.
The single thought detonated in his chest, clearing the haze of pain like a slap to the face.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. The sudden movement sent the world tilting, nausea clawing at his throat. His vision swam, but he gritted his teeth, steadying himself with a sharp inhale. He had to see her.
Every step toward the door was a war against his screaming muscles, but he forced himself forward, gripping the frame for support before pushing it open.
He walked into a room full of voices, of familiarity.
Emmett. Rosalie. Jasper. Alice.
And, somehow—James.
They were sprawled across worn leather couches, looking like they'd gone ten rounds with hell and barely walked away. Bloodstained bandages. Bruises in various shades of deep purple and sickly yellow. A haunted look in their eyes, even beneath their exhaustion.
James was in the middle of some dramatic retelling, gesturing wildly.
"…and then I thought, 'Well, James, this is it. This is where you die a hero, tragically underappreciated, lost in the annals of time, no one to tell your story—' but no! I refused to let you guys suffer without my charming presence. So I said to myself—James, buddy, if you're going out, you're going out flashy—so I ran at the guard, screaming like some kind of warlord, which, in hindsight, might not have been the best tactic because—"
James spotted Edward first, his eyes widening.
He shot up, pointing dramatically.
"Oh, holy shit. John Wick returns!"
Rosalie, mid-sip from a water bottle, snorted loudly. Jasper shook his head, muttering something about "not this again."
The others turned, expressions shifting from shock to relief.
Alice was on her feet in an instant. She stormed toward him, her hands gripping his face before pulling him into a fierce hug, careful of his injuries but not at all gentle.
"You dumb-shit," she hissed into his ear. "What did we talk about? Almost dying again? This is getting so embarrassing."
Edward let out a faint chuckle, wincing slightly as she squeezed too tight.
"Nice to see you too, Alice."
Rosalie stood next, arms crossed, giving him a once-over, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
"You good?"
Edward nodded once, but his jaw set tight, and his voice dropped into something colder. More urgent.
"Where's Bella?"
Silence.
James, for once in his life, shut the hell up.
No jokes. No sarcastic quips. Just heavy, collective worry, pressing down on the room like an iron weight.
Edward's chest tightened.
Then—footsteps.
They turned as Carlisle stepped into the doorway.
Edward's throat closed up, and Carlisle offered him a careful, knowing look.
"Edward," he greeted warmly. "Good to see you awake, son."
Edward's fingers curled into fists.
"Where is she?"
Carlisle's expression softened. He tilted his head toward the adjoining room.
"…This way."
Edward didn't hesitate.
He moved past the others without a word, barely registering Alice's reassuring squeeze on his arm or Emmett's quiet, "Hang in there, man." Their voices barely touched the edges of his consciousness.
His focus was singular.
Carlisle led him down the hall, pushing open the door to a smaller, dimly lit room. The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor filled the silence, underscored by the faint hiss of an oxygen ventilator. The air felt heavier here—thick with antiseptic, worry, and the sharp sting of reality.
Edward's breath caught the second his eyes landed on her.
Bella lay motionless, her skin pale against the stark white sheets. Too pale. There were deep bruises along her cheekbone, and thick bandages wrapped tightly around her side, just visible beneath the hospital gown, evidence of the wound that had nearly stolen her away.
The oxygen mask over her face rose and fell slowly, each breath a fragile, measured thing.
At her bedside, Esme, Carlisle's wife, sat silently.
She worked carefully, wiping away the last traces of blood and grime from Bella's face and arms. When she looked up, her soft eyes met Edward's. She offered him a kind but somber smile before silently stepping aside, giving him space.
Edward felt like the floor had been ripped out from beneath him.
His chest tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
The sight of her like this—broken, battered, barely clinging to life—was a knife to the gut, twisting deeper with every unsteady rise and fall of her chest.
Carlisle rested a hand on Edward's uninjured shoulder.
"The bullet passed through her side," he explained gently. "It damaged her liver and nicked her kidney. She lost a significant amount of blood, but we've done everything we can. Now, we wait."
