Chapter Text
Dr. Cullen had been insistent, infuriatingly so, with his piercing stares and unnerving calmness.
You had known better than this, better than to trust a man wearing a button-up and an unwavering smile.
Especially a doctor, especially one having the audacity to still look uncannily handsome with that button-up and that clashingly matching tie.
He had looked objectively handsome and you hadn’t been able to do anything else other than squirm in your seat, thinking about darting out of the waiting room. Perhaps while he was busy with the other party involved in the fight, slithering your way out of the hospital, your coat in one hand and the handle of the door in the other.
«Did you hit your head?» a light had shone into your eye, pupil shrinking into itself until only the tip of a needle had been left in its place.
Doctor Cullen had startled you, and startling you had always meant a flash of fear and then slow steeping irritation.
This time is no different. You battle his hand away, turning sharply «I really shouldn't be here, I’m fine. I won’t pay any medical bill.»
The pang of realization hurts you just a bit more than what you would have liked it to hurt: you truly are your father’s daughter, all gruff exterior and splintering personality.
Doctor Cullen had laughed, untouched by the unmistakeable bite in your tone, he had fished for your hand with cold fingers, eyes down casted and expression serene, and then he had probed and touched, massaging each knuckle into his hands, the coolness of his fingertips soothing your bruised and scratched knuckles.
«Nothing broken.» he had declared finally.
And thank you very much, you have known how to throw punches your entire life.
Your eyes dart to the now empty chair where not even a couple of minutes ago had sat the girl shaking in her boots.
You hadn’t realised she had fled the scene as you yourself should have done.
«Are you new in town? I haven’t seen you here before.»
You were not, you were born and bred in Forks, Washington but you had never taken it upon yourself to pay a visit to the hospital.
«No.»
«Then it is good I have not met you before, it’s never good to meet new people at the hospital.»
He had startled you again, but this time it had been his stupidly handsome smile to startle you. Yeah, that’s it, what made you wary of Dr. Cullen had been his stupidly handsome face.
You had heard tales of his undoubted beauty, of the “handsome surgeon roaming the day-lighted halls of the central hospital” but you had never pressed the matter, you were the bartender and the bartender never asks questions, they only listen.
You had heard divided opinions on him, “handsome and perfect” from the ladies downing Martinis like you should have done with your vitamins, “unrightfully beautiful” whispered by some men too deep in their glasses to pay you any mind, and “a vermin infesting our town” by some other, mostly Quileute, mostly too drunk to be driving back to La Push after closing hours.
You had paid them all very little mind, refilling their drinks one by one and praying for your shift to end.
You were praying for this to end as well, a splitting headache festering behind your eyes as the hours of the morning had slowly crept its ineluctability over the next day, shortening your already short sleep schedule for yet another night that will be needed to be catch up.
«I won’t—»
«Pay any medical bill, I heard you, do not fret, I’m simply checking on you.» He had been infuriatingly polite, posh even and that had done nothing but put you even more on edge.
Polite people don’t dwell in a looming town filled with gruff men and women mourning the life they could have had somewhere else. anywhere else.
Politeness doesn’t rub you the right way, you try to pour it every time you similarly pour drinks in their respective glasses but unbind politeness simply gives you whiplash.
«Medical examinations are not for free.»
«How very lucky of you then that my shift ended…» —and looking at his wristwatch with a sharp jerk of his arm, he declared: «Three minutes ago.»
Politeness rubs you the wrong way but you are nothing if not an opportunist.
So for the same vile reason you accept drinks from strangers, you also sit quietly, your empty hand filling his palms.
«You have quite the left hook don’t you?»
You have a meaner right one, you truly do, but the adrenaline and the fury that had tinted your vision red and blurry had not cared for which hand had flown in the direction of the dude’s face at that moment. You hadn’t even really cared for the result, for the reasoning behind yours and his gesture, you had only cared for an outlet.
«Did this happen tonight too?»
No. No, that one had happened this morning.
«No.»
His freezingly cold hands had grazed over the cut on your forehead, already swelled and bruised a deep red that will eventually fade into green and yellow.
«Yesterday night perhaps?» The implication in his voice had you cringe, as if you had been going out every night looking for damsels in distress or trouble.
«This morning, cupboard left open.» cupboard slammed open over your head, a couple of times to be precise.
«Ah, I see.»
The doctor had retreated then, finally putting some well-deserved distance in between you and his unnerving presence.
«Well, I see nothing wrong with you miss…» You know it’s a way to get your name, but you take it as dismissal.
«Thank you very much, doctor.» you retort simply, leaving the honorific unclaimed, bunching your coat in the fist of your dominant hand, scraped knuckles rubbing uncomfortably over the rough texture of your jeans, and standing up.
You are at the door of the hospital when his voice calls you back once more.
«You did a very noble gesture. Miss.»
You grunt a noncommittal sound you are sure he won’t hear then you take the door.
.
The bar stays open, it physically cannot close with the door splintered in its hinges and two neighbouring windows smashed in. You scrub the counter clean, the sour scent of artificial lemon burning your nose and the stinging cleaner seeping past the hastily fastened band over your knuckles.
«Done.» Nik hums from his boot, book dangling over his head as if to prove his affirmation to you.
Brat.
You sling your rag over the already damp shoulder of your black shirt, an unfashionable piece you had had to dig out of your closet ages ago when you had taken up the job at the Mallory's bar just down the street.
You let your eyes skim over the scarcely filled seats, looking if anyone needs a refill on their drinks, but the early birds are all either sulking like teenagers in a rom-com over a glass of watered down whiskey or simply too invested in their newspaper to care if their alcohol is in need of a topping up.
«Lemme see.» you declare, finally letting yourself fall into the cramped boot, hand extended to the boy in invitation.
«What? If I have finished?»
Your brother passes you the book nonetheless, and your palms get sticky laying over the poorly cleaned surface of the table in between the two of you.
You flipped it open, eyes darting over words swirling in your head as slowly as Carillon’s horses.
«What happens on page 67?»
Nik snorts, rolling his eyes like the teenager he is. «God I don’t know, care to give a little context?» You don’t particularly do, you simply plop your weight down to the backrest of the couch, turning the book 90° sharp. «Lemme see, there are…» —you feign a darting of your eyes and a clicking sound of your tongue on the inside of your teeth, counting some lines here and there but ultimately not doing so.- «Around several lines on this page, on the very end of the page there is this little number saying “67” and the names “Margaret” and “Marianne”, confusing in my opinion, are repeated… well, several times. More specific than this and it’s basically cheating.»
Your brother snorts a laugh, eyes crinkling in the poorly lit corner of the room.
«Tomorrow I need to be at school.»
You hum, letting your brother snatch the book out of your lazy grasp.
This is better, better than at home or, sadly, wasting time with you, rotting in a place where everyone’s future goes to die.
«That’s good, does your hand still hurt?»
The kid shakes his head, a mop of black hair taking life and swinging on the top of his head.
«Good, but you tell me if it does.»
You fish out of your jeans a clam phone, wrestling awkwardly with your sitting position, the irritatingly small pockets of your flared jeans and the useless little apron that you are required to wear, and shoot your sister a message.
“Tonight we need to cut Satan’s hair, it’s getting out of hand.”
You hear a ‘ping’ in response but you ignore it, closing the phone and slamming it back on the sticky table. «Read page 67 one more time for me, I still need to change out of this thing and then we can ditch, plus you clearly need to freshen that part up.»
You decide it’s better not to tell him what awaits him at home, better to have the element of surprise on your side.
A couple of minutes later, a new shirt donned on your back, and the two of you are out and about. The butt of a cigarette bitten in between your teeth and the promise you will get your brother to the local library as unlit as the rolled tobacco.
The motor of your car doesn’t purr and if perhaps, once, it had used to sing now it surely doesn’t do it anymore, it coughs; deeply and agonizingly, like you do when winter gets its icy fingers on your poorly dressed figure but you still resolve yourself to smoke, stubborn and petty, hacking up your lungs each time.
Nik doesn’t comment on that, while you try and turn on and off the car with growing impatience.
When it finally starts you smile smugly, eyes flickering to your brother with pompous satisfaction. The drive to the library is so short-lived that you almost whine at the idea of turning off the car you had just managed to start but electricity costs and for how much you would have liked the idea of sitting in the almost warm car for a couple more minutes your brother has never been the “in and out of a library” type of kid.
«You have twenty minutes.» you warn him, sure it will be well over the time limit when the two of you finally get out of the stuffy buildings to dare the cold once more.
The brat hums as if he knows the same exact thing, unfastening his belt and exiting the car. You follow him like a dog, his scary dog privilege in a town that’s so dormant a kitten would make do, finishing your cigarette and hanging a little bit back, a weird attempt at giving your brother a bit of freedom despite your overly acute protectiveness.
The librarian offers you his greetings like he does every time you end up in his reign, eyes glistening with unhidden curiosity and for how little it costs for you to spend some time among the living you bid your brother “good search” and you hang back to indulge in some good frivolous gossip.
«So, big fight last night uh?»
Not really if he’s asking for your very personal opinion, a drunken slave to the bottle and a girl too mouthy for her own good. «No, not really, dude’s got down after the first couple blows.
Lauren needs to learn when to shut up tho, but you know how kids are at their age, all piss and vinegar and the will to fight god or whatever they say nowadays.»
Samuel snorts a laugh out of his Greek nose, eyes darting to the register to check if he’s needed, he’s not, god, you, your brother, and Sam are probably the only people in the library at this moment but you appreciate his dedication.
«Man, I was pumped up when I heard you got to the hospital, it’s not every day’s news you have been finally knocked out of your feet.»
You will gloss over the fact he directly told you he had been excited about your trip to the ER, Sam’s a good boy if you can be a judge of anything regarding the matter, but the sting of untrue rumours spreading about you still pangs at your pride.
«I went only because the boss was too preoccupied in mourning his oak door to bring his daughter in himself, I didn’t need it.»
That had been a truth, it had been mumbled harshly at “handsome face” and it had been a truth still said carelessly at your old acquaintance.
The encounter with Doctor Handsome had been described by numerous tipsy women as ‘life-changing’ but for all of their big talks, no one seemed to have taken it upon themself to actually tell you it would have haunt you for a couple of hours afterwards.
His stare on your back has haunted you all the way to the parking lot, your car still parked in the ER patient spot, engine too cold to start immediately.
You had felt it on the back of your skull, deep, underneath your skin like an infection.
It had made you look at your rearview mirror several times on your way back home, a truly bizarre feeling coming from you, always diving headfirst into every possible dangerous situation.
No, his danger, if that has been what that was, had been subtle, a feeling more than an ostentation, simply a nagging sensation chewing at the back of your head.
«You haven’t seen doctor handsome then?» There he is, his creepily handsome presence looming over your discussion as it has loomed over your sitting position in the hospital’s hall.
You shrug your shoulders. Beside the Quileute, you had been one of the few persons still unfamiliar with the “new” doctor, and even more so it had been excessively strange since you had been fighting in back alleys and bar’s entrance since your first day of middle school.
«Weird, he works on Saturdays, he should have been there till 4.» you arch an eyebrow at him, the question lingering in the soft silence that follows.
«Got yourself a crush Sammy?» you tease, shoving your hands into your pockets and resuming a previously abandoned origami of a lump you had started to fold with a receipt a couple of days ago.
Sam laughs nervously, a bit red on the bridge of his nose.
«No, no, it’s that I’m always there, you know, epistaxis and all of it.»
You don’t know, but you vaguely remember an oddly young Samuel clutching at his nose during 9th-grade Biology, when you two were classmates still and you had yet to decide to drop out.
You hum approvingly even though it’s a lie, and Sam seems to put himself back at ease.
Right when he’s about to ask you something else a slam jolts the redhead into motion.
«I want this one.» Nik’s standing on the other side of the counter, a new book pressed into the wood of the desk.
The rest of the day is wasted in the city on errands, in the Laundromat, since your washing machine back at home has been leaking for a couple of months now, in the supermarket, shoving handfuls of school supplies in your cart and finally in the clothes store since Nik had started to look ridiculous in those jeans —by now not even ankle length- you had bought him a year ago.
The ride back home is comfortably quiet, the engine of your car stuttering softly under your seat and a random song cracking in some spots over the disturbed radio signal.
You let Nik decide his fate, well at least you let him decide the style he wants on his head for at least a few months. Anna gently brushes Nik’s hair over the stool in the middle of the kitchen as you wash the dishes and throw something together for a quick dinner.
The night is eerily quiet, your father’s truck is not in the driveway and the three of you carve every minute of each other’s company into a semblance of a life you are painfully crafting from scratch.
If every day of your life could have been like this one —fight included but not binding, you would die a happy woman.
Notes:
I will be honest with you guys I watched the movies twice, the first time when I was 12 with my bff of the time and once a couple of days ago for a drinking game.
It was cringy, they were funny I got drunk etc etc…
But I hadn’t expected for doctor Hottie to CONSUME my every thought, Carlisle Cullen the man you are, this one is for you babygirlLet me know what you think about the story with a comment and if you are (and I'm sure you are) a big twilight fan please do infodump on me because I need it <3, you can find me here on tumblr
Also English is not my first language so be patient with me.
Chapter Text
Unfortunately, you will die a very stressed woman.
The bangs from the kitchen and the angry screams of your brother wake you up from your slumber way too soon for your liking. You are out of bed in an instant, bare feet slapping the wooden floor of your house.
«Stop! Stop, get the fuck out, Frank!» you yell, voice low and dangerous overpowering the whimpers of your sister’s cries.
You throw yourself at your father’s back, hand stilling his raised fist by the wrist.
You have done it a thousand times, and you are sure you will need to do it a thousand times more.
In fact, you may even say you are genuinely baffled on why down at Mallory’s bar you had not yet been promoted bouncer, playing it safe and relying on the visual intimidation Philip had provided.
You twist your hand, pinning the drunken man to the nearby wall and darting a cautious eye to your brother.
A little roughed up but nothing major.
«Get in the truck Frank, you’re late for work.»
