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."
She slips her arms around his middle, burying her face into his chest. The vibration of his speech beneath her ear, even as she could clearly hear the change in his tone for just an hour ago.
"And now he is." She looked up, close to him, studying his expression. Strange to think that there was someone listening now. Someone who wasn't a voiceless spectre. "How are you doing?"
Esme smiled. She can't help it, when he smiles like that, suddenly. As though he isn't even thinking about it. The way it stamps into her heart better than any sunshine.
Pulled in tightly, and yet the lightness in his hands and his kiss. It's there in how he moves. And Esme falls under it, with a light laugh against on his lips and tongue, grateful with joy lacing into the dying breaths of years of aching.
The last time they kissed like this was before Edward was gone.
Elsewhere, Edward cringes at the image Esme draws up as comparison. It's not too hard to let it cripple his features for a few seconds, when he's standing in a hallway, having passed the opened to the living room, and was already stuck.
Staring at the Victorian Grand sitting in the corner. Still. Dust free.
He doesn't even realize for a while that he's clutching his wrist, and makes himself turn toward the hallway. His thoughts aren't even cohesive enough, a wash of guilt and shame and fault, when he finally makes the stairs and finds his old room.
The level of things he doesn't understand just continues to multiply the more he has to see of this place. It's like a museum of unchanged things. If he closed his eyes -- but no, he can't allow himself the freedom to even dream a moment from the wrongs he's wrought.
He's back a few minutes later. Almost silent steps in the hallway.
He's stopped int the doorway. His bronze hair is a riot of color, shiny and offset with water droplets, but no longer dripping, and he's found a tailor-fitted, grey, long sleeve, shirt and dry pants.
"What did you mean--" His eyebrows furrowed. He looked to the side of them and them back, at Carlisle again. The collision of everything at the sudden moment things he couldn't sort out. Even forcing himself to ask anything, it feel wrong.
He shouldn't demand to be given anything.
Even if demand is far too strong for the remote, even keel of his voice. "--about it being months?"
Esme's fingers slipped into Carlisle's, and she met his gaze even as she thought of it. He had said it, when it was one of the last things she'd heard from him when they were in the room.
And if she'd never been quite complicit -- and how could she be complicit in Carlisle tracking another life, even Edward's, through corpses and unexplained disappearances, when he was only barely managing to live his own? -- she had still benefited in the knowledge of thinking they still knew where Edward was, that he was still alive.
According to the flicker of her thoughts -- his thoughts. Edward lifted a hand, and rubbed his shoulders. He felt like a child, and so far from knowing what childhood could be.
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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"And now he is." She looked up, close to him, studying his expression. Strange to think that there was someone listening now. Someone who wasn't a voiceless spectre. "How are you doing?"
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But Carlisle is smiling at his wife again, completely unbidden and without effort.
"I love you."
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"I love you, too."
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Even if Carlisle was too inwardly focused, dealing with himself and his own head.
Carlisle kisses Esme and presses her tightly against his chest. Maybe she'll keep him from going absolutely everywhere at once.
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Pulled in tightly, and yet the lightness in his hands and his kiss. It's there in how he moves. And Esme falls under it, with a light laugh against on his lips and tongue, grateful with joy lacing into the dying breaths of years of aching.
The last time they kissed like this was before Edward was gone.
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Staring at the Victorian Grand sitting in the corner. Still. Dust free.
He doesn't even realize for a while that he's clutching his wrist, and makes himself turn toward the hallway. His thoughts aren't even cohesive enough, a wash of guilt and shame and fault, when he finally makes the stairs and finds his old room.
The level of things he doesn't understand just continues to multiply the more he has to see of this place. It's like a museum of unchanged things. If he closed his eyes -- but no, he can't allow himself the freedom to even dream a moment from the wrongs he's wrought.
He's back a few minutes later. Almost silent steps in the hallway.
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"What next, my family?"
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"Edward?"
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"What did you mean--" His eyebrows furrowed. He looked to the side of them and them back, at Carlisle again. The collision of everything at the sudden moment things he couldn't sort out. Even forcing himself to ask anything, it feel wrong.
He shouldn't demand to be given anything.
Even if demand is far too strong for the remote, even keel of his voice. "--about it being months?"
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And if she'd never been quite complicit -- and how could she be complicit in Carlisle tracking another life, even Edward's, through corpses and unexplained disappearances, when he was only barely managing to live his own? -- she had still benefited in the knowledge of thinking they still knew where Edward was, that he was still alive.
She squeezed Carlisle's hand. "He's here now."
Carlisle wouldn't have to keep looking.
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"I read the obituaries."
And so much more. It's a start.
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According to the flicker of her thoughts -- his thoughts. Edward lifted a hand, and rubbed his shoulders. He felt like a child, and so far from knowing what childhood could be.
"For all of America."
For years.
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