Hiiii! It's been awhile! Life has just been an absolute juggle, so I'm here lowkey testing the waters since it has been over a year since I've posted anything.
This may be new to some of you, but I wrote this for the first Eras contest a few years back. Yup, just getting around to sharing it on my own page now. Thanks to those of you who voted for me, and to everyone involved in the contest!
The urge to write is slowly coming back. Let's consider this one shot a baby step to possibly more to come!
Title: A Part of History
Summary: With the world in turmoil around him, he must follow his heart to his side of history.
Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable characters herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
A Part of History
He can't remember the last time he woke up feeling whole.
Most mornings, he feels as if pieces of his life have been scattered by the wind. From one city to the next, he leaves remnants of his old life behind. His head hangs low; he has long given up on one day finding a new purpose.
A new life.
He tries, and sometimes succeeds, in finding a touch of the happiness he once felt, but it is often short-lived and never comes close to making him feel alive like he used to.
But, persevere, he does, and with a heavy and somewhat defeated sigh, he pushes open the gate in front of him after unlocking it, the sun blinding him as he steps inside.
As always, he is the first to arrive, and a small smile graces his sun-kissed face as he makes his way off the concrete and onto the sacred ground.
To him, it has always been the crunch of brown clay beneath his feet. It will always serve as a reminder of where he has been and where he wants to go.
It echoes in his ears, just like it did the first time he heard it when he was a boy, and it stops him in his tracks. Even though he has heard the sound for almost his whole life, and it remains rather small in the scheme of things, the shifting of the dirt under his wingtips fills him with a sense of familiarity that feels more like home than the four walls he grew up in.
Surrounded by a brief silence, he stills in the open air and pauses to enjoy the reprieve, feeling there may not be many more before the storm. Soon, he thinks, there won't be enough time to smell the aroma of freshly cut grass. Or time to hear the buzz of the lights from above once the sun sets later in the evening. Or see the clay raked into evenly distributed terrain.
Soon enough, the energy in the air will consume them all and make those little moments, the little things that come together to make it all so wondrous, become lost to the bigger moments.
The crowd cheering. The popcorn popping. The peanut shells coating the floor in a crunched dust.
The crack of a fastball against the smooth wood of a perfectly swung bat.
It all comes together to provide refuge to a nation tangled in conflicts around the world.
He does this before every game. Before the doors open and the cameras flash, his own included, he takes a ritual lap around the field with his camera hanging loosely from his neck. He doesn't take any pictures at first. Instead, with a clear-cut focus, he soaks in those quiet moments with eyes closed to the rest of the chaos, lost in the solitude of his own mind.
Just him, the dirt, and the grass.
He takes another step forward, that familiar sound beneath his feet louder than ever before as he walks the first base line. Another few steps and his foot sinks into the simple white sand-filled canvas square, and he feels himself turning to the left almost involuntarily.
After years of playing the game, his body instinctively remembers how it feels to be back on a field. He pauses a few feet away from the base and turns to face the pitcher's mound. He can feel his weight shift into a slight crouch, his body taking an unnecessary lead off the bag.
Unnecessary because he no longer plays.
No longer can play.
Baseball is no longer an active part of his life. These days, besides being a photographer for the local paper assigned to cover the games, this is as close as he'll get to a baseball ever again.
He has made peace with it, with the injury in the bottom of the eighth inning of the championship game that ended his career as a ballplayer.
Years passed before he accepted his fate, and he has since made it his mission to surround himself with the game in one form or another. City to city, he watches the team as their record soars and their talent strengthens. But that is all he does. All he can do. Watch. He cannot play. He cannot coach.
He can only watch and take pictures of other players doing the things he could do in his sleep. Do what he was born to do.
Play.
What he had originally thought was a useless hobby, his other love second to baseball - photography - ended up being the one thing that kept him connected to everything he thought would be his whole life.
Hired at the local paper to follow and take photos of the team during their first season, he keeps his eye on the pitcher's mound. He crouches close to the dirt he loves so much from his vantage point near first base. Lifting the camera hanging from his neck, he brings it towards his eye and presses his finger to capture the shot he sees in his head. The long angle of the freshly cut grass meeting the rise of dirt on the mound is what he thinks will be another image to add to his growing collection of favorites.