You don’t even listen to his protests, his ‘slut’ and ‘cunt’ thrown your way in that slurred voice you recognize as hungover.
You simply fist your free hand into the clothes at his nape and roughly shuffle him out of the house, the cold bite of winter stinging your bare feet and legs, wardrobe choices clearly unhappy.
Anna follows you with his coat clutched in her grasp, throwing the old sack in the back of his truck.
«Get the fuck out of here Frank, and stop pestering the kid, you’re a grown-ass man.»
You don’t believe your own affirmation, not even a bit, but you throw it his way nonetheless, eyes stinging in the biting cold.
You shove Anna back, urging her to get back in the house in case of a replica of the last time you sent Frank driving while hungover, not particularly inclined to dodge his sluggish attempt at hitting you with the car.
But Frank simply shows you the middle finger from his car window, scraping the side of your own car while reversing in the driveway.
You are not ready for another day at the bar, for yet another day of your miserable life, that much you came to as a conclusion while looking at Frank’s truck swinging its way up the hill and into the road.
When you enter back into the house Nik is sitting at the kitchen counter, eyes glued to his bowl of cereals and expression guilty.
He’s growing restless, too damn ready to follow your example and throw himself into fights he knows he shouldn’t be picking.
«Stop that.»
You know it’s a green light, an “all clear” for him to snap into motion and unload his frustration onto you, but you let him have it, you let him do it. It’s for his own good, «He started it!» he yells, eyebrows pinched together, «Of course he did, he’s Frank.» you retort, slapping a hand over your unwashed face, bits of sleep still stuck on your face.
You’re tired, god you are. Always awaken by the first yell of the day and never your alarm, always the bouncer in your own goddamned house.
Nik yells at you, not directly at you but he does it to your face regardless.
Cussing Frank out and cursing at nothing in particular, in no particular order; in circles.
You are raising a miniature version of yourself and you don’t know how to feel about that, you hate the idea, you hate the growing suspicion he will end up exactly where you did, never going further than what life had dealt you.
You let him yell his lungs dry, leaning over the stove and using one of the burners to light a cigarette.
When he’s finally done you simply pat his head, fresh cut as cute as the old mop he was sporting before.
«You need to stop that, please.»
You don’t know what you are referring to, what you are begging him for, perhaps to stop picking fights with Frank, to yell his throat hoarse or to stop idolising you and your fucked-up way of dealing with emotions.
You truly don’t know and you surely don’t expect him to do either.
You simply beg him not to. And that is all you are truly willing to ask him for.
The alarm in your room goes off, it’s seven thirty in the morning.
«Go get dressed Nik, I need to drive you to school, you too Anna, did you eat anything at all?»
Anna shakes her head, golden locks bouncing around her face, murmuring something you don’t quite catch.
Your brother jumps down of his stool, footsteps heavy with disappointment.
«I can’t hear you, love.» the pet name wiggles its way out of your mouth with the same devotion it would hold if pronounced by the lips of a mother, hand cupping your sister’s shoulder in a calming gesture.
«I haven't, Frank was patrolling the kitchen when I woke up.»
You wash her an apple, and put on the first slightly cleaner things lying on the floor of your room, shoving inside your backpack your phone, your wallet and the car keys.
You wish them both a very happy first day back at school, fishing your wallet out of the sack and handing both of them a handful of crimped bills for lunch. You watch them enter, eyes following their frames until they too disappear into the crowd of faceless kids.
Work awaits you like every other day, a schedule you have yet to memorize and a dozen clients lingering in their boots for the entire day.
Your father had hated you when you had started working at Mallory’s, plates had been thrown, knives had been pointed and swirled in the tense air in the cramped kitchen as if to cut the tension radiating from you two.
He had hated you for taking that away from him, and you had relished in the feeling, smile wide and all bloodied-up, he had broken your nose then, with a single quick jab directed at your face, and it had never sat back correctly after, the ridges of poorly sealed bones still palpable under tense skin.
But you had laughed, hard and raspy, gurgling thick blood in the back of your throat.
That had been the most glorious day of your life, the day you had finally taken something away from him, something he had cared for and wanted.
The crowd gets thicker and thicker with the ticking of the clock, and by the time the second bouncer gets into the warm room, you are already spinning on your heels left and right to satisfy every customer.
You had truly disliked Lauren Mallory but the help had been nice, true, she was not supposed to handle alcohol, only serving foods and virgin drinks —not that you had not been underage when you had started working there yourself, but being the daughter of the owners had put her somewhere on a silver pedestal she had made sure to let you know she was standing on from the very get going.
You had despised her sour attitude, the saccharine tone and incessant chatting, you had, but you had also held her bouncing leg while waiting for Doctor Cullen in the ER hall.
She broke nothing, nose foxy and perfect.
You used to have that type too, a long time ago, perhaps so long you are unsure if anything had happened you would have not still ended up with a different one after puberty.
But you had broken it several times over the years, a miracle you had still been able to breathe out of it so you don’t dwell on what could have been.
The evening had dragged into the night, you had punched in your extra hours and served more drinks, the promise of a thicker paycheck dangling over your head like a carrot on a donkey's back and by the time you had once again dared the night hour for a cigarette break everything in your body had ached.
The house you go back to is silent and dark, asleep. You park your car in the driveway, killing the engine right as it was getting warm. Your father’s truck is in there too, an old animal on its last leg.
Another day under your belt, another day you can say you had survived.
You climb the steps to your porch with tired legs, one after the other, it will be morning soon, not that it will physically show in this weather, but you take it into consideration nonetheless.
You check on Anna, creaking the door open and tiptoeing your way to her bed.
It makes your heart bleed to yank her from her slumber but you simply need to be sure you can close your eyes too. «Any problem?»
She murmurs, not deep enough in her sleep to not hear you. «No, he was mad you had made him leave early but he had kept to himself.» you nod, humming a tune so short-lived she’ll take it as approval.
«First day was cool, there is a new girl in the year below mine.» The chuckle that slips past your lips is soft and short, Anna too eager to tell you things to simply go back to her dreams.
«That’s good, did you two talk?» She shakes her head no, lolling her neck right and left. «No, I think she’s shy.»
«Perfect for you.»
She smiles, like a sun, blond hair splayed over her pillow in a stunningly similar imaginary.
You kiss her forehead, lightly and devotedly. «Sleep now.»
You throw a glance inside Nik’s room too, just to be sure, just to not regret anything come morning as the lump of sheets making up the silhouette of your sleeping brother slowly rise and fall.
Finally, your bed is cool and comforting, there waiting for you with open arms as you fall into its embrace and drift your eyes close. Your head stops spinning but you had not noticed when it had started so it’s fine either way.
.
«You bunch of fucking cunts!»
Your eyes dart open and you could swear you had just closed them.
But none of your siblings is screaming so you give yourself the luxury of slowly peeling yourself from the mattress.
This house is a nightmare.
«Stop yelling Frank, it’s too early-»
Your breath gets choked, a dying remark perishing in your throat.
He is not drunk.
«There you are, tough girl.» yep, it’s gonna get bloody.
All in all, you would make a great pitfighter, you are smart, quick, and precise. You have been told you have the very special talent of always hitting twice where it hurts the most, where thin meat stretches over ridges and bones.
You rarely take compliments at heart but you did it with that one.
You also fight dirty, no one could say otherwise, especially after watching you plunge your sharp nails in your father’s arm and twist.
You make a better street fighter. With your dirty blows and your quick wit.
You still end up with a split lip and a black eye, the bone under your cheek cracking disturbingly every time you chew, but you manage to drag him out of the house regardless.
One day he’ll get fed up with your shit, one day he’ll enter the house with his rifle hugged in his arms like he had never cradled his own children and he will put a bullet in between your eyes.
You are actually counting on it, but Frank is a coward, both sober and drunk.
So you watch him dare the road by feet, insults splattered out of his bleeding lips, limping like a wounded dog, and you —the dog beater, should not be feeling the remorse gripping its sticky fingers in the lump at the back of your throat.
But you do, and it makes you want to rip your skin off.
One day, one day you will grow wings, painfully and horribly, and you will take flight in the middle of the night. And there will be no family holding you back, no ties at all; and you will just fly north, until the sun will finally meet the horizon. And you will fly straight into it combusting on impact.
You kiss them both good day, you work your back off, you come back to a Frank-less house, you cook, you wash, you repeat.
You wake up at screams, you repeat.
You repeat.
You repeat.
.
The phone in your pocket rings at the most inconvenient time, you don’t exactly have hands to spare to fish for it with a tray balanced in your grasp and the wet towel slowly slipping down your shoulder.
«Hello?» the silence behind the clamshell makes you fear you have not been fast enough, but as you begin to move it away from your ear a slight intake of air breaks the static and a voice erupts. «Hello, this is Doctor Cullen, I’m looking for Frank Moore.»
The surprise lasts only a few beats, of course the deadbeat is in the hospital, but irritation is fleeting and worry is second nature to you. No, no doctor Cullen had been looking for Frank.
«This is his daughter,» you let your name slip, if he couldn’t mail you your bill before he sure as hell can now. «did something happen?»
«No, no, I was just trying to get a hold of your father, your sister is here. There was a car accident in the high school parking lot.»
Your heart sinks into your stomach.
«Wha—» you can’t even finish the phrase, too cold inside your own skin.
Anna is at the hospital.
«She’s fine, she only suffered a minor concussion.»
«Give me five minutes.»
You’re bolting out of the door in one.
Notes:
Do I dare add Bella? I would love to explore her and Edward's relationship more on the "friends to lovers" type of vibe and a possible friendship between Bella and Anna but I don't know if you guys would like it and if I would be able to manage it.
Idk let me know about that.
Doctor Hottie's presence is about to get more prominent don't worry<3, in addition to that I just found out he's 23 in the books and my DILF-meter will not endure that, the man in 32 minimum (Doctor/surgeon story is more credible this way too) I kinda know it will fuck up his backstory a tiny bit but oh well.Let me know what you think about this chapter and anything Twilight related (headcanon, book/movie difference) because I could use the info dump/knowledge for sure <3, you can find me here on tumblr
And English is still not my first language so be patient with me.
Chapter 3: I’ll bite the hand that feeds me
Notes:
TW for: Graphic description of the setting back of broken bones, medical malpractice and some general body horror.
Mild suggestive content at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Why are you biting?
Why are you biting? He’s nice.
Even if gruff and curt, he’s nice. He had always been, if not polite at least caring.
Chief Swan had been a client for a long time, well before you turned eighteen, well before you had been able to handle the bottle without thinking “This is it, I’m going back to juvie.”
You are not sure any judge would have put you in juvie for underage alcohol handling, but even if you had worried about that, Chief Swan had simply closed an eye.
Every time.
You were sixteen back then, broke and a drop-out. A complete failure.
And Chief Swan had simply sat at your counter, without peeking into your ratty neckline, without inquiring about your age, ordering a beer and leaving you with a fat tip.
He had been a good man to you.
He had been sweet until you had stopped worrying about your age, and after that, he had been the same still, same long silences, same shared hums of acknowledgement.
Then why. are. you. biting.
«I did nothing a bouncer wouldn’t have done.» You almost growl that, the adrenaline of knowing that your sister had been hurt still pumping into your veins.
«But you are not the bouncer there.
You cracked his skull for god’s sake!»
Good, the fucker had deserved that, another one of your father’s species, hurting little girls until they had them crying, panicked and writhing in their grasp.
You had wished to do more damage; the side of your head still throbs if you lean on your right side, but the bouncer had stopped you after the door had broken, your knuckles bloody and your nose leaking blood and snot.
You know he’s high on the same toxic misture you are on, his daughter Bella sitting on the neighbouring bed, right beside your sister. You know he’s using your absence from the police department as antistress, something to keep his mind from thinking of what could have happened.
And you would be more than willing to oblige, to indulge in that little sketch of “I couldn't come to give my assessment, Chief; I’m so sorry I had to work double.” if you only hadn’t been as scared as he is.
«Get off of my dick Chief, I was more preoccupied for the girl.»
The door to the hospital had recited “PULL” when you had pushed it, same as a few days ago, when at your side it has been the boss’ daughter, now alone and panicked. There had been a small crowd in the hall, students. You had zigzagged in between them, shoving some of the healthy looking ones out of your way.
Chief Swan could not have been less obvious, his questioning gaze lingering over your figure as you had looked over your sister over and over again.
«But are you hurt?» you asked, yet another time, anxiety twisting its uncomfortable fingers into your guts.
He had had the decorum of waiting for you to at least calm down from your panicked state; he had waited for you to finish kissing your sister’s head over and over and over, eyes glossy and sweaty hands running over the cheeks of the sweet girl in front of you.
Bella had been silent at your side, you had only registered her presence after a bit, a quiet kid all through and through.
Then Chief Swan had taken your biceps into his grasp, not uncaring but with that scolding gaze you had been at the end of far too many times in your life.
After juvie, most had left you alone. Few still picked fights with you, but Mr.Swan had somehow decided you had then became his problem to look after, and even if his watchful eye had not been invasive, you had missed the times you had only been another high school dropout lingering in Forks looking for trouble.
«Do you mind telling me what the hell happened, young lady?»
You had forgotten about that nickname, that patronizing way of calling you as if you weren't well over twenty-one, closer to twenty-six than eighteen.
You had not been a “young lady” for a while now, not that it had mattered to the Chief.
«Dude’s got too comfortable with the boss’ daughter.» You had grunt, jerking your arm free and giving the man a dirty look.
«And you headbutted him for that?»
Comfortable might not have been the right word then.
Charlie pesters you a little while longer. Luckily enough, the man of the moment decide to interrupt your little rendezvous with your old parole supervisor right then.
Doctor Cullen had not misread the door verse, although you don’t think the inside ones work one way. He had entered, all charisma and bright smile, a ray of sunshine in the artificially lit room.
You guts had twisted, old sensation creeping up your spine.
He had said something funny and enchanting to the Swan duo, shining a light in the girl’s eyes. You flew a few steps to the side, curling into a question mark at your sister’s side.
