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07 September 2008 @ 01:48 pm
Poltergeist Love like Savannah Heat // for lye_tea  
For: lye_tea
Title: Poltergeist Love like Savannah Heat
Disclaimer: "Twilight" and all related characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,318
Summary: Edward/Bella with brief mention of the entire Cullen family including Nessie. Edward and Bella recall their life before Nessie and come to terms with their mutual obsession for one another.
Warnings: Post-Breaking Dawn, somewhat in-line with possible canon continuity.
Author's Notes: Thanks to shadowfae for beta'ing this for me at the eleventh hour. Title and cut-line from "Cape Canaveral" by Conor Oberst.



Cardboard is stacked into tidy towers against the stonewalls. Esme's watercolors lean lazily against the sagging boxes. She leaves tonight for Brazil but no one can cry. Rosalie promises to Fed-Ex it all, everything she cannot carry on the plane. For once, Nessie sighs happily, tears wet down her cheeks and she calls Rosalie what she's always been to her, I love you, mama. Briefly, she recalls Edward and Bella, her parents, but dismisses the Kodachrome memories. A heart can only grow so large, she muses, and she came along after their hearts were full of one another, the memory she took from Edward, the reunion in Volterra, is the answer to every question she ever had about their love, so strange from what she witnesses with the other couples. Insanity straight from a gothic novel, it would have murdered them had they been mortal.

She is gone but Bella wonders was she ever here, the years pass through red rains and skies frozen above gray ice. The human memories she once coveted, keeping them at the forefront of her mind dissipate, or she keeps them locked in a small chest she imagines settling in her still heart. She does not feel like a mother, she never really did, except when she carried the tangible piece of Edward inside of her. No one quite understands it, so thankful she can hide it.

Edward kisses her good-bye, his daughter’s palm opens to wave good-bye and not to press against his cheek to illustrate her excitement; her move on to brave new worlds, so close to the land where she was created. He adores her like he adores his sisters, yet he wishes she could have been what he thought he had wanted all of those years when he desired to be human more than anything. No, he pauses, he loves her more, she is a part of Bella. She will always be Bella's daughter.

Later he finds her in their closet. "You hate weddings," he murmurs, curling his arms around her waist, clutching at the white satin he'd not seen in years. They stand in front of the mirror, the last thing on the wall in the stone cottage. He can't see the debris, the packing tape and Styrofoam kernels. Seven years later, seven minutes later, Edward only sees the mahogany hair, the rose of her lips as she kissed him under an August canopy.

"I loved our wedding," she sighs, "I was so young, Edward, how did you put up with all that indecision?" He can't read her thoughts but he doesn't need to, the smoothness of her face, the slight smile relays their old stories. He peels the zipper back, reaches into the silky material to feel her milky white skin. She leans into the mirror, he takes the bodice of the dress down to her waist, one hand on her breast. Bella draws the skirt up to meet the neckline as he plunges into her; they watch one another, draw breath after breath into the mirror. She is ashamed that this - him inside of her - is what makes her feel whole. Edward buries his face into the back of her neck so not to share that he can only feel warm when he is a part of her.

§§§


A full moon fills the meadow, perfecting the circle of wildflowers so that they drip dew that resembles glass tears. Bella darts from tree to tree; Edward languishes in the top of a Redwood. He's not on the hunt tonight but habit compels him to take note of the mountain lion five miles west and a herd of deer to the right.

Reenacting that March afternoon, they curl their bodies into one another, circles drawing infinity, upon the grass. Bella toys with the longer blades of sedge above Edward's head. She traces her fingers down her arm, and her hand palms Edward's knee. She's not sure where he ends and she begins. "That's the way it's suppose to be," he says. Bella shakes her head, "your not suppose to be reading me now." His mouth to her lips, he whispers, "you're relaxed, you're open." His hands traveled softly over her skin, she moans. "Tell me about our kisses when I was human," she begs.

Nodding, he rocks her to him and begins the story she asks for often: "your lips, warm, hesitant on mine, dangerous, still I wend, provocatively part my mouth against yours. My fingers flutter along your spine, your acetabulum presses into my marbled ribs, hands at my chest. You are my Bella on fire, skin so translucent her veins resemble blue lines on road maps. The cephalic vein pulsates, your breathing ebbs, you twists, fading into me. Dizzy, you're close to unconsciousness, my lips travel your neck, I savor the venom; besotted by your scent, I want your cells, tiny platelet. Lips to your clavicle, you moan, exulted. You taste of fig, cedar; the thin skin of your eyes is all bergamot. You wake, accuse me with a stammer. In the kitchen light, your irises glow sienna. Your taste could hold me forever. It does hold me forever, he smirks and captures her mouth, tasting her deeply.

"Show me something from before, something new," he holds her closer, the wind waffling across their meadow as twilight paints mauve and puce across the cloud-covered sky. She muzzles his neck and carefully removes the shield, her old blue bedroom fresh in her mind, so blue after Edward returned from Italy. "You do not have to be good... You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves," she pauses mid-verse, his face, stone on her soft thigh. "Oliver didn't mean me." With her smile, flashing eyes hid, she sees him turn salvation, selfishness inside out, to reconcile columns of truths that never add up. She pulls her body down and presses her smile to his neck. The culmination of chilled lips to chapped mouth releases him, pressing gingerly but closer, harder. She breaks, "love what you love." He traces her brow, slides to her cheeks, collarbone. "I don't have to be good?" She shakes her head, breathless and eager.

Edward grins, while her recollections are hazy due to the human memory, he remembers that moment with clarity, how he wanted her, needed her, yet it couldn’t compare to what they created now. While her weight is nothing upon his torso, his hands twist in her hair, as he turns morose, "show me, after, how was it for you, after I left you but came back." She shakes her head, she doesn't want him to know, but his eyes melt into her and she lets him in for a moment, the spring nights from her senior year. Bella weighs and portions her grief by the new moon - eight moons now, seven before Volterra. Edward hunts tonight; she sobs with ease, recalls: his elegant hands in her hair, ten lithe fingers and the left hip she touches tentatively, always counting. "Never," he growls, never again," the vision shatters. “We are are one.” And she knows it’s not petty romanticism, they’ve learned to live as one and surly they will die as one.

"Do you regret that we didn't do more for her - more time, more, just more?" she murmurs. "I wanted her so much," she breaks off, "she is a part of you. I love her; I just can't love her more. I can never do what is expected of me."

"And she is a part of you," he sighs, "but she's off to her own life. She's knew, she has always known...” Rolling, pinning her underneath his strong chest, he arms and legs encapsulating him.

"That we can only exist for each other?" Full of chagrin more so than shame, tense with Platonic longing, Bella breathes Edward in.