Click. Flash.
He makes quick work of the shots he wants to take of the field before the gate opens and the crowd enters. It won't be long before the team makes its way onto the grass from the locker room beneath the dugout. Judging by the excited murmur of today's crowd as they are finally let into the stadium, everyone here today, including himself, cannot wait for that moment.
That moment when the team takes the field and becomes more than who they have always been perceived to be.
Being able to witness the transformation firsthand for himself is one of the reasons why he loves working for the paper. Capturing their shots on the field, in the dugout, before the game, during warm-ups, or after the game doing press has provided him with the only sense of purpose he has felt since his injury.
And the aftermath.
Over the years, he has learned not to dwell on everything that has happened to him. On everything that has not happened to him. On everything that won't happen to him because of his injury. Instead, he shakes the thoughts out of his head when he feels their dark cloud threaten to drown him in their heavy saturation and begins to walk off the infield. He reaches the outfield, his feet sinking into the plush green grass, freshly cut and ready for whatever action may come its way from home plate. He walks down the foul line in right field, the sound of excited voices echoing in the distance.
It has never been his job to maintain the field. In fact, he probably shouldn't be down here at all with the stakes that hang in the balance of today's game, but he needs this right now.
He needs time to slow down, even for a little while.
"Mr. Cullen?" A voice calls from over his shoulder, and he turns his head towards the sound coming from the seats. "A word, please?"
Even with the badge hanging off his neck, he recognizes the man in the stands calling his name. With a polite nod and a warm smile, he finishes his ritual lap and retreats off the field to walk in his direction. He stops to grab a bag of peanuts on the way, smiling knowingly at the vendor who he has come to know during these last few months of the season. Casually tossing the salty snack into his mouth, he makes his way to the man sitting in the front seats on the first baseline.
The visitor, Sam Uley, isn't a stranger to the stadium. He has been here before, though not in the same capacity that brings him here this afternoon. With the sun high above their heads and the air cool enough to keep the heat at bay, he expects the day to be a pleasant one overall.
…Especially if Mr. Uley finds Mr. Cullen to be in an agreeable mood.
"I figured I'd find you here," Sam says, extending a hand out in greeting. "Can't escape it, can you, Mr. Cullen?"
"Not sure I want to," he responds with a chuckle. He shakes his hand cordially. "And please, call me Edward."
"Some people can't do it," Sam replies. "Spend all their time at a sport they can never play again."
Edward takes a moment before answering, a heavily weighted sigh leaving his lips. "It's my life," he replies simply with a shrug of his shoulders that whispers acceptance. "It was my life long before I played professionally."
He thinks of the days on his family farm back home in Forks, Washington, the hours he and his father would spend on the makeshift field they had painstakingly cultivated in the corner of their property. It was like time stood still when the two of them, the elder Cullen and the younger, were out there beneath the sweltering summer sun and the angry winds of the fall. Now, years after the dust has settled on both his professional career and the legacy his father had left behind, Edward knows no other comfort than what the game brings to his life.
Even if now he is only destined to capture the plays instead of making them himself.
"Not even the war could take you from here, eh?"
"Not with the headaches," Edward replies, pointing to his temple but dropping his hand just as quickly. "I would have gone if they'd let me."
His love for his country runs strong, and the letters he receives from Italy from his brother are a painful reminder of the limitations his injury has left him with. All it took was one blow to the head, an opponent's knee to his temple on an attempted slide at second, to thwart any plans of joining the war or continuing the game. The headaches left behind were initially debilitating, but now he has learned to live with them.
Stateside, of course.
Never to be permitted to join his brother and other proud men of the United States of America because of his condition.
Again, he has accepted his place, even though there are reminders, such as when pity lies on the fringes of his mind before he can cast them aside.
"They could use a guy like you over there," Sam offers vaguely, aware of the character inside of the man sitting next to him, and his eyes scan the field as the stadium begins to fill around them. "Maybe it's not too late."
"Now I know for certain you're not here just to watch the game," Edward answers with a sigh and slight laugh, his eyes catching the tags around Sam's neck. Though it is possible, he thinks, as Life Magazine has been here on several occasions this season to capture the highs and lows for various spreads, and today's game determines the team's spot in the championship.