«Back so soon, Miss Moore?»
You’ll spare him a very unsmart pun on your last name, you swallow the urge to tell him to call you differently, by your name, by your mother’s surname, anything else other than your father’s.
You swallow it down, a gurgling want that almost makes you gag.
«Don’t worry, I won’t make it a habit.»
Biting, always biting.
«You won’t pay for this visit either, I assume?»
No, no, of course you will.
You fix him a stare, mumbling under your breath: «I will.»
If you were embarrassed by your attitude before, you are mortified now, not that you can let him know that, apologizes you will probably take to your grave.
At this rate you will need a container to put you in the ground, something colossal to keep all the things you had wished to say inside your own place of eternal slumber.
«Is she okay?»
The doctor looks over your sister a couple of times, doing all sorts of tests you have no idea how to describe.
«Overall, yes, but one of her pupils is slightly bigger, so I would like to get an MRI on her head in case something serious is going on.»
You nod; it’s not like you can do much more, for how much doctor Cullen freaks you the fuck out, you believe his expertise, you have to.
«I’ll have Jackie helping her to the room.» he declares, flagging down a sweet looking nurse, at least in her sixties.
You help the old lady get your sister into a wheelchair, unnerved by the unmoving presence behind you.
Doctors were always in a hurry in the TV series you had watched with your sisters ages ago, sitting in front of the CRT TV, summer heating your naked legs and sweaty palms, always spending only a handful of minutes per patient, never glancing back twice.
But Doctor Cullen doesn’t seem to be in a rush, hand hidden into the square pocket of his coat. Waiting, watching.
Anna gets wheeled out of the room, you vaguely register that Bella and Charlie are not in the room anymore; you are too focused on following your sister’s path.
You wish to follow her, but Doctor Cullen stops you, swiftly getting in between you and the back of the nurse’s body, polished shoes and pressed pants over his long leg invading your space and almost making you bump into him.
«What happened to your face?»
You had almost forgotten about that, not that it had been easy; every meal that had needed a bit of chewing had hurt, the bones under your cheeks shifting unnaturally. «I dunno, cupboard left open—» you mumble, trying to look over his broad shoulders, looking for your sister in the window of the closing door, the nurse so fast in wheeling her to the elevator.
«She will be fine. You have a fractured Zygomatic bone.» Doctor Cullen’s hands are on your face before you can even register them beginning to move. You wish for your body to step aside, to put distance in between your bodies, but for some reason, you can’t.
His fingertips are icy cold, so cold you even ask yourself if he shouldn't be the one getting checked out, but he’s terrifyingly precise. Gently prodding where the pain had been the sharpest, a soft hiss escapes your lips.
«Right where it meets the Maxilla, a very common fracture.
Not something a cupboard could do, unless this cupboard had fists to use.»
You feel like a kid caught red-handed, an uncomfortable sensation you had not felt in a very long time. You feel six, scraped knees and swearing it wasn’t you who had broken the living room window.
«I’m fine.
I won’t pay for this—»
«You can’t open your mouth fully, can’t you?»
No, you can’t.
And it irks you to no end the fact he’s able to tell.
«No.»
His smile is sweet, so sweet it sickens you.
«I can’t let you go around like this.
I’d be a horrible doctor.»
He can, he should, and he will.
«Listen here—»
«If I don’t give you any pain killers, it’s for free.» Now that is a deal.
You look at him from under your lashes, one eyebrow raised, the other scrunched.
You’re pretty sure he had just offered you something quite illegal, but since you and Doctor (creeply) handsome seem to be the only two left in the room, you are not quite sure you are willing to pass the opportunity up.
It does hurt like hell.
«Alright, doc, I won’t go under your knife fully concious—»
Wrong.
«Oh no, god no. —An airy laughs leave his lips, as if you had just said the silliest thing in the world— No, no, I can set it back right here and now, no instruments needed.»
You furrow your brows, a bit embarrassed by the reprise. «With what?»
«My hands.
It’s quite easy, to be fair. The two bones had just shifted on the crack already present by birth, when the bones in your head had fused together.»
It seems legit to you; your older sister had had her broken arm set right back into place when you were seven, in the hospital where now Mr.Cullen had planted roots, the cast flashy with signatures but her creamy skin unscarred by any scalpel.
«Aight, what should I do?»
You are sure something behind Doctor Cullen’s eyes had shimmered, a flash of something you honestly cannot put your fingers onto. «Open wide.»
Weirdo, but you guess he’s only interested in seeing how much you are struggling in working your jaw.
Wrong again.
Two fingers plunge into your mouth, scarily precise, as a fingertip brushes over the inside of your mouth, tickling your palate, and another feels the ridges of your teeth from the back. You only have the time of widening your eyes, you would have recoiled, shrugged your face to free yourself from the intrusion but you can only widen your eyes before an inhuman pressure taps your bones from the inside-out.
Your jaw shifts out of place; something right under your eyesocket pops loudly. Then your jaw gets back right where it’s supposed to be.
You think you’ll scream, pain so loud and sharp, but the fingers still inside your mouth prevent you from doing so. You bite down on them, on a whim, probably for childish reasons, petty as tears sting your vision blurry and white, the single-minded thought of taking down your tormentor with you.
The dull ache in your skull lifts, a pressure you had felt for days shifts into a sharp pain then vanishes.
Doctor Cullen is a weirdo, but he surely knows what he’s doing.
You clutch to him, steeling yourself, muffled whimpers escaping your mouth as hot globs of tears run down your cheeks, mouth full of a stranger’s flesh and thick spit.
Surprisingly, he shifts closer until your forehead presses into his shoulder, rubbing your back in circular motions, his only free hand moving up and down your spine.
«There there, I know, I’m sorry. You’ll feel way better now.»
He’s treating you like a child, god, he’s treating you like a child, and it’s doing things to your psyche.
«Can I take my fingers out?»
Shit.
You had been biting down.
This feels wrong, Doctor Cullen chatters lightly and breezily as if his fingers had not been deep into your mouth minutes ago.
Your sister had got out of the machine just now, the blond man explaining to her with a slightly higher pitched voice that she’s part of the 20% of the people on the planet that naturally have a slightly bigger pupil.
You can’t follow any of his talking, you have gotten your answer “your sister is perfectly fine” then you had turned off your brain, a slight buzz ringing in your ears.
«Like David Bowie?»
Anna’s voice pulls you out of your embarrassed trance, «Precisely like David Bowie.» the doctor confirms, a soft smile still parting his lips.
«Cool…» You hate that he’s so calm, so good at getting along with everyone, even your closed off sister, even you.
Because you had felt good. In his presence, alone with a man who had been the epitome of the type of men you do not trust.
You wish to flee, to go back to your usual routine of never setting foot in hospitals, to never trust men dressed in button-ups and never letting anyone touch you.
You pay for your sister’s MRI, well you give your insurance details to the receptionist, fumbling over words so basic you are the one looking concussed.
«It’s March. I suggest you take advantage of the soup season for the next six weeks or so; facial bones are not easy to keep in place.» He says nonchalantly. Bidding you goodbye at the front desk.
You flee the hospital halls like a fucking theif.
Notes:
On. God. This. Man.
He’s making me go feral, alright kids, listen up, as you have seen Carlisle in here is a bit more off-putting. The old man had had 300 years to practice how to blend in with humans but I’d say he has not mastered it yet.
I am sorry but you (the reader/the protagonist) are fucked up…Comment if you liked the story! If you have any precisation from the books/movies and if you want to interact at all! I love u guys.
Kudos are also great as everything helps me going on <3
Thank you so much for reading, and see you soon.
Chapter Text
You are one.
A damned thief to be clear, at least you will be to the eyes of your boss when he’ll watch back on those CCTVs he insists on keep rolling tape after tape in the kitchen of the dimly lit bar.
And you are pissed, so fucking pissed, and for once in your life you feel like all of this is completely, utterly, useless.
That nothing you do means anything at all, only another violent child raised in a violent environment that will end up digging their own grave in the same place they were born, digging their heels in a dirt that birthed you and will host your departure. For the first time in a long while, you feel like you could not possibly get out of the mess your entire existence is. And it is not only a low buzz, softly feeding you words of desperation directly into your ears, it’s a fact. Nothing more, nothing less. You just know you will not see your thirties.
The frozen meat you had not paid for stings against your cheek. It drips blood in the sack it has been stored in.
Melted ice and droplets of crimson red.
Everything hurts. Who are you kidding? You were never a hitter; you were not born for this, you are nothing but a kid who has learned to take life face-first.
You wish to scream, yell at the empty space in the back alley you had sought solace in, and funnily enough, as if to mock your own sentiment, you had wished for your clenched fist to hit someone. To just feel the knuckles shift underneath your stretched skin, stretched too thin, too frail to absorb the impact of yet another punch, yet another hit, yet another outburst of violence.
You were not born a violent creature, the fact you are so damned good at pretending you were only makes for a more spectacular fall.
You wish for a cigarette, in a half-assed analogy between candles on a cake and rolled pillars of tobacco in between your teeth, you have not the mind to dismantle.
You just wish for your body to cease any functions and just shut down.
So you smoke.
Because what else are you supposed to do in times like this?
Your name is barely a whisper, a whisper from a voice you have learn to associate with annoyance. Tonight, you associate it with pure hatred.
It just rubs you the wrong way after what you have had to endure, what you have had to pay for that very same voice to run rampant and carelessly to the wrong crowd.
«Get the fuck away, girl.» Lauren lingers on the steps of the back entrance, light coming from the kitchen casting her lithe frame in a soft glow that makes her the prettiest thing this town has seen in a very long time.
Silence stretches, uncomfortable and charged with all the pent-up energy you had not had the opportunity to release. You feel deflated and ready to strike all together, a loaded gun jammed with a single shot in its chamber.
A single bullet that could misfire at any moment.
«…I’m sorry.»
A grunt, you seriously cannot afford anything else right now, or you would snap.
It’s not her fault; she’s a kid, a privileged kid who had had her life fed to her on silver spoons, never watching her tone, her words or the way her eyes linger unashamedly on the eyes of others. But you truly cannot blame her if, given the opportunity, you would have traded your right hand for your siblings to have lived the life she had lived.
It’s okay, you can pretend it’s your fault, you can think it’s not like you to be that sloppy.
It’s your fault for biting more than you could chew.
It’s alright.
You work, you care for your kids, you hit, you rinse what you can rinse out of your soul, then you repeat.
If you get hit in the process, is your own fault.
You work your jaw a few times, it still opens wide, even if with an ominous creak.
You truly do not wish for your Hospital visits to be a recurring event.
Mallory’s girl lingers on the steps of the door, she looks sorry enough for you to forgive her; enough for your voice to soften, for your fists to unclench and your vision to lose the red tint that had fallen over it. «Get inside, kid, you’ll catch your death in this cold.»
None of you two will address the fact that you are wearing the same attire, she wouldn’t dare and you cannot be bothered to smooth out the creases of your own hypocrisy.
«Okay…»
The house is silent, the clock ticks in its quadrant, life passes you through painfully slow.
The unsorted mail on the kitchen table waits for you almost menacingly, another wall between you and your bed.
Two hundred and thirteen bucks for an MRI feels like a scam, but you google the damned thing on your loud pc and when the sum 12.000 comes up your throat does a chocked sound just higher that the fan on your computer and you shut your damned trap right away. Two-thirteen it is.
You write a check, you lick the envelope shut, and keep sifting through unread mail and expired subscriptions.
The night gets thicker, and by the time you wake up to the sound of screams, your back aches and your face has taken the shape of the piles of mail you had dozed off over.
You take a deep breath.
One, two, three, okay.
Let’s go.
«Get the fuck out Frank.» you duck, evading a poorly calculated slap given backward and only vaguely in your direction.
He stinks of booze.
«Come on, old man. Don’t you have a bar to raid? It’s my day off.»
That does the trick, in a minute he’s out and about of the house, wobbly steps carrying him into the fog.
Today is another foggy and sad day.
«Aight kiddos. Food, clothes, school; chop chop.
Your car smells distinctively of Frank and it takes you the entirety of the trip to your siblings’ school and almost back to town to understand what exactly reeks of it.
You.
Yesterday night had been a mess, shame on you, truly, for having tried with words first instead of your closed fists straight away. You had been easy to spot, “the bitch that cannot mind her own damned business” sounded about right, a couple of drunken had commented on Lauren’s too-short-short-shorts, she had amped up her bitchiness, a man had stood and you, stupidly, had tried to calm things down without ending up with scabbed knuckles and a very unimpressed Charlie staring you down from his desk at the police station.
Instead, you had ended up bruised and wounded in your pride, spilt beer seeping through the folds of your ratty clothes.
And perhaps it was precisely because Charlie had been sitting in your section, sipping his beer and occasionally eyeing you over the rim of his glass, that you had not tried violence first.
A punch on your cheek, one on your stomach, then the bouncers had taken care of the dudes, your hands had itched and Charlie had not been able to finish his beer.
Your fists had met no skin at all, and the thirst for vengeance had rotted in your mouth. Sour and useless.
You smell like Frank.
Spilt beer and festering anger.
You hastily park to the side of the main road, you need a moment to recollect yourself. The similitude has you almost gagging, you hate every moment of the mental images that your sadistic brain provides.
You are nothing like your father, and it means nothing that you have his eyes.
Your breath quickens, you feel three times bigger than your skin, the crack on your skull aches dully, has it always throbbed this way? You feel like the air inside the cabin has suddenly vanished, your lungs twitch painfully.
You feel like your father.
A couple of sharp raps over your window have you jump in the air. You hit the horn, and the quick jab of the loud sound makes your heart stumble out of the quick peace it had started, fear literally jumpstarts you back into motion. Your head snaps to the window, eyes meeting the pale fabric of a well known button-up.
«Is everything alright, Miss Moore?» his voice hits you, once you finally lose the debate whether it would not be too rude to simply engage first gear and drive away.
