Awkward is not the word for it. Awkward is not -- and he doesn't deserve sympathy. Not for his choices. Not for his sins. Not for not listening when they knew. And he really doesn't deserve Esme sobbing. And he doesn't even know what to do. He's staring at the door over her shoulder now, where Carlisle is waiting.
Looming like the shadow in a story.
Like the only light he's even known...and drowned on purpose.
He doesn't even know where he finds it in him. To raise his hand and pat her shoulderblade through the jackey, to say, very still, very slowly. "It's okay." Once. Twice. Each time only not helping, only making a noise or a reaction. Until at the third time, at odds with his whole skin, it rolls off as, "It's okay, Mom."
Oh. God. Not planned. Not meant. Maybe meant. And mumbled straight into- "I'll come inside."
Nothing sensible works. Even when he tries to fight off Carlisle's grasp finally. Suddenly. With less focus and the vast strength inherent in his smallest move.
To cover his mouth with his free hand when he can't get his mouth to even stop moving by the thought of it. I'm sorry and You were right smothers, still escaping into the air, on digging fingertips.
When he doesn't even quite realize until the last second that doing so drops him to his knees.
Carlisle lets out a hushed call for Esme to come into the room, stop pacing. He matches Edward's drop to the floor and reaches for Esme's hand as Carlisle leans in to plant a kiss at Edward's hairline.
"It will be alright."
Carlisle squeezes Esme's hand in his to keep it from shaking, to keep his declaration true.
She'd been only on the other side of the door. Debating opening it for a while, since the last thing Carlisle said was minutes ago, while Edwards voice continued to rattle apologies alone in the space of their house.
Relief surged at his address to her, and the door went.
Opening on the two of them, all but kneeling on the floor facing each other. The hand held out calling for her help more than the positioning of either. Esme walked over, slipping her hand into Carlisle's, squeezing it back as he spoke.
He's back to staring down. Presently at Carlisle's knees, which get the addition of a pair of slow heels. Especially when the pressure on his head sounds, even though he'd nearly pulled away from it happening. Seeing the thought before the action.
Too many words, too few of them, too many sentences he's avoided and now can't see beyond, that mean nothing or are at least trivial in the onslaught of what meaning meant here and now, crowding behind the bars of his teeth.
Someone has to say something. They'll just sit there. Even when it feels like its interrupting, somehow, breaking a silence that tense, that full.
"It will be." She took a step forward, using her hand, gently to try and lift Edward's face by his cheek. "You're home now. If that is what you want." The last part is given to Edward with a glance toward Carlisle, squeezing his hand.
It isn't only her house that's she's talking about.
Which is why she asks with a look, already knowing the answer.
He looks up at them following Esme's gentler prompting.
Them together, intertwined. Trying to find a word that isn't the words he's been requested not to use. The only words he's managed, strung together in long sentences, that weren't even sentences, to find since the door opened.
Beyond them there is the void. A million thoughts and choices and views of other lives. The man's face and the taste of the blood, and the feel of the water still trickling down the side of his neck from his hair, around the circle of his wrists at his long sleeves, sticking the leather.
He doesn't deserve this.
Esme's patience and hope. Carlisle's plea.
They don't know what he's done, the whole shape of it.
But the thought of having to walk out that door is beyond recognizable, beyond terror and emptiness and sanity. He's pretty sure the strength required to take to make that act (again) is outside of his entire being now. His lips shifted, words, too many, still the wrong ones, still the ones he's not supposed to use
( ... )
The dread that sharpened when he'd weighed them with those hollow scalding eyes for the long moment and then just looked away, obliterated completely when he nodded.
Everything shifted. Of what could.
She let out a sound in a breath through her nose,like a relieved not quite laugh or sigh. Her hand in Carlisle's squeezed then and she moved up from Edward's cheek, into his hair when she stepped up to him, drawing his head back, against her side.
"You're home then." Running her fingers down his into his wet, matted, when she said softly, again. "Welcome home, Edward."
Edward with his head bent, was doing his best both not to move, not to talk -- but mostly not to give into the irritation beneath being touched for so long, even in such a time frame. There was something terrible -- terribly, terrifyingly, uncertain? -- about it, especially with her thoughts.
Just that touch, soft and simple, moving through his hair.
Guiding him. Welcoming him where he doesn't belong.
Edward looked at the carpet at Carlisle's words. Then up to Esme's face. The bemused, not shielded enough surprise, at the joke. To Carlisle and the floor, before he pushed up from the floor, and came up rubbing water off his hand.
Apologetically looking over to Esme, and starting to open his mouth --- only to stop just as suddenly, with it open and then closed, shoulders dropping slightly more.
Maybe it's only Edward's special gift that he can suddenly look even more youthfully, woefully, apologetic in being unable to apologize for this, too? He nodded, to nothing in particular.
He wonders if he should have the right to hear, to respond.
The right to hope Carlisle never figures out how much.
