Part 2 -- 1922
Edward stayed home the first week, keeping the ruse from the morning they had been late, about having fallen ill. He stayed in Carlisle's absence, answered the necessity for being sure she was both fine and watched in one. It was easy to say it started there. Watching her, closely, carefully, at a vastly respectful, busied distance.
His gift making it unnecessary to follow her around.
Especially when he had to hear how she found it hard to engage them in overly long discussions which had them studying her. As though, even when she could not see her ruby gaze, she felt its weight more than those who could.
~*~
He set new flowers in a new vase on her table every morning.
It might have been futile, keeping to the time clock neither needed. On the second morning it had just been a small symbol of something to make her smile, picked up when he'd been out walking before dawn. In the days passing after it, each subsequent assortment became a conversation, without words or thoughts, padding the space.
It was the only conversation he was having in the house that wasn't strained now.
~*~
It wasn't the only change.
They had changed, too.
That wasn't as noticeable on the outside, but it was in other ways. The way they interact, the space and the lack of space both, deference in the difference. He cannot not notice. Even if he might wish he could. They are the other two-thirds of his entire existence. Their thoughts and actions sliding through him at all hours of nearness.
Only being outside of the house can absolve either to silence.
But he returns to keep with her, to Carlisle's expectance.
He doesn't talk less, but he finds himself hedging more.
So sure that they will see through it all.
Uncertain and more alone when they don't more than half the time.
~*~
Edward could not help watching her -- any time she was within a room with him, with them. The fluid grace of her verging on a silken state he'd seen only displayed during the first days of his new existence, during the first days of hers, on another body. He'd had distractions and things to handle the other two times, now all he had was time and space and the ability to catalog it.
Her thoughts like dashing stars, cluttered and clustered.
Her choices happening at milliseconds of speed, passing him by.
Her movements, which had never been unsteady, were even more precise.
And all of it -- all of it -- only adding to the enigma, the beauty, the grace inherent.
As thought this could not be wrong, when it was like luster on a shell, only what had been meant for her.
~*~
Days blur and blend, classes come back, and he wonders how they haven't always belonged together -- leading naturally to wondering part where, but even more whether he does anymore. Yet when these moods strike him, reading a text book or working on something or about to leave, Esme has somehow unconsciously patented suddenly calling out for him to come.
To hang a curtain or give an opinion of a color or to want a book recommendation.
And he wishes he could thank her. For stopping his thoughts.
For needing him. Even for that single, innocuous second.
But he only goes to her -- to smirk, and help, to try and make her laugh, or engage her in longer and longer conversations about the most trivial and important things a common day might have -- to give what he has in him to.
He finds less each day he can deny her, and her gentle requests, in her self-imposed exile.
His gift making it unnecessary to follow her around.
Especially when he had to hear how she found it hard to engage them in overly long discussions which had them studying her. As though, even when she could not see her ruby gaze, she felt its weight more than those who could.
~*~
He set new flowers in a new vase on her table every morning.
It might have been futile, keeping to the time clock neither needed. On the second morning it had just been a small symbol of something to make her smile, picked up when he'd been out walking before dawn. In the days passing after it, each subsequent assortment became a conversation, without words or thoughts, padding the space.
It was the only conversation he was having in the house that wasn't strained now.
~*~
It wasn't the only change.
They had changed, too.
That wasn't as noticeable on the outside, but it was in other ways. The way they interact, the space and the lack of space both, deference in the difference. He cannot not notice. Even if he might wish he could. They are the other two-thirds of his entire existence. Their thoughts and actions sliding through him at all hours of nearness.
Only being outside of the house can absolve either to silence.
But he returns to keep with her, to Carlisle's expectance.
He doesn't talk less, but he finds himself hedging more.
So sure that they will see through it all.
Uncertain and more alone when they don't more than half the time.
~*~
Edward could not help watching her -- any time she was within a room with him, with them. The fluid grace of her verging on a silken state he'd seen only displayed during the first days of his new existence, during the first days of hers, on another body. He'd had distractions and things to handle the other two times, now all he had was time and space and the ability to catalog it.
Her thoughts like dashing stars, cluttered and clustered.
Her choices happening at milliseconds of speed, passing him by.
Her movements, which had never been unsteady, were even more precise.
And all of it -- all of it -- only adding to the enigma, the beauty, the grace inherent.
As thought this could not be wrong, when it was like luster on a shell, only what had been meant for her.
~*~
Days blur and blend, classes come back, and he wonders how they haven't always belonged together -- leading naturally to wondering part where, but even more whether he does anymore. Yet when these moods strike him, reading a text book or working on something or about to leave, Esme has somehow unconsciously patented suddenly calling out for him to come.
To hang a curtain or give an opinion of a color or to want a book recommendation.
And he wishes he could thank her. For stopping his thoughts.
For needing him. Even for that single, innocuous second.
But he only goes to her -- to smirk, and help, to try and make her laugh, or engage her in longer and longer conversations about the most trivial and important things a common day might have -- to give what he has in him to.
He finds less each day he can deny her, and her gentle requests, in her self-imposed exile.