The cold breeze swishes over your skin and seeps into your damp hair from the rolled-down window, sweat dripping down your nape, uncomfortable and icy, tangling your locks even more. Winter is still clutching at its last straws; it will be spring soon, not that it would make a difference. Today, you don’t really feel like hoping.
You seize your own sanity by the neck and with both hands, forcing something, anything, out of your mouth.
«Isn’t that a cop question?»
A perfect line of pearly teeth almost blinds you, crinkled eyes. Tepid, not warm, as if no warmth had reached them at all.
«Will you give me a criminal's answer?» You scoff, the doctor looks relaxed, you weirdly feel so too, even if something still lingers in the back of your mind, a survival instinct that is being forcibly pushed down.
«Me and my two kilos of cocaine in the back seat are fine, officer.» The joke tumbles out of your mouth so easily, so weirdly.
Since when are you this open? So easy-going and friendly. It almost concerns you, it feels old and disused, something you used to be but have not been in a very long time.
It tastes bitter.
At this, he laughs, perfectly controlled and dosed, it almost feels fabricated, untrue. As if he had administered his reaction drop for drop. Cold. Devoid.
Something thrashes inside you, you don’t feel safe at all, and yet something forces you to lean on it, to shove your gut feelings down, down, down.
«Do you need a lift?» The words blur out of your mouth without a reason to exist. In the nervousness that keeps you pinned by the throat you feel charged.
This time, the confused look feels genuine; something calms in the back of your mind and your guts untangle from themself. You feel like you can finally breathe again.
«I—I couldn’t possibly ask—»
«You aren’t. I’m offering, for— for the face and all…» mumbles, mumbles one after the other, you don’t feel in control of yourself, you still fake it.
«Then, I mustn’t say no.»
«I must ask, though. Are you in a condition to drive?»
What?
Oh. Yeah, you reek of alcohol.
«Didn’t drink, some douchebag spilt his beer on me some hours ago, I didn't swallow a drop.» you vaguely gesture to yourself, hand hitting the steering wheel while reconnecting to its sister on the outer rim of the leather.
You slouch in your seat, almost defeated-looking.
«Sorry ‘bout that.»
Doctor Cullen shakes his head of neatly combed hair, not a single lock out of place, and straightens back.
«Don’t be.» his hand stays on your rolled-down window, he’s impressively tall, you notice it almost by mistake now that you can no longer see eyes to eyes with him.
«Are you needed at the hospital?» you crank your head, the cold sun of the wintertime blinding you for a second.
Doctor Cullen feels incredibly still, as if he’s not even breathing, your eyes burn from strain, your back aches, and you just want a way out of your own head, no matter if it has presented itself in the uncanny figure of Forks’ best surgeon/doctor.
«Yes, thank you, Miss.» His hand pats the juncture between the interior of your car and the paintwork, he rounds your car and enters the passenger seat.
«Long night then?» he asks once inside and seated, gently putting his briefcase at his feet.
Your car is squeaky clean, thanks god, but it’s still a very old model, almost vintage if one squints their eyes and doesn’t think about it too much.
You feel like Dr. Cullen must own a very expensive, very new car, but you simply swallow the thought and, engaging second gear, you drive away, the engine of your car, strangely enough, purring under your fingers
«One could say so, surely not harder than yours if you did night shift.»
You grunt, eyes locked on the icy street, once again not understanding why you are feeling so uncomfortably at ease with the doctor.
«I wouldn’t be so sure, Forks is a very small town, not a lot of people need my assistance during the wee hours of the night.
Not unless somebody sent them to me.» The implication is there, only this time it’s almost playful; you snort a laugh out of your deviated septum, clearly feeling how one nostril can breathe better than the other.
«I didn’t do anything this time.» It’s not defensive at all, you are not biting, not growling in warning.
You are nothing but a big dog quietly sleeping on the porch steps.
You shift and slip into the next gear, «Forks’ easy to manage.»
He hums, you aren’t even sure he understood what you meant by that, but you cannot actually explain what you meant, so you simply let it slip.
Silence falls comfortably and only slightly tinted by the fear that had you checking your rearview mirror multiple times the first one the two of you interacted.
The measly traffic passes one car at a time.
You fully expect him to stay silent. He doesn’t.
«We do have an awful infestation of violent cupboards, though. Terribly bothersome.» You stop at a red light and prop an elbow over the still-open window, supporting your head and turning toward him almost fully.
Something tugs at your lips, it feels so weirdly out of place and unexplainable.
He’s staring at you intently, eyes scanning your face as if able to diagnose you in a single glance.
«I have no chance of convincing you to stop by and let me examine you, do I?»
You feel some control slipping back into your hand, and yet it almost pains you to say that. «You’re outta luck, doc.»
The light turns green, you palm the steering wheel into a sharp curve, and the hospital comes into view.
You park without putting too much care into the positioning of your car; you won’t stay long.
Doctor Cullen sighs defeated, you fetch a cigarette out of the pocket of your jacket, but you wait to light it.
You are gruff, not rude.
«Carlisle.»
«Wha—»
«My name. Use it, it’s not proper to call one by their profession.»
He’s outside of your car and almost lingering at your side when, in an exhale of smoke, you tell him yours.
«I’m used to being called bartender, but if you want to get all up in my business, knock yourself out.» Your hand fall out of the window, your cigarette dangles dangerously from your chapped lips, the hazard lights blink idly at your ex-passenger; he stares at you, once again perfectly still, infuriatingly handsome, in control.
You feel the childish urge to do something stupid and petty, you haven’t felt petty in a long time.
So you wink. Playful and mischievous, looking straight at him.
And drive out of the parking lot in one swift manoeuvre.
Notes:
Guess who's back (back, back, back again) it's me!
The Carlisle infestation is still running rampant over here, I'm just a bit occupied with my life.
Hope this chapter finds you all well and it's up to standard.
Here comes the first instance of ✨emotional manipulation✨
Told ya, my vampires are a bit creepy/off-putting.
He's a sweetheart, tho, don't worry.That's it, leave a comment if you liked this chapter as they always help me keep myself motivated, and I also love to hear from you, still completely new to the fandom, almost starved, so if something is wrong tell me so I can fix it.
See you next time!
Chapter Text
The moment you turn onto the main road, a wave of anger crashes over you.
Something aches deep into your soul, and the world spins on its axis on an angle that surely isn’t its own.
You feel shaken to your core, the bone-chilling feeling of needing to glance back every five seconds bites the nape of your neck forcibly.
You shudder, deep and stiffly, life is chaos for a second, and then it’s just primal fear.
The rolled-down window is chilling you to the very last layer of your skin.
The tips of your fingers are blue and numb, and you have no idea how you got to this point without realising it.
Ashes fall into your lap, the cigarette sizzles in your mouth.
At least you are not feeling like Frank anymore.
You flee home, forgetting all the plans you had for your only day off.
Terror follows you deep into your bones until you bury yourself under your covers, breath coming in quick waves.
You feel like you could throw up.
You don’t, hour passes and the terror slowly slips away, leaving some sort of stain on the back of your throat, like a word you have no letters to form.
You can still feel it lodged in between your bones, like a socket of air you cannot pop, no matter how much you twist and snap your joints. It’s raw and wrong.
The front door wiggles in its frame, and your siblings are back home in a flurry of laughter and thrown backpacks, a race to the TV, the soft buzzing of static, then the switch of a channel or two, a ping-pong between the Winx theme song and Naruto’s.
The feeling starts to melt.
Morning had slipped through your fingers like sand and you still feel like shit, but they are home, you are no longer alone, and for how childish you feel, ear’s tips colouring red, you feel like you no longer need to fear, as if a light had been turned on during the darkest night of the year.
You are safe.
They are safe.
You descend the stairs two steps at a time, as soundless as a cat. Anna and Nik sit on the couch, Winx is on, she won.
A wave of joy seeps through you.
It’s time like this you finally breathe. You were not born a mother, not even the oldest sister, but life had shaped you into something similar.
Something similar yet completely different, never enough, always too much, it had carved that out of you. Painfully, unwillingly on your part, you bear the marks of your transformation, more a mutilation, on your skin every day, some still bleeding, some so old you have forgotten how they had ended up on your skin in the first place, but you still manage some gulp of happiness here and there.
It’s impressive how you were forced to swallow something you had despised and still managed to puke out something entirely yours, something that had made you shyly proud.
You will die a very unhappy woman, you know that, but moments like this almost put you at ease with your fate.
Anna spots you, she squeals and runs over to you, arms outstretched and gorgeous features relaxed into a smile.
She’s happy you are there. So you are too.
It’s not entirely yours, but it’s something that includes you, something you can rejoice in, even if the feeling is second-handed and worn.
«You are home!»
This is not your home, but they are here, so you guess it kind of is.
«How was school?»
She throws her arms around your neck, dangling from it like your very own piece of jewellery. The cold gets chased away by her embrace, you squeeze and hope you’ll never have to let go; the air in your joints finally pops, and your soul melts back into its original shape.
You can breathe.
.
Two days later, you sit on the first step of the police station, a cigarette in one hand, Charlie’s shoulder in the other.
A man has died.
Waylon Forge, although you had known him as “American Brown Ale, generous tips, mostly silent.”
You feel bad categorising him as such, but you truly have nothing else for him; you are not in the habit of lying, not even to yourself, not even in front of death.
Charlie will not cry; he does not linger, something you truly appreciate about him, but you wish he would at least ask those stupid questions no one really has an answer for.
Why? Why him? How?
At least you could feel useful. Chewing words you don’t believe in.
But he doesn’t, so you sit in silence, your playful visit having turned into a sombre get-together.
Carlisle Cullen’s car is not only brand new but also expensive.
The bridge of your nose turns red in shame. You had let him climb into your ratty old car, and you had known he had been way better off than you, but knowing something and witnessing it first-hand is something completely different.
Your blood rushes to your ears, and something similar to fear and anger twists painfully in your chest.
«Miss Moore?»
He’s moving toward you two, his briefcase swinging gently in his grasp, long black coat hugging his figure like night’s cloak itself.
For a second, every fibre in your body screams at you to just run. To bolt away and simply run, run anywhere but near the man, then the feeling gets gagged, as if something had been shoved down the throat of that entity constantly screaming at the back of your head.
Your brain hurts for a second or two, then everything shifts back into place. Like your jaw had done in the deserted room of Fork’s hospital.
He’s coming your way, your legs are stiff from the cold, you no longer feel like running, so you simply nod in acknowledgement.
«My condolences.» That he says, and yet you don’t feel any sorrow in his voice.
It’s weird, no, it’s outright wrong, you feel his empathy, you can tell he’s not lying, you are good at these things, but you cannot feel any true emotion behind the words.
It’s probably your fault.
Only this time, only because Waylon Forge had meant nothing more than an American Brown Ale and generous tips for you.
«Not me, he was Charlie’s friend.» Your hand squeezes involuntarily, Charlie leans almost imperceptibly in your touch, and you feel marginally useful.
Something twists on Doctor Cullen’s face, something you had not thought possible, you don’t recognise it, but you know it shouldn’t be there.
It makes you feel better. You have no idea why.
«Of course, my deepest sympathies, Chief Swan.» As soon as it has manifested, it vanishes.
You breathe better.
God, even his kid has a better car than you. How old is he even? Seventeen?
Fucking teenagers.
That thought alone had aged you ten years at least; you feel like an old man shaking his cane at frat boys in their expensive cars, you kind of are.
Well, thanks god you had walked to the police station, at least you would not need to put yourself through the humiliating affair of having to coax your car into motion in front of the two Cullens.
Not that the kid’s paying you any mind, eyes focused on Isabella and face scrunched up in worry.
That’s sweet, but the kid needs to eat something and take a chill pill; he looks constipated and pale.
Something makes him laugh, abruptly, softly, and yet the sound jumpstarts you into motion.
Now that wasn’t kind of proper for a crime scene.
Fuck yeah, two can play at this game Doc, your child is an unmannered little shit, that’s what he deserves for calling you improper.
The bartender is never wrong.
You turn on your heels, stuffing your leather jacket closer to your body and take the first step.
«You are not seriously thinking of walking back home, are you now Miss?»
Now that’s ominous.
You’re about to tell him off, already turning on the heels of your worn boots, when once again something on his face makes you stop.
Is he… scolding you?
No, no, worse, he’s… disappointed?
Doctor Cullen is standing tall in all of his infuriatingly impressive stance, one hand gripping his suitcase and one loosely nesting in the pocket of his coat.
Something in his expression makes you want to curl up and hide. As if you had done something wrong, something you had known it had been wrong from the very get-go, only hoping to not be caught.
You are an adult, a responsible and sensible adult; you should not feel as if you need to justify your actions. And yet something boils you from the inside out, you feel your cheeks turn red, and something in your steps makes you stumble into stillness and stare at the tips of your boots.
«What? Is it illegal? Are we back at the cop stuff?»
You hear a soft laughter, something more akin to a puff of air, and something in your throat tightens.
«Miss, there has just been an attack. Please let me escort you back home.»
«For what? The ride in the shitshow-mobile?» Always biting, yet once again missing the usual venom you pour into every letter of your snarky rebuttals.
Why do you feel like this is an old version of you? Something that had been more sass than actual bite, something people had actually found entertaining, funny. Likeable.
You feel declawed, tiptoeing on the line between fear and nostalgia.
Doctor Cullen extracts his hand from the depths of his pocket, car keys in it, something clicks a few steps to your left, and you already know it’s his car lock.
His eyes soften, something deep inside you freaks out, but it’s not the same part you are growing accustomed to being suppressed, it’s something else, something far more distant and old.
His voice is soft. «For your name.»
He guides you to the passenger seat, opening the door for you, one hand hovering over your lower back, always so polite, always so well-mannered.
You climb into it without really fighting it, you don’t know why, later you will ask yourself that exact question, but for now you simply comply, malleable and pliable as you have never been.
A mansuete dog, resting in the spot it has been put.
The door clicks shut, you hiss at the noise, seconds later, he’s behind the steering wheel, the yellowish light of the interior making his skin look more alive than it had ever looked.