Edward nodded stiffly, though the motion felt mechanical, like his body was acting on instinct rather than understanding.
Wait.
That was the worst part of all.
He moved toward the bed, his knees nearly buckling as he lowered himself into the chair beside her. The exhaustion weighed on him like concrete, but he ignored it.
His hands trembled as he reached for hers, fingers wrapping around cold skin. The chill sent a shiver straight through him, an echo of something deep and primal. Fear.
His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, tracing over every curve, every familiar line.
"I'm sorry."
The words broke from him in a whisper, raw and heavy. He pressed her hand to his forehead, his grip tightening as if he could will some of his strength into her.
"I should have been faster." His voice cracked, the guilt clawing up his throat. "I should have protected you."
He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back the thick ache in his throat. The tears that had threatened him before now burned hot behind his eyelids, welling up but refusing to fall. He couldn't break.
Not now.
"You've been so damn strong in all of this." His voice was barely audible now, just a breath between them. "Don't stop now. I need you to fight, Bella. I need you to come back..."
...to me.
The TV blared in the background, flickering between live footage and carefully edited reports. The screen filled with the smoldering remains of what had once been the lab, now reduced to rubble. Police cars, black tactical vans, and a swarm of federal agents moved in coordinated chaos, their figures silhouetted against the lingering smoke. Yellow crime scene tape littered the area.
A news anchor stood in front of the wreckage, her expression grave yet composed.
"This is the scene of what authorities are calling one of the most significant domestic terrorism plots ever uncovered," she announced. She gestured to the collapsed facility behind her, the ruins still hissing faintly with residual heat.
"The facility where the late Dr. Isabella Swan used to work—" a slight pause, "—a promising biochemist known for her groundbreaking work in cancer research—was destroyed in what sources claim was an internal act of sabotage. The fallout is far from over. Names of high-ranking officials, including Dr. Victoria Greene and Aro Volturi, have surfaced in connection to a covert biological weapons project."
Edward's grip on the remote tightened. A flicker of something sharp twisted in his chest.
"Authorities have confirmed that, unfortunately, there was one civilian casualty. Intern Angela Weber, who worked with Dr. Swan in the past, was unfortunately murdered by Dr. Victoria Greene," the anchor continued. "Multiple injuries of other employees have also been reported, and the investigation remains ongoing as officials work to piece together the full scope of this conspiracy."
The screen flickered to grainy leaked documents, classified blueprints, and footage from inside the facility—all thanks to Alice's efforts. The public wouldn't know who had pulled the strings behind the exposure, only that the truth was out.
"Thanks to these leaked files from an anonymous source, the extent of this conspiracy is becoming clearer. These documents, now public, detail years of illegal experimentation, planning, and weaponization of biological agents. The implications of this discovery are staggering, with authorities now looking into how deep this operation ran and who else may have been involved."
Edward sat motionless, the remote resting loosely in his hand. It was done—the world knew most of the truth. But at what cost?
The camera cut to another montage of internal reports, falsified grant applications, and images of lab schematics, each one unraveling the corruption and deceit that had fueled the project. Edward barely heard the rest of the segment. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
To Bella.
To the moment he had carried her from the flames, her blood soaking into his skin. To the seconds where he thought he'd lost her.
His fingers flexed around the remote, his knuckles whitening.
Jasper entered the room. He dropped onto the couch beside Edward, glancing briefly at the screen before shifting his focus to his friend.
"Nice to see our work's paying off," Jasper remarked dryly, propping an arm over the back of the couch. He studied Edward for a beat before adding, "How're you holding up?"
Edward didn't look away from the TV. "I'm fine."
Jasper let out a short laugh, low and knowing. "Yeah, fuck that noise." He leaned back, watching Edward closely. "Come on, man. You've been through hell. It's okay to not be fine."
Edward's jaw twitched, his grip on the remote tightening for a second before he forced himself to relax. "I said I'm fine."
Jasper didn't push. He simply held up his hands, the amusement in his tone replaced by something quieter.
"Alright, alright." A pause. Then, softer: "But you know where to find me when you're ready to talk."
