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Part 9

Time passes -- both incredibly fast and incredibly slow, now, paradoxically -- but it does pass. And with it, even though it still comes in world dominating swings of his focus or reactions, he begins to feel less and less like someone who hopped up on lethal dose of crack. A reference he's well enough aware to see Carlisle understanding and not quite approving of.

Edward isn't thinking of that right now though. He never does. Not right now.
He's standing on the porch. It's still deep morning for the world. Darkness reigning.

Except it isn't. He can smell it. The dry warmth of the sun. And he can see it. The moment when the air, in the canopy of ink velvet blue black begins to soften and shift with infinitesimally more light. The reverse of an ink drop in water. He can all but touch the light being born in the darkness every morning. He doesn't know if it’s because his eyes can see into the stratosphere. Not how or why. He has all he needs to know in watching it.

That it's beyond captivating. Mesmerizing. There may never be enough mornings in eternity to watch this happen.

Part 8

The cab is waiting outside and he can hear Carlisle and the driver talking about a bag. Through the open door and the small hallway.

It's strange. Even having been here for every step of the last few weeks. Standing in the doorway of the apartment that was always too bare but now is actually empty. Still heavy with the last look of his own house the night before, he studied the the way the gray winter day light filters in through the blinds and hits the white walls, going no where.

It's like nothing was ever here. No memory. No echo to remember.

Part 7

It's stranger coming home now than it had been.

Before Carlisle had existed in his world at all, and before Carlisle knew what he'd meant. Any meaning he'd once upon a time been trying to ascribe to things is faded even further before a not-quite-promise. As though he's looking at them, any relevance they should have, down a long hall.

He'd let Lottie bounce around him thanking him for whatever assortment accessories Alice had bought for him, making a note to drop her some kind of comment of thanks, and given a nod to Maria, before ensconsing himself away upstairs. The first night the house felt about as foreign as it had the first night returned from the hospital. He'd even skipped on his first day of the office.

It hadn't been so much of a conscious thought, only realizing about three hours into the work day that he was still at the piano playing pieces that soothed the space growing in the back of his mind.

Blood Bank, Part Four

I'll call.

But he doesn't.

He goes home and, once detangling himself from Lottie in a hallway, throws himself on his own room. Or his bed to be precise, tossing the file left on his bed from the night before toward the ground and just pulling a pillow over his head. He hadn't intended to stay they long. Maybe long enough to continue yelling at himself in the overwhelmingly absent silence. But then he woke up somewhere in the late afternoon.

Theoretically it could have been early evening. He really didn't care. Especially when he woke with a start, swearing he'd felt like Carlisle was right there. Near him. Watching over him. He really didn't care about the afternoon. He laid on his bed, on top of all the blankets still, staring at the ceiling thinking over too much. Too much. Pulled out his phone, flipped through Alice's after-breakfast messages and hovered on Carlisle's name in Recent Calls. Only to close the phone and toss it on the other side of the bed.

Edward dragged the file back from where he'd thrown it and willed himself to forget. About himself. About the morning. About the night. About every little thing since he'd last put the file down. He was supposed to have opinions on it by Monday. More than huh, that's two inches of paper. And it worked for a little while.

Maybe a long while since it was dark when he got through with the notes he was writing in margins and on a yellow tablet of paper he'd gone to find a few hours back. He told himself it had helped but it really didn't. It just made minutes and hours pass. And it was gone. As though it had abandoned him. Or he'd sucked all distraction from it possible and left it an empty shell.

He got a book from the library only to end up in the piano room.
The book sat on the side of the piano bench.

He got lost somewhere else. Or found.
That was easier and more complicated.

But a few ceaseless, anything but soundless, hours later, somewhere around a minute into The Well-Tempered Clavier (which had only been transferred straight into without pause from the Arabeske in C Major), Edward said barely louder than the music, "I know you're there."


Blood Bank AU, Part 2

They've been talking for almost three hours now.

Edward only arrived somewhere in the middle and plopped down into the chair that is not his chair, because it used to belong to the right person which isn't him, and chose to ignore the looks of dismay. And certain stronger emotions, which he tells himself he's imagining more than feeling.

He knows what they think of his actions, even if he doesn't regret it today.

At least anymore than he really should.

And anyway they've got a full slate of topics to discuss that are more important than him.

Not In Storyline II: Ask Edward a Question!

Edward just appears, leaning on the stage back leisurely. "Carlisle was amused by this."
There's a minute pause, with the flicker of a smirk. "I won't promise not to lie."