It would make sense for Life and friendly field reporter Sam Uley to be in attendance today.
But Edward can feel Sam's motives for being here do not solely include team spirit.
Sensing his time is quickly approaching, Sam reaches for the briefcase he has set on the ground and pulls out a stack of photographs Edward would recognize from anywhere—photos he has taken of the team this season. Some of the uneven dirt mixed with the white powder of the baselines. Snapshots, in black and white, of runners sliding into third with angry bruises left behind to show for it.
"These are good," Sam says. "More than good. And I'm not the only one who has noticed."
"It's not the man behind the lens," Edward responds, leaning back in his seat. His camera rocks gently against his chest as it swings from his neck. "It's what's on the other side."
Sam disagrees, well aware of the talent Edward modestly dismisses, but pushes it aside for now. They have more important things to discuss.
"You ever think of shooting something other than a ball game?" Sam questions, and suddenly, Edward can sense a shift in the air around them. It isn't unpleasant, just notably different than how their conversation had started, and he prepares himself for whatever might be coming next.
"I suppose that is the reason you're here."
Nodding, Sam takes a deep breath and hits Edward with the truth. "We need more men like you over there," he says. "More men with a keen eye for the shots that will make a difference over here."
Edward lets the silence settle between them, his mind in overdrive as he becomes aware of what Sam is telling him.
A job offer. Working for Life. A chance to represent his country when it needs him the most.
Sam continues when Edward doesn't answer. "Look, we know you love it here. We know it because it shows in every photograph published after every game. But this?" Sam pauses, his arms motioning towards the still-untouched field. "This is only temporary. All of this will be gone when our boys are back home."
Edward has heard the rumors and sourness all season long despite the team's rise in popularity and talent.
Short-lived.
Only happening because the boys are fighting overseas.
"Wouldn't that be more reason for me to stay? To be here for every moment while it's still here to be a part of?" Edward counters.
"You could stay, Edward," Sam says, acknowledging the part of Edward that balks at the thought of ever leaving the game. He knew coming here and convincing Edward Cullen to step away from baseball wouldn't be easy. "Or, you could take the opportunity to join your brother where it counts."
He can feel the temptation settle in his chest; it had taken weeks for Edward to forgive himself for not being able to join the war efforts overseas. Even with the migraines subsiding over time, it still rendered him to the sidelines. He watched his younger brother go off to serve, leaving the rest of the family behind with Edward helpless as the world war raged on without him.
But now...
...Now, he is being given the opportunity to be part of something he feels so strongly about, and because of his love for his country, he feels compelled to say yes. The guilt for having to stay home would no longer be warranted.
If he agrees to go.
How could he turn it down? A photographer for Life? An opportunity like this will never cross his plate again.
It is everything he has wanted since doctors told him he would be ineligible for war. A chance to matter, to make a difference, to be a part of this young country's history.
Edward doesn't answer Sam, and instead, they let the offer settle in the air as the growing crowd suddenly cheers around them.
He knows what is happening without having to look up.
He feels it, too, like a slow-moving cool breeze on a much-needed hot summer day. He hears the clack of metal slotted cleats on the pavement in the dugout. Without looking, he knows the team has emerged from their private huddle beneath the stadium and has taken their places on the field for warm-ups. As usual this season, the crowd, still rather small as most spectators are still arriving, cheers as the players make their way to their positions. As the home team, they are already prepared to defend home plate, to do what they must to ensure no visiting team steps foot on it.
But the small crowd is only short-lived. It's only a matter of time before the seats are filled, and the stadium is at capacity, everyone here to watch the women of their country demolish barrier after barrier with each game. And, with Edward Cullen's help, each headline.
When he was first tasked with the opportunity of photographing the 1943 Seattle Slayers, he thought it was asked only out of sympathy. Poor Edward, not suitable for war, but try this instead, pal! This 'outta cheer you right up!
He had scoffed at the idea of finding any joy in snapping photos of a sport he could no longer play. The thought of being at the field, unable to swing a bat, catch a pop fly, or slide into third with the dust of his favorite dirt staining his clothes, seemed unbearable. It was almost impossible to ignore the sting of everything he knew he was missing, of what he would miss out on for the rest of his life.
"What would Marty Marion say about her, eh?"
