Exile | Continuation of Personalities | Nygmakins

Chapter Seven

Lee dips her head down after Edward finally asks about her well being. An actual inquiry, not a demand that she be okay like that first time, back at Oswald's. There's a softness between them now that hasn't been there in a while - it's been slowly building all day.

"Lee," he says, coming over to her and gently placing his hand on her shoulder after he rests his staff against the sofa.

Before he knows it, she's grabbed onto him tightly, mainly around his legs, and starts sobbing like a child.

"Lee what is it?"

She pulls her head away and tips it back to look up at him. The fire is slightly brighter and he can see the tears streaming out the sides of her eyes and into her hair.

She's looking at him. Not in secret, in the middle of the night, or through Leslie, but right here, right now. By choice.

"It's this place."

"What?"

She pushes him away gently, making sure he has his balance before standing up herself, then she just paces in front of the fireplace, empty tumbler still in hand. "I shared this place with Mario."

"I know," Edward says quietly.

"Everything in here reminds me of him and now he's gone." She shakes her head.

"That must be difficult," Edward says, having experienced a similar thing. Shortly after Isabella's death, he had departed the Van Dahl estate, leaving almost all of his tangible memories of her and their time behind . . . until his recent return.

"You know - You MUST know. You lost Isa -" She chokes up.

"Bella," Edward finishes in a whisper for her.

Lee nods and then something changes, something shifts between them. Edward goes to her, places a comforting hand on her back and she turns into his chest for a hug. It feels like the most natural thing in the world - the two of them taking solace in each other this way, but he knows it shouldn't be happening. He's still mad at her . . . isn't he?

They rock quietly in each other's arms in front of the fireplace, her empty tumbler finding its way to the mantle and his staff finding a resting place against it. Right now they are not embittered lovers, just two widowed souls taking solace in each other, sharing an understanding of loss.

And, she's not the only one who cries.

They find themselves on one of the blue sofas - the one in the middle, facing the fireplace. And it is a quiet affair. No words escape their lips as he gently draws down the edge of her blouse while she unbuttons it. The silk fabric trails down her shoulders, down her arms . . . and his fingers trail behind it, softly, gently.

He kisses her collarbone, breathing in her scent - that scent he loves so much. His fingers find the back of her bra, expertly unclasping it - how many times have they done this? - and freeing her breasts for his exploration. She falls back onto the cushions to let him.

When they each climax, that, too, is silent. His only indication of her finish is her strong arch beneath him and the tell-tale tilt of her head back into the cushions as he stares, mesmerized at the sheen that has broken out on her chest, glowing by the light of the fire.

He trails a hand down it as she relaxes from her arch and then places his cheek on hers, cupping the back of her head. Then he holds onto her for dear life as he delivers his final thrusts. Their other middle-of-the-night encounters had seemed so dream-like, yet this one feels visceral. REAL.

But after he fills her up with his warmth, he utterly deflates, realizing it is going nowhere. They will never have another child together. He lays there panting, still clinging to her cheek, cupping her head, wanting to cry. Why does it have to be this way?

"Edward?"

He finds that he can't look at her. So he keeps his face buried within her hair as he answers her. "Yes?"

"Please stay," she whispers and lays her hand on the back of his neck. "When we're done here, please don't abandon me."