It’s in this light that you finally notice his coat is not pitch black. It’s brown, a deep, rich brown. It looks expensive and soft, not that you will ever reach over to find out. You can’t. Besides, you are a die-hard fan of leather jackets, those almost too heavy to be carried on one’s shoulders and so stiff that folding them over one’s arm is virtually impossible.
But the coat looks so cosy, and you are so cold. Leather doesn’t create heat; it only traps it, and you have nothing left to give for tonight.
«Are you cold, Miss?»
His words hit you in the guts, you feel as if he has just read your mind, catching you red-handed.
«I- No, it’s fine.»
He turns the heater up regardless, taking his time in directing it to you, testing it with his hand before deeming his work appropriate.
Something inside you shifts comfortably.
It feels good.
You don’t know what does, but something does.
The car pulls out of the parking space where it had sat while Charlie had looked at the horizon, while the doctor had performed some sort of preliminary autopsy on the dead man in the station.
You feel as if it had happened days ago, warmth spreading to your fingertips.
«That is a nasty bruise.»
The road hums under new tires, you imitate the sound, a low exhale stemming from the deepest part of your chest. «It hurts like one.»
«Will you let me take a look at it?»
You huff, tapping your index finger on the window on your side, telling him to turn without really bothering with words.
«Do you hate money that much, doc? Or do you just like probonos?»
«Carlisle.»
That is only a half-assed scolding, eyebrows pinched together yet an almost pout on his lips.
He looks alive like this, normal.
In control but a little less stuck up.
The wobbly edges of your house come into view, his car hits a hole in the old cement, and your head lolls to the side, your reflection staring back at you from the window.
He is right, that was a nasty bruise, so much so that you had feared your skull had cracked once more.
It hadn’t been at the beginning, when he had looked at it from the passenger seat of your car and your roles had been reversed.
You had thought of him as a bit dramatic, the drunken prick that had given you that light rosy stain on the side of your eyebrow had swung a weak-ass punch, but he had worn rings, and it had stung in the moment, and it had shown later.
Yesterday, when it had not been more than a slight redness adorning your cheek, it had looked like something inconspicuous, but then overnight it had bloomed into a painful purple bouquet of splotches on your eyebrow and cheekbone, leaving you with a bloodshot eye and the same itch you had not scratched festering beneath the skin of your knuckles.
The car stirs gently into your front yard, not that you can truly call those dead patches of grass a front yard, the doctor sits still, as if waiting for permission to even set foot outside of his car.
You know for a fact Frank is not home. Somewhere in your brain, you hope the feral animal that had killed Waylon Forge had left room for dessert, but the thought gets shoved in the back of your mind.
«Alright, Carlisle, suit yourself, but if you put your fingers in my mouth, I’m calling it quits.»
Notes:
Sorry for the wait! Exam season dried me up, I'm so tired, and I'm not even finished, only off the hook.
Anyway, let me know what you think of this chapter and see you at the next one!
(Thanks so much to those who left me a comment, those made my day during these EXHAUSTING days! Have a lovely week! <3)
Chapter Text
Okay, maybe it is a bit weird.
Why did you have to say the mouth thing? It had slipped your lips in a moment of lack of judgement, you had felt it slipping, no worse, you had known it had been tinted with a sexual undertone, and yet you had said that anyway.
You feel young, no, you feel like your younger self, not what life has shaped you to be, only your original form, the same one you had thought lost forever, buried alive in between the walls of the personality you had erected all around yourself.
A layer of protection, a mask, a disguise.
You feel raw and naked.
You can also feel his presence behind you. It doesn’t help, not while you jiggle the handle of your door, turning the key in its lock like a knife in a wound, twisting and pulling, trying to get a grip on your faulty front door until it gives way.
Your house is warm and cosy, messy for sure, but when Frank is not at home, it almost starts to feel like one.
You ungraciously toss the keys in the bowl by the entrance, toeing off your boots in one swift motion and shrugging off your jacket.
«Alright, my siblings are upstairs. I don’t think they’ll come down to greet you.» You turn to address him, but you find him still standing at the door. Your eyebrows furrow.
Odd.
«What?» he smiles at you, head gently tilting to one side. «May I?»
You almost snort.
Stupidly old-fashioned man.
«Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, come on in. Make yourself at home.»
You feel a gush of cold air sinking its teeth into your flesh; it’s profound, so profound you feel it scratching your brain.
Not mid-March coldness, fear… no, anticipation? Dread?
You shudder, but the door clicks shut, and you no longer feel that ugly thing crawling up your skin.
You feel your thoughts.
Louder.
When had they muffled?
Did you just?
Have you just… What happened to “never trust men in button-ups?”, a thought gets dislodged from its place in the forefront of your brain, forcefully and dizzingly, you squint your eyes and rub a hand on your temple.
The sharp pain of your fresh bruise sickens you, but it also grounds you.
You are in your house with a doctor.
That’s good, right?
You can’t get safer than this… right?
The house creaks under your weight, you move toward the kitchen, gesturing with one hand for him to follow, unsure he would have unless ordered.
«Do you want anything?» Not that you have much else other than Frank’s beers in the fridge, but you cannot function most days without coffee, and Anna likes tea, so you have a secret stash of the former and some loose bags of the latter.
«Oh no, thank you, I’m just fine.»
You drum your fingers over your thighs, shaking your jacket straight and hanging it on its hook, «You sure, doc? You might need some energy to convince me to let go of the brooding and mysterious act.»
That is not you; it might have been a very long time ago, but that is not you.
Something loosened its grip somewhere inside your guts, and you have not been able to inhale properly since.
A huff comes from your back. Doctor Cullen is still standing in the hallway, but he has lost the brown coat and the scarf loosely tied around his neck.
Then he hums, deep in his chest, «I had my suspicions it was an act.» It’s a low murmur, so rich that it makes the hair in the back of your neck stand up.
Not in fear, in something you cannot quite pinpoint. Something different yet stemming from the same vine.
His coat falls on the back of one of the stools circling the kitchen table. He doesn’t walk, he glides, effortlessly collected.
«So, which one is the violent cupboard?» one of his hand gestures toward the side of your temple, and once again, the simple movement is criminally measured. And it’s so unfair for you to feel this out of place in your own damned house but you do.
You don’t lie to yourself, not even in your own thoughts.
«Not this one, this one was just… a dude.» You shake your shoulders, hip leaning to the side of the big, wobbly table, arms crossed and eyes half lidded.
Tired.
«May I?»
You eye his bag suspiciously, another sassy remark clawing its way out of your mouth, «Will you use what you have used on Waylon Forge on me?» he smiles softly, the gentle creases on the side of his eyes folding perfectly around a measured smile, and you feel like time will be extremely gentle on him. You almost know for a fact he will age as perfectly as he seems to be already doing, maintaining some sort of ethereal beauty even in old age.
It almost feels unfair, you feel older than him, no, you know you look distinctively rougher than him, worn, old in the worst possible way.
You look worn thin. Like something used again and again and never cared for.
And it is unfair, but you cannot fault him either.
«Not if you address me properly.»
He shifts closer, setting the bag over the table at your left and settling right in front of you.
«That’s a tough request to satisfy, doc.»
His hands find your face gently, cold, but gently, tilting your head higher to account for your slouched posture and the handful of inches separating your heights.
His touch is barely there, pressing slightly around the edges of your bruised cheek.
He works silently, you squeeze your arms in their knot, feeling at the same time like you should and should not close your eyes. You cannot meet his gaze from the minimal distance, doing so feels like a challenge, and somehow, deep in your instincts, you feel like challenging him would be the last thing you’d do.
So you simply stare at a peeling spot in the wallpaper in the background of his frame.
A cold fingertip digs too close to your fired nerves, you hiss, and one of your hands flies to his wrist.
The only sound in the kitchen is the rhythmic ticking of the clock. You exhale in a shaking puff.
«Sorry…» his voice is sinfully low, and you cannot resist the temptation anymore. Your eyes dart to his own, something flickers, and you are sure it wasn’t the buzzing light over your heads.
His eyes glow a weird mixture of yellow and deep crimson.
Dread pools at your belly, fascination tugs at your brain, the duality of your own feelings scrunches your eyebrows up. You feel like something is amiss. A big part of something that is keeping you from truly understanding god knows what.
Doctor Cullen retreats as if burned by your eyes.
«Lucky you, nothing seems broken.»
His voice is not controlled; it curls around the edges, almost panicked, something is scratching at the back of it, pulling and tugging.
«I fear it will swell. Ibuprofen or acetaminophen should help with pain.»
You put some distance between your bodies too. Too sensitive and responsive, some sort of live wire sending sparks into the thick air surrounding you.
You scramble to your refrigerator, pulling out a bag of frozen veggies and pressing it to your throbbing eye.
The sting of coldness grounds you for a moment, enough to let you recollect yourself.
When you turn, he looks concerned.
«What?»
«Do people usually hit you?»
You feel something retreating, your head stings for a moment and the same dread that had flooded you when you had pulled out of the parking lot pools in your stomach.
Only this time is less, less violent, almost politer.
You are not.
«What kind of fucking question is that, it’s not like I don’t hit back.»
Now that. That is you.
His face twitches, you don’t know if it’s for the curse or your head spinning twist in personality.
It just does.
«Yes, I saw the repercussion of that. Perhaps you shouldn’t resort to violence that quickly.»
Oh, so now he’s pissed at you.
«I don’t. Sadly, when I don’t, this happens.»
The frozen peas in your hand sting your flesh, too cold, he winches once more.
«And yet you hadn’t de-escalated the situation either—»
The guts of this guy!
You scoff, bitter and full of venom, ironic how much of a bite a single exhale of air can carry when breathed by you.
«Yeah, and tell me, doc, what should I have done? Should I have let a little girl get punched? Talked to her after? De-escalated a cracked skull out of her bruising skin?» You toss the bag onto the table, anger quickly rising in the depths of your brain.
«Believe me, better me than her, at least I don’t bitch about it afterwards.»
And then you look at him.
And he’s looking back at you… worried.
No.
How dare he?
How dare he throw his pity at you like swill to pigs?
Does he think you starved of it?
You don’t want his pity. Nothing makes your blood boil more than pity.
«Were you protecting someone?»
What? Because that changes something? Does that make you a hero?
You are only an idiot.
An idiot being perceived; something you recoil from every single time.
Shut up, shut up and stop looking.
You wish to be alone, to finally slip the mask off and just breathe.
Your own home is too unfamiliar to you, so you clench your teeth and pour venom inside every word leaving your lips.
«I think you should go now.»
That is you, that is the you no one wants around, that is what people getting closer to you are getting into.
That is the mess you are. You are not all witty remarks and sarcastic humour.
You are a rabid dog; you bite and infect, your disease is contagious. You sink your teeth into the hand that feeds you, cornered, scared.
You have learned that doing so means starving yet another day, but it also means saving yourself the beating that had always followed until even the threat of it had made you snap.
You will die the saddest, loneliest woman alive, but you had made peace with the idea a long time ago. Watching the spinning of tires disappearing in the fog for the last time.
Left behind.
Alone, starving, and sick.
And yet you yearn for a lick on your wounds, the part in you that had never stopped whining in pain still looks up at every scrap of care. You don’t lie to yourself. Even when doing so would spare you so much pain.
«Thanks for the ride.»
Silence falls thick, you feel tired, tamed, as if something had put a hand on the head of the barking dog thrashing inside your guts, unafraid and sure, petting and holding the beast still, closing shut its ugly jaw.
You suddenly know you have been unfair, you have been rude and unfair.
Like your father.
You are growing into your father, you have been for quite some time, you have noticed.
The guilt makes you feel raw.
Suddenly, the man’s presence feels too much; the ugly side of yourself you had been so cynically eager to show him feels like a burden. The hateful want of finally make him face what kind of worms squirmed under the log of your bad temper, feels like something too personal, too ugly even for some low-life failure of a daughter like you.
You feel ugly on the inside.
You know you had been for a very long time, but it’s only in this moment that you realise that the girl you were six years ago would have hated the guts out of the one you are now.
And it hurts.
A kind of hurting you are not sure you can live with.
The silence deafens you.
Then his deep voice cuts it. You wince. Waiting for a strike, a punishment you yourself would have inflicted on you too.
But it’s not a strike, not something you understand, not something you can raise your fists to.
Something you are defenceless against.
«I didn’t mean to upset you. Apologies.»
No, no, please, not another scrap thrown in your direction.
You won’t survive softness; you are not vaccinated against it.
So you just stand silent, hands wrapping around your arms in the only hug you know won’t come with a pricetag: your own.
The briefcase disappears from the table, you can only see its movement in the corner of your sight, eyes planted on your socks.
You are cold, the bruise stings, and you feel utterly alone in the world.
«I beg you to be careful out there, Miss. I have no right to ask anything from you, but if I had for one thing only, it would be for this.»
You don’t answer, you only sink your fingernails in the very same clothes that are stopping you from drawing blood, only to feel a wave of nausea hitting you.
You were not born a creature of violence; the repercussion of it had always fallen heavy on you.
You were born for silence and solitude, or maybe you were shaped into something craving that, you don’t know anymore.
From the door comes his voice. You are a coward, eyes planted on the floor, nails digging into your flesh.
«Good night.»
You don’t answer.
The door clicks shut in the gentlest way it has ever been closed.
.
The emotional crash-down is brutal. And yet you still try and function, putting some makeup on the ugly extension of the purple forest on your cheek and dropping your kids at school the following morning.
Life is supposed to go on as it did all the other times you had been rude to someone, a tentative friend who had thrown in the towel after one too many snaps. But it somehow doesn’t.
You feel stuck, in the ugliest place possible, in a limbo of some sort of shame and childish fear.
Not that you would do something about that, that is how you are made, nothing new, nothing unusual; you simply pity the man for not having met the real you sooner, saving himself the disappointment of finally doing so.
You won’t, you have not run after your own mother, you will not start now.
He’s no one at all. Life will eventually unstuck itself, and you’ll be able to return to your own existence.
A quiet one, full of regrets and simmering resentment.
Notes:
Another one! I'm so happy I have time for my stories.