Even Sam Uley's voice can't distract him from the phenomenon standing between second base and third, taking a moment to stretch her legs before the game begins. She doesn't meet his eye; she's far too focused on what lies ahead of her today to deviate from the execution of perfection she and her team deserve.
Perfection.
Because in his eyes, that is exactly what Isabella Swan, Seattle Slayer number 4, is to him.
Edward swallows deeply, his eyes never leaving the shortstop, and it's not just because of the short pink skirt and tall, red socks she wears. "I think he'd say what the rest of us are saying, Sam."
Perfection, under the guise of both expert precision and effortless performance, holds the crowd in utter awe each time she steps onto the diamond. Her presence demands attention — on and off the field — and it has been that way since she was plucked from her hometown of Atlanta, Georgia, and dropped into the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.
If one were to ask her what she thinks of her current state of existence - the star shortstop of a team in the AAGPBL to help keep America afloat while the boys are fighting in the war - she would simply shrug and continue as if the magic she creates beneath her cleats in Edward's beloved clay is a mere chore.
Easy.
Second nature.
For Isabella—Bella, they all call her— it is second nature.
Stopping a careening line drive from touching the outfield or tossing out an attempted steal at second is as easy to Bella as breathing, and she has her father to thank for that talent. Now, she casts a grateful eye toward him as he watches her from behind the plate, the smile on his face as bright as the glaring sun above them. Beneath the stoic exterior of someone unswayed by the cheers and jeers and original skepticism of a crowd taught to mock the talent of the women on the field simply for being women, lies one who is unsurprised due to the unwavering support of her father.
He sits in the stands today, just like he was back then.
Even though her thoughts are filled with gratitude at the moment, one would only assume she is thinking about the game; she doesn't miss a ball during warm-ups, and each situational practice play is executed with the meticulousness that precedes her wherever she goes.
Isabella Swan is the one to watch, they say about her on the radio. With that diving catch in the final inning of the last game of the series, the Seattle Slayers are guaranteed a run in the championship!
Shortly, she feels the daunting pressure settle into her stomach as the umpire steps onto the field, bringing forth the coaches from both teams. The opposing team holds a record just as impressive as the Slayers, and even though Bella knows victory is easily obtainable, she can't ignore the adrenaline pulsing through her veins as the umpire officially calls the game to begin.
It's a feeling she hopefully never forgets.
There's another feeling she can't ignore with every passing inning, and it washes over her each time she hears the flash of a camera in the distance.
It's the deciding game of the AAGPBL. There are tons of cameras here today.
But she only hears his.
No matter where he is during the game, Bella is aware of his presence, just like she knows where the next play is and when to step and swing the bat to launch the ball into the outfield. She can trace the sound of his camera from anywhere in the stadium; she can visualize his genius behind the lens before she wakes in the morning to see the cover of the paper.
When word had spread that one of the best pitchers turned newly-minted photographer was charged with covering the first season of the Seattle Slayers, players and fans alike couldn't believe their fate. In a sudden turn of events, the headaches from his career-ending injury had prevented him from being able to go to the war and had landed him in Seattle – and right into the middle of Bella's life like a tornado.
She had been prepared to leave home with nothing but playing ball on the horizon. Nothing else. Play ball, make plays, sign autographs, win games.
Go home.
She had not been prepared for the day Edward Cullen walked into the stadium and onto the field.
He is crisp suits and clean shaves.
A sharp eye and a quiet demeanor.
An unspoken understanding of the game. Of what happens on the field and off.
…An understanding of her.
Bella realized it the first time he spoke to her after their first game of the season when the stands were almost empty except for some members of the girls' families who could afford to attend. He had requested a team photo on home plate, and she remembers the familiarity he had the moment he stepped onto the field, even though this was one he had never played on.
It comes with the territory; she thinks as she swallows some water while sitting on the bench in the dugout at the bottom of the fifth. Some people are just born knowin' it.
Even today, as he walks around the stadium with an air of comfort and ease, she can sense baseball's overwhelming role in his life. It's evident in everything he does. The way he picks up a conversation about any player or any position with a superior level of familiarity one is only privy to if they play the game themselves.
Maybe that is why she looks forward to speaking with him after the games. With baseball at the forefront of their conversations, they never run out of things to talk about.