Edward gave a noncommittal grunt, his eyes still locked onto the TV as Jasper stood and walked out.
The broadcast droned on, but Edward wasn't listening.
The truth was out. But the war inside him wasn't over.
...
Edward sat at the dining room table, his fingers curled loosely around the spoon in his hand. The stew Esme had given him was warm, rich, the first real meal he'd had in over a week. Everything they'd been given at the lab had been stale bread and cold soup.
This was different. This was home in a way he hadn't realized he needed.
Across from him, Carlisle dropped into the chair, his own bowl in hand. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before shaking his head.
"I'd probably be starved if not for Esme's cooking," he mused, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Edward huffed out a short laugh, nodding. "No argument there. I definitely miss it."
For a few minutes, they ate in silence, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable, just familiar. For the first time in days, Edward's muscles didn't feel like they were wound tight enough to snap.
Carlisle was the first to break the silence.
"Alice filled us in on everything." His voice was even, calm, but there was something in the way he said it that made Edward pause. It wasn't just about the mission. "She told us what you all went through. And…" Carlisle's eyes flicked up, watching him carefully. "She told us about Bella."
Edward's grip on his spoon faltered just slightly before he set it down, exhaling through his nose.
Carlisle's lips curled into something almost amused, his curiosity barely concealed. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting this from you."
Edward raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze. "What exactly is this?"
Carlisle chuckled, taking another slow bite of his stew before setting his spoon down as well. "You care about her. A lot." He tilted his head, studying Edward as if he were an interesting case study. "You don't let people in, but somehow, she got past all of it. That's… impressive."
Edward exhaled, leaning back in his chair. His eyes flickered toward the slightly ajar door down the hall, where Bella was resting. His jaw tightened. "I don't know how it happened," he admitted after a long moment. "It just… did."
The words felt too simple for something this big, but what else was there to say? It had been gradual and all at once. One moment, she was just another scientist, another player in this nightmare, and the next—she was everything.
His voice turned bitter. "And that's exactly why I steered clear of all of this." He gestured vaguely, as if that somehow encompassed everything—the emotions, the risk, the pain. "Letting people in. Getting close to them. It always leads to something like this."
Carlisle was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his bowl. Then, he cleared his throat. "Can I share a thought?"
Edward looked at him, his eyebrow lifting just slightly in reluctant invitation. "Go ahead."
Carlisle leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table, his expression unreadable. "You've spent years keeping people at arm's length," he started, his tone measured, patient. "You told yourself it was safer that way. That if you never got too close, you'd never have anything to lose."
Edward's throat tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"But here's the thing, Edward. You lost people anyway." Carlisle's voice was gentle, but the truth of it hit like a gut punch. "You've been through hell, with or without attachment. You've watched people die, seen things no one should have to see. And you carried all of it alone, thinking that was somehow easier."
Edward's fingers curled into fists on the table. He felt exposed, like Carlisle had peeled him apart as if he was just another patient on his table.
Carlisle softened slightly, leaning back in his chair. "You say you regret letting someone in. That it made things harder. More painful." He tilted his head, his next words slow, deliberate. "But tell me something—if she hadn't been there, if you never met her… would you really be any less wrecked right now?"
Edward's breath hitched. He wanted to argue, to tell him yes, of course, things would have been easier. Cleaner.
But the truth—the real truth—was no.
He would have been just as broken. Just as furious. Just as haunted.
Only now, there was something else. Someone else.
Carlisle saw it the second Edward realized it.
His expression turned thoughtful. "Pain is unavoidable, Edward. Losing people, suffering… none of it changes just because you refuse to care." His voice grew softer. "But love? Love changes everything."
Edward swallowed hard, staring at the table.
"You don't regret it," Carlisle said, matter-of-fact. "You know you don't."
Edward closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling through his nose. He could still feel Bella's cold hand in his, the weight of her limp body against his chest, the absolute terror of thinking he'd lost her.
And despite all of it, despite the ache in his chest and the nightmares clawing at the edges of his mind—
Carlisle was right.
He didn't regret it.
Not for a second.
