The pen in Edward's hand, a rather nice limited edition Mont Blanc original honoring Lorenzo de' Medici, snapped between his fingers as the only sign of a conhesive mental battle to remain seated past the first forty seconds after Meg's door had opened.
The rest of him wasn't moving. Not overtly. The Angel was there. She was talking. He was listening. To her words. To the shambles of her mind.
Then it was gone.
And so was Edward from his chair.
"What did you do to her?"
It's very hard to tell what is enunciated more there. The whole thing is closer to a snarl than words.
He'd seen the hand, felt that she'd felt a touch from the fingers, and then everything had shifted to the bare little the others around the room who'd glanced of hadn't that way, as Meg's conscious awareness dissolved instantly.
If having to rework his jaw for four very long seconds, ended up with the words -- "You could have asked her first." -- then maybe he's learned something from dealing with everything Bella through April until now, even if it's not by any shot lost of being temperamental.
Was supposed to have more words. He's not even certain if those ones, the ones that are and aren't his, and have been told to him so many times, can even matter. Especially when he finally looks down at her for first time.
Even if his tone might concede she looked it. He'd spent a lot of time in a hospital the last month, and she looked like she would have fit in perfectly. And she was Meg. Rational, but capable of stubbornness.
Edward nodded. There was a waver to the very certain stillness he was standing with, because of Meg's condition and not having to lie for Castiel's comfort, that shifted like a breeze might have crept across him. A movement stifled in infancy.
But he failed the second time it hit and he took a few steps closer, crouching down to look at her injuries, without his hands ever leaving his own knees.
He does not really think, at this point, that Edward has any sort of nefarious intentions. Still, and eternity of habit and conditioning is behind the watchfulness.
"I asked if she needed treatment. She said that she had already received it."
"Most of it is topical." The part that wasn't the loop in his head playing the sound of her thoughts and the smashed glass of images from the little time she'd been awake minutes ago. "That she was discharged meant there wasn't any more serious internal damage to deal with for her."
She's...fragile. It's not a thought that's been had by itself. It scatters across his own memories. Her hair style. The table. And he meant to stand up, pull away, but he didn't move.
He doesn't swallow. For the same reason he never needs to shift in the awkward looking crouch. He isn't human. None of these things are necessary or effecting to him.
The words are close without being too close. And the answer is a half lie, while still being the truth.
"She said so, before you-" did this to her "-put her to sleep."
The rest of him wasn't moving. Not overtly.
The Angel was there. She was talking.
He was listening. To her words.
To the shambles of her mind.
Then it was gone.
And so was Edward from his chair.
"What did you do to her?"
It's very hard to tell what is enunciated more there.
The whole thing is closer to a snarl than words.
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It is odd. The momentary resemblance between father and son. But he chooses not to comment on it at this time.
"She needed to sleep," he says, levelly.
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If having to rework his jaw for four very long seconds, ended up with the words -- "You could have asked her first." -- then maybe he's learned something from dealing with everything Bella through April until now, even if it's not by any shot lost of being temperamental.
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"What purpose would that have served?"
Meg had needed rest, and had needed it as quickly as possible.
And without undue argument.
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Was supposed to have more words. He's not even certain if those ones, the ones that are and aren't his, and have been told to him so many times, can even matter. Especially when he finally looks down at her for first time.
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"She was injured. And exhausted. And upset."
"Do you not think that perhaps choice, in this case, could have been a burden?"
Free will is a great and sacred gift. But it can also be a weight.
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Even if his tone might concede she looked it. He'd spent a lot of time in a hospital the last month, and she looked like she would have fit in perfectly. And she was Meg. Rational, but capable of stubbornness.
He was frowning slowly at sling on her arm.
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"She said that there was a car accident," he explains.
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But he failed the second time it hit and he took a few steps closer, crouching down to look at her injuries, without his hands ever leaving his own knees.
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He does not really think, at this point, that Edward has any sort of nefarious intentions. Still, and eternity of habit and conditioning is behind the watchfulness.
"I asked if she needed treatment. She said that she had already received it."
"Rest will make her feel better."
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"Most of it is topical." The part that wasn't the loop in his head playing the sound of her thoughts and the smashed glass of images from the little time she'd been awake minutes ago. "That she was discharged meant there wasn't any more serious internal damage to deal with for her."
She's...fragile. It's not a thought that's been had by itself. It scatters across his own memories. Her hair style. The table. And he meant to stand up, pull away, but he didn't move.
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To be expected, Castiel feels.
"She said that her injuries were not bad. But Alain has not yet woken up."
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Not as though it's a feat to be praised.
Just as thought they are facts of truth.
Especially when he doesn't use them.
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He looks at Edward curiously.
"How did you know she had been discharged?"
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The words are close without being too close.
And the answer is a half lie, while still being the truth.
"She said so, before you-" did this to her "-put her to sleep."
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Vampire senses are different, of course.
Castiel is not exactly sure how Milliways vampires' senses are different, though.
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