Before they know it, the game is over, and with their team securing its entry into the championship, she can barely hear him over the cheers in the stadium.
"Come to The Bucket tonight!" Bella shouts to him, hoping he hears her over the chaos. He is determined to capture this moment, the excitement flowing from one person to the next as his camera flashes.
The glove that Jessica Stanley, catcher for the Slayers, slams into the ground at the final play? He got that.
The arms of first baseman Tanya Denali in the air? He got that one, too.
The smile on Isabella Swan's face as she asked him to join the team at The Bucket?
He doesn't need a photograph to remember the look on her face.
He'll remember that forever.
…Even if he does take Sam Uley up on his offer with Life.
Despite the bedlam that has erupted all around them, he hears her. Their eyes meet from the pitcher's mound to third base, and he gives her a resounding nod and a smile brighter than the fluorescent lights above the field.
He wouldn't miss it for the world.
…APOH…
Later that evening, with slight trepidation, Edward walks into The Bucket, the local watering hole. After the game ended and he had retreated to the comfort of his rented room, he closed his eyes to sleep off the pounding in his head. A quick nap before the pain had the chance to get out of control usually worked well for him, and luckily, the few hours he managed to squeeze in helped. There is still a dull throbbing in his head as he lets the door close behind him, but nothing he is unfamiliar with. He only hopes the loud voices and booming timbre of the band won't send him home early.
…Because when he sees Bella standing on the outskirts of a large group of people near the dance floor, the last thing Edward wants to do is leave.
"Edward!" A voice shouts from the large group of people he had spotted when he first arrived, and his eyes land on right fielder Alice Brandon. "Over here!"
Nodding in their general direction, he decides a drink is in order, ensuring his path to the bar crosses Bella's. If he is going to risk a raging headache from being in an establishment such as this, he will make sure he spends the night doing what he wants.
Everything he wants tonight involves a certain brunette with dark pinned curls, red-stained lips, and ivory-dipped skin that does nothing to hide a pink blush when he tells her how incredible she is on the field.
He wants to tell her he thinks she's incredible off the field as well, but Edward stops himself.
"What's next for you when the season is over?" Edward asks her later in the evening after he has mingled with the team. They sip their drinks and talk as if no one else is there but them.
"I'll probably head back home to Georgia," Bella answers with a far-off smile, her lips matching the ruby-red sparkles thrown sporadically onto her black dress. He doesn't need to look at her feet to remember the red heels she's wearing to match.
Just like the smiles she gifts him throughout the evening, the image is burned into his memory.
Most of the memories he has of this season include Bella in some way, though he has pushed it out of his mind for as long as he can. He wonders why it is today that he suddenly can't escape the feelings he's had for her all along. He wonders if he's caught up in the excitement of the win, securing their place in the championship, which makes him unable to ignore how he feels.
…Perhaps it's his pending job opportunity, which would take him away from the game, and subsequently her, forever.
Neither of them are from around here, and even though their futures remain uncertain because of the war still raging across the ocean, he knows the chances of them ending up in the same city once more are slim.
The thought of that leaves him with a taste of regret so strong that even his glass of whisky can't wash it away.
Edward has watched her all season through the lens of his camera at a distance and in moments like these, where they lose themselves in flowing conversation and light banter. He is as comfortable with her as he is with his own family. It had surprised him at first how he allowed a place for her within his small circle, considering the gaping space he had put between himself and others after his injury and subsequent restrictions.
But with her, he doesn't feel like he needs the wall he has built around himself.
"Are you going to stay with the paper?" Bella asks, knowing Edward is away from his little town in Washington. He had told her once before of his hometown, and as they stand in the middle of a loud, crowded bar, she can picture him on his family farm and, more importantly, in the middle of the diamond he had made with his father all those years before she knew him. Before she knew about the man behind the camera; the man behind the home runs and baseball career cut down in his prime.
…Before she knew how the piercing green of his eyes reminded her of the trees back home.
"I'm not sure," Edward answers. "I'm afraid my allegiance lies with the game and not necessarily the paper that covers it."
"So you follow the game," Bella observes, her eyes meeting his above the rim of her glass. "Where the game goes, you go."
"Life wants to send me to Italy to photograph the war," Edward says before he realizes the words are out of his mouth. "Offered me the chance before the game today."