When Edward looked up again, his gaze wasn't bitter anymore.
Carlisle smiled knowingly, standing and picking up his empty bowl. "Get some rest," he said, giving Edward's good shoulder a firm squeeze before heading toward the sink.
Edward sat there for a long time, his untouched stew now lukewarm, his thoughts anything but.
Eventually, he got up and walked toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall.
Edward sat in the chair beside Bella's bed, his fingers absently tracing over the bandage on his shoulder, as if prodding at the pain would somehow keep him here, in this moment. His body ached—a deep, bone-weary exhaustion settling in his limbs—but the thought of leaving her alone, even for a moment, felt unbearable.
She had wanted to know him.
That night in the safe house—she had told him that. I want to know you, Edward.
And now… now, she was here, pale and still, unable to ask him again.
So he gave her what she wanted.
He exhaled slowly, shifting forward in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was quiet when he started, a little rough around the edges from disuse.
"My parents…" he began, testing the words on his tongue, "were good people."
His gaze flickered to her face, searching for any change, any flicker of response, but there was nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of her chest.
So he kept talking.
"They weren't perfect. No one is. But they were good." His fingers laced together, his thumbs rubbing against each other as if to keep his hands busy. "My dad—he was an architect. A good one. And my mom… she taught music. Played the piano like it was an extension of herself." A ghost of a smile flickered at the memory. "When she first tried to teach me, I was a stubborn little bastard. I'd get frustrated too easily... but I grew to love it, like I told you."
Looking back, I don't think she cared if I ever got good at it. I think she just wanted the excuse to spend more time with me." His throat tightened slightly.
A long breath.
"They died when I was eight. Car crash. Just… one of those things." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "One minute, you're in the back seat, listening to your mom hum along with the radio, and the next… nothing." His jaw clenched. "People like to talk about how there's this moment before impact, some big revelation, some feeling. But for me, there was none of that. Just headlights, then black."
He looked at her again. "I think that's when I stopped believing that things happen for a reason."
The room was silent except for the steady rhythm of her heartbeat on the monitor.
He leaned back in his chair, shifting slightly to ease the dull throb in his ribs. "After that, I got… difficult." A smirk tugged at his lips, though there was no real amusement behind it. "A tough little shit, as Carlisle put it."
He shook his head, lost in the memory. "I fought. A lot. If someone looked at me wrong, I swung. If they said something I didn't like, I swung harder." A dry chuckle. "Not a lot of people wanted to mess with the angry orphan kid."
He hesitated, then admitted, "I think I just wanted someone to hit back. Just to feel something. Because the worst part wasn't the fights or the bruises—it was the silence. That empty space where they used to be."
He exhaled slowly. "And then there was Carlisle."
He took me in when I was seventeen, nearly aged out of the system. Didn't try to fix me, didn't try to make me into something I wasn't. He just… let me be angry." Edward swallowed. "I don't think I would have survived without that."
His voice turned quieter, more thoughtful. "But even then, I never really let anyone in. Not fully. Carlisle. Esme. Even Jasper, Al, and Rose and Em… it was different. It was about survival. About loyalty." He ran a hand through his hair. "But you…"
He stopped.
His eyes drifted back to her, and something in his chest squeezed painfully.
"But you," he repeated, softer this time, shaking his head. "I don't know, Bella. You just… showed up, and all of a sudden, I didn't have as much control as I thought I did." His voice was raw now, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "And for someone who's spent his whole life making sure no one got too close, that was fucking terrifying."
He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing his hands together. "I didn't stand a chance, did I?"
Silence settled over the room again, but this time, it wasn't suffocating.
Edward leaned forward, his movements slow and careful. His body protested every inch, his wounds screaming in defiance, but he ignored them.
He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers trembled slightly as they ghosted over her cheek, warm and delicate beneath his touch.
Then, with painstaking care, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
His lips lingered there for a moment, his eyes shutting briefly as he breathed her in.
A silent promise. A quiet plea.
When he finally pulled away, he studied her for a long moment before sighing softly.
"Goodnight, Bella," he murmured.