Thank you all so much for all the lovely words you left me in the previous chapters, you are all so kind, they always make my day.
I hope this chapter is up to standards and finds you all well, have a lovely weekend and see you soon! <3
Chapter Text
Then why are you tapping your fingers frantically over the entrance desk of Fork’s hospital? A steaming hot cup of coffee in one hand and the childish fear of being caught, staining your jittery movements
Why did you text Samuel that evening, asking for the doctor’s schedule?
You have no idea, you are unsure about a lot of things right now, you always are, you are not a woman of certainties; you barely know how to live day by day, you don’t expect much more from yourself.
«I’m looking for Doctor Culle— actually, could you give him this?»
The receptionist looks at you like you have grown a second head in the minuscule time it has taken for you to stammer out the phrase.
«He’s in his office, dear. I’m a nurse, not a secretary.»
Ah.
Hit and sunk.
«Yeah, sorry— I didn’t mean— good day, sorry again.»
That was pathetic. You make haste, running from the front desk into the halls of the hospital.
You should have asked where Doctor Cullen’s office was, but you were too embarrassed to continue talking to the lady at the desk, so you settled for roaming the halls.
Another doctor tells you the way; you had not been too far off, only a couple of corridors to your right, you walk there with a nervous gait, but once you find yourself at the door something twists in your stomach and you stop in your tracks.
You wish you had not almost run to the office, you don’t really know what to do right now, dumbly staring at the wooden door like it had been the gates of hell.
«I told you, Alice, she’s unmanageable. I tried.»
Oh.
He’s not alone, man, you really hadn’t thought that through. It’s weird to knock. Yes, it definitely would be weird… right? What if he's in a meeting? What if he’s working? Of course he is, he’s at his workplace.
That would be weird, a hundred per cent… but what if the nurse tells him you dropped by?
Would he think of you as a weirdo?
You hate lingering, it’s not like you, you can spin the situation as you please, your options remain two: you either turn around, chug the coffee in your hands as if you had bought it for yourself and never come back, or you knock. Now.
You don’t want to eavesdrop.
«Carlisle, please! I saw happiness in her, for you. If you could just… try.»
Okay, you have to decide.
«Come in.»
You shouldn’t have knocked.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, now you must enter.
God, you are so dumb.
The office is dimly lit, a small girl, not taller than five feet, is standing in front of the desk where Carlisle is sitting.
Donned in fashionable clothes as blatantly well-made that even to you, who knows nothing about fashion, they appear stylish, she stands relaxed, arms crossed and a playful glint in her eyes that reminds you of how Anna used to look at you when she had been no more than a child and to her you had still been the girl that had hanged the stars in the sky.
They are both looking at you, and in the depths of your brain, something tells you that they are related for sure.
«Miss Moore.»
Carlisle's voice is surprised, for some reason, it puts you at ease.
«Hi, sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can go if—»
«Absolutely not!»
The girl twirls on her feet, a skip to her steps that almost startles you. You gag on your immediate reaction, scared and ready to fight. She is only a girl, no matter how much her liveliness has startled you; that is no excuse for being cruel to a kid.
«You must be the fighter girl who keeps my dad’s work going!» That surely is one way of looking at it.
«Alice.
Please, meet my daughter, Alice.» Carlisle's voice is a warning, not a serious one; there is no hatred seeping through his words, and you find yourself wondering how good it must feel to have a father who disciplines with soft words instead of closed fists. You allow yourself to linger in the ifs and buts, wondering how different you would have grown up to be if only your cheeks had met cupping palms instead of rough knuckles.
«Hello Alice, nice to meet you.» You extend your hand, warm palms meeting the icy cold hand of the small girl.
It must be a family thing, another assurance that the two of them are related.
«I— sorry I won’t take much of your time, I just— wanted to give you this and say sorry for the last time, I was a jer— I mean, rude.
Sorry.»
Great! Cursing in front of his daughter, way to go, if he didn’t hate you then he must now.
God, you are so stupid.
You put the coffee on his desk, ready to flee the room, a dusting of pinkish embarrassment splotching your skin.
He looks stunned. Good, it’s your cue to leave.
Flee before he can process what happened, flee before he can stop you, so you don’t have to be held accountable for your actions. If you could just—
«Oh, that’s so sweet from you!»
Fuck.
«Dad loves coffee, did you know that?»
Oh god no, you are being questioned, you cannot leave if you are being questioned.
«I— no, I just…»
You just what? Tossed and turned for entire nights, feeling the nagging sensation that you have been nothing more than vermin for having spit on the feeding hand of a good man?
You cannot say that.
«Thanks.»
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no. Your window has just closed.
He knows.
He understands.
You feel he can see straight through you.
You are gruff, rude, unkind. You do not ask for forgiveness, he knows. You have made that abundantly clear.
And yet here you are.
«Alright, Alice, thank you. Go home.»
Oh no.
God, no. Help.
You cannot be left alone with him after this.
Why must you have been so stupid? Why had your brain chosen to obsess over your cutting words?
You had been a bitch countless times before and you are sure you will be a thousand times more in the future, then why had your conscious felt the need to get stuck on this one?
«Come on, dad! I just need to go to the mall.
Is it because of the attack? I promise I’ll be careful, it’s just one trip, I promise.»
«Wha— no, Alice.»
«I can take her.»
You are a genius; you have just created your own escape route.
«You want to go to the mall?» The girl’s face lights up, you can see her literally bounce on her feet, and a small part of your heart warms at the clear excitement the girl seems to radiate from every fibre of her being.
«My car is in the parking lot, it’s no trouble to take her there and back, really.» Directing your words to the man in the room, you look down at his desk, not quite ready to look him in the eyes.
«You don’t have to.» Your eyes dart upwards, and something in his eyes still looks confused.
«Dad, please.»
You can see the moment his gaze softens, something profound inside you hurts deeply and horribly.
The child in you cries tears of neglect and abandonment, for a moment, you ache. You yearn for that gaze to be directed at you, for kind eyes to look at you and soften.
You swallow blood, emotions bleeding through your tall, tall walls of indifference and solitude, and you try to stay afloat.
He looks like a father who could never say no to his daughter.
You bleed.
He breaks. «Okay.»
«We’ll be back at two.»
You promise, voice horrifyingly hoarse.
Alice’s voice covers for your own, light and joyful. «My phone is a bit dead, though. You can call her if you need me!»
Fuck.
«Do you mind?»
Yes! Yes, you do.
«Not at all, here.» You scribble your phone number on a notepad on his desk, hands trembling and nerves fried.
What have you just gotten yourself into?
You had come here to close that weird acquaintance on a good note, not for him, but for you to be able to sleep soundly again, and you had found yourself escorting his daughter to the mall, giving him your phone number, a way to contact you, not that you think he will ever do after today.
No, because you hope he won’t.
«You are the best! Thank you.»
You don’t feel the best, you feel like a dumbass.
«No problem.»
In the parking lot, Alice calls your car “vintage” and “cool”. You are not immune to the praise of a teen, as rare as they are, so you huff a sound of recognition through your teeth and blush once more.
«Shouldn’t you be at school?» you ask when seated, eyeing the girl and nodding toward the seatbelt when she makes no moves to fasten it.
«Oh, right.» She jumps into motion, all happy smiles and crinkled eyes, making quick work of it.
«The heating system busted in our building, so some classes got cancelled.»
You extract your phone from your pocket and throw a glance at the screen, no new messages, your siblings’ classes must not have been affected.
You talk without thinking, sarcastic and unserious. «That sucks.»
She laughs, you feel bad for the curse, but her dad is not there with you, so you let your mistake slide.
«To the mall then.»
She giggles. «To the mall!»
You let her control the radio, she laughs and scrunches her petite nose at every unwanted song, singing along to pop ones and bouncing in the seat next to you as if dancing while still.
You understand why her father must adore her, so full of energy and unrestrained joy.
She feels so different from your siblings, a flower bloomed in a pot watered every day. You once again find yourself thinking you would give your hand for your siblings to have been raised like she had.
But you had not been born a mother, your father had been what he had been, and you had only been sixteen at the time.
You are not to be blamed, let alone her.
Your quiet jealousy is easy to swallow, you hum along to her high-pitched voice to some Britney Spears song you have no idea how you know the words of.
«So, what do you do for a living? Do you study?»
The traffic light turns yellow, you slow down and stop.
«I bartender, down at the Mallory’s»
«Oh wow! That’s amazing, you must meet so many new people every day!» you snort, eyes still glued to the red light above your head.
«In Forks?»
She giggles once more, as if you had been the funniest person alive, «Well, it’s still a pretty awesome thing, do you know how to do flair bartending?»
God, why does she know how it’s called?
«I do, not that the drunken in that hole cares for the dramatics of it.»
Damn, she’s a giggling machine, it’s cute, really. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy, as if her sole presence had wrapped you in a blanket.
«Aw, man, what a shame. I’d love to see you do that.»
«I am not serving you alcohol, kid. Your dad would have my head on a pike for that.» You huff, by now expecting her soft laugh to follow. It does.
You take off as the light turns green and the next pop song starts.
«Shouldn’t you be working then?»
You shake your head, this time to the rhythm of music, her movements contagious.
«New door’s being installed, bar’s closed all day.»
«What happened to the old one?»
«Broke a guy’s back on it.»
That must unsettle her, stupid, why have you said that?
Her laugh, though, cuts through the funky song being played, without missing a beat, not weirded out, not fake.
«So you are a bouncer?»
Why does she know how bars work? Who cares, teens would be teens, and you are not her mother, you barely have the upper hand when it comes to disciplining your siblings, you definitely do not have any right to scold someone else’s daughter.
«Nope, still a bartender, he was being a —dick— rude man to my boss’ daughter.»
«So you are a knight in shining armour?»
At that, you laugh, deep and ruined by years of smoking. «God, no. I’m a loser in a leather jacket.» She laughs at your lame joke, you feel a sense of calmness that you had not felt in a very long time, for a minute or two, you almost feel human again. Not a fighting machine, not an unlovable, broken mess of unmatching puzzle pieces.
You just feel human.
You park the car in the nearest available parking spot close to the entrance. You have not lied, you are intending to keep the girl safe, it’s the only thing you know how to do, so you better believe you’ll do a damned great job at it.
«Stay in school, kid,» you grunt, unbuckling your seatbelt, and opening your car door. «or you’ll end up hoisting dudes through doors on a random Tuesday night for work.»
Apparently, once again, you are the funniest person alive.
«Is it funny, though?» she retorts, eyes glistening with something mischievous and youthful.
You huff a half-laugh.
«Only the first handful of times.»
As it turns out, she has excellent taste in clothes.
You follow her like a guard dog, too used to doing the same thing with your siblings, you don’t even register the first minutes of your silent guarding.
She chats and plucks dresses from hangers with price tags as lengthy as the number on your paycheck at the end of the month. She must be living the dream life every girl wants, you don’t feel jealous, you wish that were you, but it’s not, so if anyone else should be living that life, you feel like she is a good second choice.
«Are you sure you are allowed to buy this much stuff?»
«Yeah, Carlisle doesn’t really mind.»
Wow, that is some next level teen shit, who the hell call their father by his first name?
The weird face you pull must have shown your inner thoughts because after yet another giggle, she murmurs softly, «I’m adopted, we all are.»
Oh.
Damn, you are dense.
«Sorry, I didn’t know.»
Thankfully, the phone in your pocket buzzes, pulling you from saying something else and looking even dumber than you feel you already presented yourself as.
It’s a message.
Plain and simple.
“I thought you might have needed my number as well. In case you needed to contact me.
-Carlisle.”
Posh.
«It’s your dad, do you want me to tell him you are bleeding dry his entire bank account?»
She’s not listening to you, nope, she is running to a rack of clothes.
«Oh my god, you’d look stunning in this!»
She’s not wrong.
You know your body well enough to know she had found the single most perfect garment, all sharp curves and stiff materials.
It’s some sort of leather imitation, rigid and structured, stiff on some parts and flowy on others. It looks like a dream, but you had never been the type to dwell on them.
You huff, typing painfully slowly a simple “Thanks, all good here.” before focusing your attention back on her.
«Yeah, not happening, kid, that thing costs a salary and a half.»
«Oh, come on! It’s alright, I’ll buy that for you.»
What?
«What? No, kid, that’s your dad’s money. Put that thing back.» Your panic must have shown through your harsh words as Alice’s face crinkles up and her shoulders drop, a sour expression on her pretty face.
Teens.
Not knowing the value of money and all that old folks’ shit talking.
«Alright, jeez, party pooper… I’ll just ask his permission.» your phone, once in your hand gets snatched, she’s so quick you barely register it, horror seeps underneath your skin as, with deadly confidence only a teen could master with those devil’s device, she dials her father’s phone and hold your phone to her ear.
«Hi, dad! There is this gorgeous dress, she’d look stunning in— alright! Thanks, see you back at work.»
You finally manage to get your ass in gear, shock too strong to let you move any faster than a drunken bastard, you yank your phone out of her hands, terror in your voice as you finally hold your phone to your ear and command: «Carlisle, no.»
Silence follows, so much so you fear Alice had just hung up, then a low laugh gets through. Deep, rich, like satin sliding down your neck.
Something stirs in your stomach, and for once is neither anger nor fear.
«Frustration then.»
The world stills, his voice is the sin of lust incarnated.
«What?»
«Is that what it takes for you to say my name?»
Notes:
Oh my god, I am on fire!
Here is another chapter, and a lengthy one at that. Hope you all enjoy <3
Let me know.
I’m so hyped up for this story as I finally laid out all the plot in detail (more or less) over this weekend, so I finally have directions to follow and pulling the strings is not as daunting as it was before.
How are you liking Alice? Genuinely curious.
See you all soon, loves!
Chapter 8: Motherless mama's girl
Notes:
Sorry for the long wait, July had certainly been… something.
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
«At least say hi!» Your car door shuts close, you linger at the driver's side, keys in one hand and a mouthful of sour regret.
How have you ended up like this?
You were supposed to distrust man in button-ups, not being their sugar baby.