Edward's words take her by surprise, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rising at the news. Throughout their time together this season, they spoke briefly about the turmoil Edward had felt at being unable to help in the war effort overseas. Not one to dwell on his circumstances, Edward had brushed over the topic with a dismissive wave of his hand, and as usual, their conversation had ebbed and flowed into something much lighter. But she had seen it in his eyes, a quick flicker of regret and defeat, and she knew how much being a part of the war was something Edward had very much wanted.
He must be thrilled with the chance to finally join his brother.
"You can't turn this down, Edward," Bella tells him, the awe in her voice disguising the anguish in her heart. The war is a dangerous place, and the thought of him putting himself in the line of danger makes her shudder. "And Life?"
"I know," Edward sighs, finishing the last of his drink and turning to place the empty glass on the top of the bar. The familiar notes of Erskine Hawkins' Don't Cry, Baby drifts into the air around them, and she doesn't hesitate to slip into his arms when he leads them onto the dance floor. They've never been this close before, and the smell of White Shoulders coming from the smooth skin behind her ear takes his breath away.
Her eyes flutter closed at the feel of his hands running slowly up her back, and she nearly forgets what she was going to say to him. The sway of their feet in time with the music from the live band reminds her where she is. "When do you leave?"
"Two weeks," Edward says, his voice low and his breath dancing across a small slice of bare skin on her shoulder. "If I say yes."
At this, she peers up at his face, only to see his stare piercing hers with an intensity she recognizes in herself. Her eyes drop to his mouth, and she can only imagine what the fullness of his lips would feel like against her own. She is certain, if the insightful words that come from them are any indication, that it would feel nothing short of extraordinary. She inhales slowly, meeting his gaze again. "What's stopping you?"
Edward doesn't respond.
With words, that is.
Instead, he answers her with a kiss, and it tells her everything she has ever asked. He tastes like a familiar home and a new world all at once. His lips are soft yet firm as they slant and dance upon her own. Her hands, once resting innocently on his back, now travel up to tangle in his hair as if she cannot go another moment without feeling the copper strands between her fingers.
How could he possibly leave her now?
Edward has accepted his place in this war—he had accepted it long ago, long before Isabella Swan had walked onto the field and into his life. He had no obligation to go overseas, just his own personal desires. But now, the only desire in his life that matters is her as they fall into his bed in a rented room above the local hardware store. It's not a camera or a foreign country or a job offer that will solidify his role in society. It's Bella. And as they cling to each other as the sun comes up and their breathing slows, she's what makes him feel whole again.
He thinks back to this morning, how he had lapsed into momentary pity when he was alone on the field, and remembers how he felt that the missing pieces of his life would never be able to be put back together again. When the morning sun rises in his terrible excuse of a room, he feels…different.
Edward wakes with a feeling in his chest he hasn't felt since the lights went out inside his head at his fateful, career-ending game. His mind stumbles on the correct label of his current emotion, overwhelmed by the growing warmness flowing throughout his body.
When Bella stirs in his arms a few minutes later, he feels…grounded. Yes, that's it. Grounded. Intentional. Purposeful.
And he knows it's because of the brown-eyed beauty who smiles sleepily at him before he loses himself in her all over again.
And he knows he has to stay.
Two weeks later, Edward swallows a handful of popcorn, his camera dangling from his neck. The gasp from the man sitting next to him is louder than the screaming girl in the stands behind them.
"But you're giving up a chance to be a part of history!" Sam Uley cries, his hands in the air as he and Edward sit in the front row behind home plate. A few weeks before, the offer from Life held still in the air between them, but now it disappears into the loud and excited crowd in the stadium of the Seattle Slayers.
But as Bella Swan, star shortstop for the 1943 All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, hits the winning run out of the park in the championship game, Edward knows he has made the right decision.
"What's next?" Bella asks him amongst the surging crowd on the field, laughing as he stops spinning her around home plate and showering her with kisses.
Edward isn't exactly sure what it will look like, but there is one thing he is positive about.
This is precisely the part of history he was always meant to be in.
The one that includes both the game and the girl he loves.
Make sure you put me on alert. If you know me, you know I'm a baseball Mom and it's officially the season!
I may have more up my sleeve. Thanks for reading!