Edward looked between the two of them again. Before the door and then lingering on watching Carlisle stand, before his gaze shifted back to Esme for the simple, almost too even question of "I'll--"
The floor could fall apart for all she cares. The water wasn't going to kill it. (Even if it might need a cleaning.) Which may show in the nudge Carlisle gets with the point of one of her shoes, even if it isn't hard.
She leaned back, helping her husband up, even as she nodded to Edward. Wondering how odd it must be to hear, "Upstairs, same room. Most of it is-" where you left it "-still there."
They're used to that part now. The unchanged things.
She waited until he walked toward the door, before she looked back up to Carlisle again, pulling her hand from his as she slipped under his arm.
Looming like the shadow in a story.
Like the only light he's even known...and drowned on purpose.
He doesn't even know where he finds it in him. To raise his hand and pat her shoulderblade through the jackey, to say, very still, very slowly. "It's okay." Once. Twice. Each time only not helping, only making a noise or a reaction. Until at the third time, at odds with his whole skin, it rolls off as, "It's okay, Mom."
Oh. God. Not planned. Not meant. Maybe meant. And mumbled straight into- "I'll come inside."
He should stand and face hell. He deserves it.
He wrought it with his own hands.
What more can be taken away.
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He can't even--
Those two--
Nothing sensible works. Even when he tries to fight off Carlisle's grasp finally. Suddenly. With less focus and the vast strength inherent in his smallest move.
To cover his mouth with his free hand when he can't get his mouth to even stop moving by the thought of it. I'm sorry and You were right smothers, still escaping into the air, on digging fingertips.
When he doesn't even quite realize until the last second that doing so drops him to his knees.
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"It will be alright."
Carlisle squeezes Esme's hand in his to keep it from shaking, to keep his declaration true.
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Relief surged at his address to her, and the door went.
Opening on the two of them, all but kneeling on the floor facing each other. The hand held out calling for her help more than the positioning of either. Esme walked over, slipping her hand into Carlisle's, squeezing it back as he spoke.
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Too many words, too few of them, too many sentences he's avoided and now can't see beyond, that mean nothing or are at least trivial in the onslaught of what meaning meant here and now, crowding behind the bars of his teeth.
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Someone has to say something. They'll just sit there. Even when it feels like its interrupting, somehow, breaking a silence that tense, that full.
"It will be." She took a step forward, using her hand, gently to try and lift Edward's face by his cheek. "You're home now. If that is what you want." The last part is given to Edward with a glance toward Carlisle, squeezing his hand.
It isn't only her house that's she's talking about.
Which is why she asks with a look, already knowing the answer.
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Them together, intertwined. Trying to find a word that isn't the words he's been requested not to use. The only words he's managed, strung together in long sentences, that weren't even sentences, to find since the door opened.
Beyond them there is the void. A million thoughts and choices and views of other lives. The man's face and the taste of the blood, and the feel of the water still trickling down the side of his neck from his hair, around the circle of his wrists at his long sleeves, sticking the leather.
He doesn't deserve this.
Esme's patience and hope. Carlisle's plea.
They don't know what he's done, the whole shape of it.
But the thought of having to walk out that door is beyond recognizable, beyond terror and emptiness and sanity. He's pretty sure the strength required to take to make that act (again) is outside of his entire being now. His lips shifted, words, too many, still the wrong ones, still the ones he's not supposed to use ( ... )
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Everything shifted. Of what could.
She let out a sound in a breath through her nose,like a relieved not quite laugh or sigh. Her hand in Carlisle's squeezed then and she moved up from Edward's cheek, into his hair when she stepped up to him, drawing his head back, against her side.
"You're home then." Running her fingers down his into his wet, matted, when she said softly, again. "Welcome home, Edward."
You've been missed more than you can know.
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"You have clothes upstairs so you can stop destroying Esme's floor."
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Just that touch, soft and simple, moving through his hair.
Guiding him. Welcoming him where he doesn't belong.
Edward looked at the carpet at Carlisle's words. Then up to Esme's face. The bemused, not shielded enough surprise, at the joke. To Carlisle and the floor, before he pushed up from the floor, and came up rubbing water off his hand.
Apologetically looking over to Esme, and starting to open his mouth --- only to stop just as suddenly, with it open and then closed, shoulders dropping slightly more.
Maybe it's only Edward's special gift that he can suddenly look even more youthfully, woefully, apologetic in being unable to apologize for this, too? He nodded, to nothing in particular.
"I'll change."
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Carlisle pulls on Esme's hand to help him to standing.
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The right to hope Carlisle never figures out how much.
Edward looked between the two of them again. Before the door and then lingering on watching Carlisle stand, before his gaze shifted back to Esme for the simple, almost too even question of "I'll--"
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She leaned back, helping her husband up, even as she nodded to Edward. Wondering how odd it must be to hear, "Upstairs, same room. Most of it is-" where you left it "-still there."
They're used to that part now. The unchanged things.
She waited until he walked toward the door, before she looked back up to Carlisle again, pulling her hand from his as she slipped under his arm.
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"I can't believe it. I hoped, but I don't know if I believed he'd come back."
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