You can’t really compare what the situation is to anything else, you are that type of broken girl, you had felt bad accepting gifts from your friends back in high school, how are you supposed to take a gift from a man you had hissed and fussed against all the way through the torturous path of a very unstable friendship?
«Dad is always free at this hour.»
You twist your nose, a grimace, both still embarrassed and partially irritated, falls to your face. Of course, he is; you are the only damned person in this town breaking your back over your work.
But then again, he probably broke his back over a desk studying for med school, so you really cannot blame him for living a better life than you.
The realisation doesn’t make you less of a bitch, though.
«Bet he is.» You mumble under your breath, shoving your freezing hands into your pockets.
Alice is unfazed by your snarky remarks, and that, for some reason, placates you.
You see her to her father’s office, once again, the big, scary dog slowly stepping into the same steps your master walks, even if it’s a temporary one, just for the day. You don’t know how to live without serving, without being a bodyguard.
She’s trotting happily, some bags dangling from her lithe arms, the bulk of them in your grasp, you know exactly which one contains the dress she —he— has bought for you, but you don’t wish to think about it.
Ears colouring a deep hue of red every time you do.
The walk from the parking lot to his office is a short one; it’s barely lunchtime, and although you had paid for a very sweet, very overpriced, frilly coffee at the mall’s bar for Alice, you yourself and the girl have yet to eat.
She knocks at the door, a quick and enthusiastic rapping that startles you into motion as if you hadn’t just zombie-walked behind the petite girl.
«Come in.»
The office is exactly how you and Alice have left it; it doesn’t look more lived in, nor does it feel any more personal to the man inhabiting the chair behind the big wooden desk. It just feels like a transitional space.
«I got you something!»
Alice trots in before you, you shuffle your way in, gently holding the countless bags adorning your hands, head low, if you had dog’s ears, they would point downwards, you are so out of place, the instinct to simply bolt out of the door itches deep underneath your skin.
Carlisle rises from his chair, a smile easy on his lips and soft eyes meeting his daughter’s figure halfway from the door.
«I’m sure it’s wonderful, Alice.»
You mumble a half-baked apology from the threshold of his door, laying the bags down on the floor.
«Oh, she helped choose!»
Oh god, this torture never ends.
The tie you had eyed on the rack of the —once again— very expensive store, had caught your eye almost immediately, deep red and made of satin, a dream tinted in crimson blood.
You had absentmindedly run your hand over it, almost catching your callused palm on the soft fabric.
You would have killed yourself if your clumsiness had ended up ruining the breathtaking garment, so you had retreated your hand, shoving it so deeply into your pocket it would never have dared doing so.
But Alice had seen you lingering in front of it, and she had asked.
You don’t remember if she had asked if you had liked the tie or something else; you only remember speaking without thinking.
«I think your father’s eyes would stand out so much beside this.»
So.
Into the cart the tie had gone.
«I admit I hadn’t expected it.»
Carlisle’s face is unreadable; yours is a mess of splotchy red and sweat.
You scratch the bridge of your nose, your other hand finding the depths of your pocket, you feel so out of place, without even counting the fact you still have to tackle the argument: very pretty, very expensive, very not paid by you, dress in the brown bag gently leaning on the wall beside the door.
You swallow the thick glob of saliva accumulating in your mouth, nervous and uncomfortable. Wishing to speak to not look stupid, and at the same time just hoping for an instantaneous stroke.
«Yeah, well, the tone-on-tone combo is unbearable.»
No, no, why are you still biting?! Why must you be so rude? Why must you always retort with snarky remarks? You are no longer a teenager; you must stop acting like one.
You wince and squeeze your frame into your own shoulders.
Stupid.
Carlisle breathes a soft laugh, «It used to be very à la page back in the days…» It’s genuinely disarming how patient he can be, no matter how pressing you had thought he’d been when standing in your living room, light flickering over your heads and a set of siblings hiding upstairs.
«I just sounded like your father, didn’t I?»
You snort, curt and stupidly, possibly taken by surprise, most definitely still two sizes too big for your own skin. «Yeah, as if my father knew what à la something something means.» Then, as if you hadn’t embarrassed yourself enough, softer: «I surely don’t.»
Carlisle’s face opens into a soft smile, «Popular, very used.»
You nod, resisting the urge to scratch at your arm or the back of your head like an idiot.
Alice is still rummaging through the countless paper bags, eyes glistening like a kid.
«Dad, can I run to your car? I think I left my keys there.»
Oh no, you don’t want to be left alone with him, you were supposed to pop in for a quick goodbye and bolt for the door as soon as courtesy would have allowed it.
«Sure.»
Alice is out the door before you can even think of a good way to follow her out.
«May I see the infamous dress?»
You are cooked.
«The receipt is still— I mean I still have the receipt, I- I can’t accept—»
«Nonsense, Alice has impeccable taste.»
Great! Now it looks like you are insulting his daughter.
Way to go.
«It’s not that! I really can’t affor—»
«That’s why it’s a gift, like yours.»
That’s rich, you bought him coffee, without even knowing what type he had liked, nor if he had liked coffee in the first place.
Yours had been a very poorly planned apology, not even aimed at receiving forgiveness, something trivial to make you sleep better.
You feel like a worm, squirming out in the air now that the rock you had been hiding under has been lifted.
«Carlisle.» You begin. «Oh, exasperation too.»
It baffles you for a second; in your head, you are so deep into your planned scolding that it stops you in your tracks.
What?
You look at him, lost; it must show, your eyes blinking owlishly, slowly, it must show in the crook of your head to one side, it must show when he clarifies: «What it takes for you to say my name, frustration and exasperation, not that they are so dissimilar.»
Brat, can an adult man be called a brat? Because that’s what you think he is, smirking and scrutinising you from his desk, head lazily propped on lithe fingers.
«Carlisle, I bought you coffee, lukewarm coffee at that, because I stalled like an idiot.
That is a five-hundred-dollar dress. I cannot accept it.»
You are not one for lies; you have told plenty of those in your life, but you still dislike the aftertaste they leave on your tongue.
You prefer the cutting truth, and in this case, the cutting truth is that you are not deserving of such luxury.
You cannot accept it.
Yes, that’s a good point, a good speech, one you haven’t tripped on your own words yet; you’re doing fine, not giving too much away, not letting him get closer—
«You stalled?»
Crap.
«No, I mean, I just— I didn’t know how to say sorry.»
So much for remaining detached. For not letting him get any closer.
«And yet you did.»
That’s rich, you actually didn’t, you barged into his office brandishing a cold coffee, interrupting a father-daughter discussion as if you had had any right to be there in the first place.
«No, I didn’t.» You didn’t, but that you can fix, even if it makes the hair in the back of your neck stand in fear.
«I’m sorry, Carlisle, I treated you very poorly. I was a huge bitch, and you were just concerned. I’m sorry»
You have given up on feeling like yourself around him; it’s a spell you don’t know how he casts, but that you had reluctantly accepted. In a sense, this version of yourself is better, less coiled up on her own pain, less snappy, more relaxed and accepting. You feel ten years lighter when around him; you don’t fully like it, but you are sure he prefers this version of you, who wouldn’t, so you don’t mind. It’s not like you are faking; you are just playing pretend, pretending you are sixteen once more, that you are still in school with Sam as a classmate, and life has not yet turned its back on you.
Silence falls, you fidget with the dry skin of your fingertips.
«I pushed, I must apologise too, I was worried, but that is no excuse for my behaviour.»
What behaviour? Genuinely care for someone? You wish that were your only crime; you would have been able to sleep much better if that were the case.
It baffles you how he’s so genuinely caring with you, it puts you on edge, but the rational part of your instinctual mind tells you it shouldn't, that it’s you the fucked up part of this equation.
You scoff, lowering your gaze to your hands and focusing all your attention on tugging at your nails; «You shouldn’t. I have two siblings, I know what caring feels like.»
You don’t see his reaction, you assume he’ll just agree with you, after all, he has a family too, probably a much bigger one than yours, he must know what you are talking about, you have seen how he looks and talks to his kids, adoptive or not.
«Who takes care of you, though?»
What?
Your eyes dart upward. He’s looking at you with concern, not pity, not in the same way you have caught him looking at you in your living room, but with genuine care.
«What?»
«If you are taking care of them, who is taking care of you?»
A dry laughs escape your lips, your eyes fall to the ground once more, «I don’t need to be taken care of, I’m low maintenance.» you joke, the self-deprecating aspect of your personality showing its ugly head.
Silence creeps into the room once more, you hope Alice will hurry up and come back, but you have the nagging sensation your prayers will fall flat. When you finally find the courage to look back at the man behind the desk, Carlisle looks like he wants to say something else, something heavier than what you can shoulder right now, but he doesn’t.
You feel like a teenager once more, staring at your principal with a blackened eye and a busted lip.
«You are stalling. I want to see the dress.»
Fuck.
You could protest, but you are not that type of ungrateful, «Alright.» So you simply turn, heading for the bag and bending on creaking knees, you find the dress in its wrap.
Alice had had a great eye for sure, you still cannot wrap your head around how pretty the dress had looked tucked in the back rack of the store.
«There she is.» you mumble softly, too embarrassed to actually look Carlisle in the eye. You can hear a soft laughter from him, still stubbornly refusing to look in his direction.
«It’s… very you.» That must be an insult, if not an outright affront, at least a mock, but how could that be when the dress had been so…pretty.
«It’s beautiful.»
Oh.
Not an insult then.
Your cheeks burn; you are sure they must be neon red; you suppress the urge to scratch at your arm, hands too occupied with the dress.
«Thanks.»
«It’s the truth.»
It would be easier to simply look at him, but your brain can process only so much embarrassment in one sitting.
«I mean it, I’m sorry and… and I’m grateful you are not as unforgiving as I am.»
He’s taken aback, you can see it on his face, in the hard features of that handsome face.
Thankfully, Alice bursts through the door, all soft giggles and a mischievous glint in her impossibly hazel eyes.
Notes:
Let me know what you think of this Chap! I'm so hyped up for these two <3
Thanks for reading <3
Chapter Text
Three days after your hurried retreat, he’s sitting in your section, at your counter, in your bar. The Mallory’s technically, but still. A place where, in all his 5 years or so of residency in Forks, he has never been seen setting foot in.
And yet he looks so at ease, eyes soft and that gentile smile plastering his handsome features.
«This is a first.»
It’s actually marginally disturbing that you had felt his presence before you had even spotted him, effortlessly sliding through the crowded bar to get to your workstation, muscles relaxing, the nagging sensation of growing a second tongue made out of sarcasm and youthful mirth filling your mouth.
«I realised it was bad to hope you’d get into trouble only to see you again at my workplace. Figured I could have just come to yours.»
You laugh, well, actually you blush first, but there is something in the fact that you are at work, a place that you know like the back of your hand, and that he has actively sought you out that puts you at ease.
«I’m off of trouble duty tonight -and lightly tipping your head to your left, you continue- strict surveillance in here.»
Chief Swan is brooding on a twin barstool of the one on which the brightly smiling doctor is currently sitting. He simply tilts his beer in acknowledgement, not even sliding his eyes sideways from the TV on which the game is still playing.
You catch yourself mid-smile, your gaze fondly resting on Charlie, «What can I get you?» you ask instead, drumming your fingers over the counter, almost nervous in being caught caring about someone, as if any shame should have risen from such accusation.
«I’ve been told you do flair bartending.»
You blush at that, but you eventually also smile, you eventually pick up a couple of bottles, and after spinning them in your hands for a while, preparing other cocktails still lining your list of orders to prepare, you pester him about his tastes as the brat refuses to tell you straight away what he wants.
You settle on giving him a Bloody Mary, a bit as a punishment, because his answers have been purposefully vague and infuriatingly smug, but also a bit because it actually does fit what you have grasped.
And maybe, even more marginally, because it’s your own favourite, and for some very plain, very boring past trauma you don’t need to address to know they exist, you actually want to know what he thinks of it.
As if his appreciation could have heightened your senses and made every single Bloody Mary after taste better.
«I’m gonna grab a smoke.»
The invitation is plain; you feel weird chit-chat like that, now that no more orders line your to-do list and your hands cannot fidget with the bar-gun
You wave at a coworker, pressing two fingers to your lips and pointing at the bar, he nods, and just like that, you have granted yourself a few minutes of peace.
«You coming, doc?»
The alley behind the bar smells of trash cans and humid air, the light in your hand flickers and the cigarette sizzles.
Carlisle stands in front of you with a gentle smile and his hands in his pockets of the black coat you had discovered brown when sitting in his car in calm silence.
«I won’t tell you smoking kills, I believe they now have to print it on every pack you buy.» You snort, exhaling a puff of smoke from your nose and mouth together.
«They do grandpa, I believe, since the seventies.
How’s Alice?»
Carlisle smiles, his impossibly white teeth shining in the dim alleyway.
«She’s good, head over the moon with her new wardrobe.»
A dog barks in the distance, you nod, inhaling yet another drag, «She told me she does pretty good in school, should I believe you have raised a truthful daughter, or should I believe her the same way I do with mine when they pull the studious-kid act with me?» this time is his turn to laugh, shaking his head of perfectly combed locks.
There is a soft, unmasked, undertone of pure pride in his voice when he finally declares: «She is, she’s exceptionally smart.»
«Didn’t say she wasn’t.» Then, taking the time of yet another drag to really think if you wish to say something about yourself or simply leave it as that, you continue: «She reminds me a lot of my brother, crazy smart but a pain in the ass to settle down to actually study.»
You keep it simple, talking about someone else is easier for you, you had been like that too, perhaps it would have passed with time and practice, but you had dropped out of school at sixteen, and you had never found out.
«You are right, she was… a bit hyperactive at the beginning, but I did my best, and with patience she learned to apply herself.
Do you… help your brother too?»
Fuck, why must he always ask about you?
«No, no, at this point I think he’s smarter than me, I—» don’t say it, you have made a fool of yourself already, and the whole school-dropout is still an open wound for you, just don’t. «I dropped out.»
Fuck.
But instead of empty apologies, as if he had been the one to blame for that, he simply asks: «Why?» and perhaps that’s even worse.
You cage yourself in between your raised shoulders, shutting yourself up by nibbling at the butt of your cigarette.
«I couldn’t go on, no college plans for me, no point in continuing if I already knew there was no future for me.»
And because of the charges.
«If I got myself a job, I could help with my siblings’ tuition, so it felt like a good idea.»
There is a calm silence, devoid of any judgment, and for a second, you feel like you could have told him about juvie too. But you don’t.
He seems like he’s about to say something else, then your phone buzzes in your pocket, standard ringtone propagating through the brick walls surrounding you.
«Ah, sorry.» you fish for it clumsily, stomping on your cigarette that, in all honesty, still had a few drags left, then you pick up the call, fully expecting to be your coworker demanding you back.
But the number is unknown.
«Hello, who’s this?»
Silence.
«Hello?»
«It’s Rose.» The empty cracking of the line buzzes in your ear, all the blood on your face drains.
«Anna’s birthday is coming up, I was just thinking… You know where I live.
Tell her to think about it. -a pause, she means to say more, she always does, an endless cycle of bitten words and swallowed thoughts- And you should too.» Concise, perfectly executed and all wrapped in a pretty bow.
She’s perfect, methodical, responsible.
The line cuts. She has hung up.
Day and night.
You had stammered out an apology over cold coffee, and the moments leading up to that had been agony.
She had called, stated her case and hung up. All in the matter of a minute, walking all over the broken pieces of your crashed relationship.
You were not born an older sister, truly; you had been the middle one, and it had shown immediately. But you had been thrust into that position, looking at the spare tire disappearing in the distance, bobbing you goodbye from the trunk of your sister’s car. After that, from you, it had been requested to slice and bend and pull at your personality until the bloody remains of it had not resembled that of an older sister.
And you had done it, slicing away at your childhood.
Losing chunks of yourself until even the very thing that had kept you there well past your age of majority had morphed into horrible apathy and empty ache.
Your love for your siblings had faded slowly, macerated by the circling torture your life had amounted to. Not completely, it had only dulled significantly enough for you to feel every act of love for them as a chore. Enough for you to stop feeling like a human being.
«Everything good?»
Your attention snaps back, Carlisle's voice reaches you as if yelled from the other side of an abnormally large field, you blink stupidly.
«Yeah— Yeah, wrong number.»
You don’t feel yourself for the rest of the evening and well into the night.
Anna blows out her candles on a damp and cold evening of late March, beaming from ear to ear, eighteen, while Nick sings loudly, and you record everything on your obsolete camera.
You have baked the cake yourself, nibbling away at the little time your job has left you with. It’s crumbly and a bit too soft to be eaten without any concern for your stomach, but Anna and Nick care little for consequences, and even though you are too old to stomach slightly underdone cake mixture, you still chew the doughy slice on your plate and laugh along with your siblings.
And you pretend that it’s nothing, you tell yourself you’ll eventually tell her, yours had been a choice even if at the time it hadn’t felt like one, but you cannot bring yourself to do it, to remain even lonelier in a home that reeks of booze and the rotting corpse of your future.
She’ll have a better future away from here. You resolve yourself in sending her away to her older sister, to your older sister, once she finishes high school, you mask the horrible selfishness of the act behind poorly thought-out logic and pretend that everything is fine.
You must, you don’t know how you’ll survive your own consciousness otherwise.
.
«Sorry!»
Your cart clangs against the other one, you almost stumble back.
What the— oh.
Alice is smiling at you in the detergent aisle, her pixie-like face scrunched in a cute mix of happiness and apologetic frown.
«Oh, hi Alice, don’t worry.»
You huff a laugh, still taken aback. What else could you do? She looks adorable as she wheels her cart next to yours and stops at your side.
«A round of ‘boring’ shopping to even things out?»
A bit more than a week has passed since the last time you saw her, or rather, since you first met her and then spent almost half a day with her, but she’s dressed already in a completely different —but very stylish— fashion.
«Oh no, I’m just accompanying dad!» She confesses, turning around in the exact moment her father rounds the corner and, probably looking for her, looks in your direction, almost lost.
His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you could swear they soften.
He reaches you both in a couple of long strides, your eyes catch the vivid colour almost immediately, his tie is crimson red.
The one you had chosen.
«Hi.»
«Hi.»
«Oh! I almost forgot! Dad, can you leave me at Bella’s? We have a school project to finish.»
Alice twists in her seat beside you in the back of the car, drumming her fingers on the empty passenger seat. Carlisle had insisted, after you had paid for your scarce shopping of mostly detergents and a handful of school supplies, that he and Alice accompany you back home, going on with an unmoving tone about the wild animal still being on the loose in Forks. Alice had been on his side, and with two against one you had agreed, this time not even that reluctantly.
«Sure, text me when you finish, I’ll pick you up.»
You watch as Alice gets out of the car, the squeaky-clean window of Carlisle’s car giving you a perfect view of the teenager enthusiastically waving her hand at you and disappearing around a corner.
«Care to sit beside me?» Carlisle's eyes linger on yours from the rearview mirror; you hold his gaze; it’s playful, and you surprise even yourself in being able to notice it.
«So you can inspect if I have a fractured jaw?»
His smile crinkles at the edge of his eyes; yours is barely there. But it’s there.
«Should I?»
The car hums as you exit the driveway. You sit beside the man behind the wheel, comfortably, not tense, not dejected.
«Everything is fine, right?»
You don’t know where the question comes from, you have no visible bruise on your face or neck, nothing is sore enough to make you grimace at every shift in position, and today you even had the time to shower before leaving for work.
So you simply shrug in confusion. «Yeah, why?»
His lips are a tense line, his eyes scanning the road; he seems lost. Your eyebrows furrow.
«Are… you good?» You don’t really know what else to ask; he looks like he knows something you don’t. That seems to bring his attention back to you.
«Yes, yes, sorry, I—» he stops, flickers his eyes to you, and his expression turns dejected as if he was bracing for something bad, «I guess last night you were, I don’t know, after the call… I worried.»
Ah.
Your first instinct is to bite. To tell him this is none of his business, but you manage to bite your tongue instead.
He worried.
«Yeah, just…» It takes you great effort to say the word: «sorry.» Then, after a beat of silence, you continue, «It was someone for the past.»
It takes you less effort to decipher the surprised expression. He had braced for a lie, for your barks and perhaps even for a bite, and yet he had still offered his hand.
«I— I don’t want to talk about it…» your voice gets thinner, you feel horribly raw, and yet you manage to whisper, «sorry.»
The car ride is silent for yet another moment, Carlisle is looking straight ahead, and you battle the instinct of curling up on yourself and hug your legs, feeling like a child.
«I get it. If you want, you can, though. With me, you can tell me.»
Your eyes well up, you won’t cry, but you could, you feel like you could, you don’t even know when this feeling had started to worm its way inside your brain, too dulled out by the hollow sensation that hearing Rose’s voice had left you to deal with, but you feel it now none the less and weirdly enough you feel like yourself, not sixteen and fragile, just, yourself.
«I know.»
And you do.
He lingers at your doorsteps, you give him a smile, you are not even sure you ever did, but it feels right in the moment.
You feel happy.
«Thanks.»
Notes:
Here is another chapter! I truly hope you'll like this one, Reader's backstory is starting to surface… I'll just say: be prepared for the next one.🥲
Let me know what you think about this chapter and see you soon!!
Chapter 10: I could be a good mother
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
«For the ride?»
His smirk is sweet, you huff a half-laugh, «sure.»
You don’t recoil to the touch, it’s weird because it’s sudden and you always tend to tense up at sudden movements, but to this one you don’t.
His finger grazes the apple of your cheek, icy cold and incredibly careful.
«You are healing up.»
Instead, you almost lean in. Almost.
You bask in the feeling.
«I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.»
Another huff breaks the eerie silence of the afternoon, this time from him.
«You are.»
.
You get out of your car in the school parking lot, popping your neck and shoving a cigarette in your mouth quickly, before your fingers freeze in the cold mid-April wind.
You are a few minutes early, the new routine is weird, but the Mallorys have granted you the privilege of getting out of work for an hour in the middle of your turn to drive your siblings home if you’d burden yourself to give a lift to their daughter too, mountain lion still on the loose and all that jazz.
You occasionally offer one to Bella too, sure that Charlie would appreciate the gesture, but she usually declines with her sweet politeness and favours Edward's Volvo. You don’t blame her, you suspect they either already are a couple or they are too dense to recognise they both like each other.
On the rare occasions she accepts, she chats quietly with Anna and Lauren in the back, Nik silently reading beside you.
It’s a good routine for your fried nerves, something that’s both lively but not too loud to actually set you off. You like doing this, the chatty rides home, your sibling’s company, you have grown to appreciate Lauren’s high voice too, finding in it a soft undertone of gentleness.
The small group makes its way to your car a few minutes after the bell has rung.
And you diligently drive them all home safely.
«Anna, stay.»
Nik throws you a glance, sitting beside you, in the driveway of your home.
2:45 pm, only half an hour before you need to be back at the bar. God, you are a coward.
The car door clicks shut, you grip the wheel. Silence falls heavily on your shoulders.
«Did I do something wrong?»
No, god no, she did nothing wrong ever, in her entire life.
«No, no, don’t worry I— I just wanted to talk to you.»
«About what?»
You kill the engine, soon it will freeze in the car, and it will long after you have turned it back on, in a not so subtle way, only another punishment you try to inflict on yourself.
«Rose called.»
Now this. This is thick silence.
«Is she okay?»
Of course she would ask if she’s okay, because Anna is good, Anna is all the good things you have never managed to be yourself.
And she doesn’t choke on the name like you did, she doesn’t tighten her fists in fury, she just worries.
One deep breath, 2:48, hell time could not pass any faster.
«She is. She called… to know if you’d like to— She wishes you a happy birthday and…» you need to propel yourself into the next phrase, and, and; otherwise you would swallow the words and never utter them in your life.
But she needs to have a choice.
You had one.
«And to know if you’d like to go live with her.»
For a while, no one speaks, you listen to the howling wind breaking over the hood of your car, the piece of junk slowly turning into a block of unforgiving ice, you twist your grip around the steering wheel. It hurts.
Good.
«Can I say no?»
You breathe, and, in the cold air seeping through the cracks in your car, it shows. A soft exhale. A liberating one.
«Of course you can, love.»
It’s only then that you can finally meet her gaze in the rearview mirror, a wobbly smile creasing your lips.
She’s pale, smiling, a soft, fading bruise colouring her chin like a blossomed flower.
«Can I go? It’s cold in here.»
«Sure, sure— sorry.»
You feel like a monster looking at her climbing the stairs of the house, a greedy monster that can neither protect nor prevent, a lonely, hungry, impending doom hovering over your sibling’s future.
Greedy.
You’re a monster.
You can’t protect them, and yet you won’t let them go. You’re a plague.
You start the car long after the door has closed, the heating coughing to life, struggling to catch up. You punch it off, scraping your knuckles raw over the console, driving in the icy car.
.
«That is new—»
«Was— adopting your wife’s idea?» The bar is horribly silent for a Friday night, no drunken bastard to take out your anger on, low lights only egging you further into your spiralling frustration.
Carlisle is there, though. Soft curls framing his face in a soft halo. Possibly the only thing keeping you afloat in the dark sea of your thoughts.
He looks surprised.
Stupid fucking lousy mouth.
«Sor—»
«No, no, I… I don’t have a wife.»
Now it’s your turn to be surprised. «You don’t?»
«No, it’s just me and the kids.» God, he’s good at bouncing back.
«Was it difficult? I mean the process and all.»
You scrub furiously at the beer glass, the third time you have done so, so terribly deprived of things to do, you have even contemplated just pouring yourself a strong drink and joining the man on the other side of the counter.
«A bit, Edward was the first, then came Rosalie and… you know, she fell in love with Emmet, he was in a tough situation too, so it felt kind of natural to adopt him too, and, well, Alice and Jasper were sort of a deal package.»
Damn, he has way more kids than you know of.
Alice’s words come back to you: «I’m adopted, we all are.»
They make a hell of a lot more sense now.
«Well, I’ve obviously met Alice and… I’ve met Edward, am I right? Back… that night.»
He smiles at you from the rim of his glass, eyes softly focused on you, but it has been quite a while since you had stopped feeling like shrinking into your own skin, so you just drink it in, the weird sensation of being acknowledged.
«Tell you what,» his glass dangles hypnotically from his fingertips’ grasp, gently swaying until the bottom hits the coaster, «I’ll answer every question you have if -and softly tapping over your wrist, he signals for your hand- you let me have a look at this.»
Your knuckles are still raw and somewhat bloody, the nervous gesture of cleaning glasses leaving them scraped and an unappealing scarlet red.
You huff, roll your eyes, but ultimately agree: «Fine.»
The staff’s room is cramped and kind of damp, definitely not suited for these kinds of temperatures.
Your first reaction is to shudder, popping your tired shoulders afterwards.
«First aid kit is in there.»
You point out, letting him go get it and opting for leaning your hips on the lonely metal table shoved in the corner of the room.
«Which fights are they from? Should I expect someone in any time soon?» you scoff, lower your gaze and try to hide your face with your hair.
«They are from a noble battle against my car.»
He joins you to the table, a somewhat amused expression lingering on his features.
«Have you won?»
You don’t say it, for a minute you actually contemplate not saying it, then the hilarity of the result hits you without leaving any way out, and you simply have to blurt it out: «I busted my AC.»
Carlisle laughs, an actual, full, and deep laughter as he opens the kit beside you on the table, and, gesturing for your hand, positions himself almost in between your planted legs.
«I’ll have a look at it.»
A pensive hum leaves your throat, eyebrow shooting upwards in tumbled sarcasm. «Oh, so you’re a mechanic too now.»
The Hydrogen Peroxide stings, you wince, perhaps it’s a retribution for the sarcasm, but you doubt it. How could you not when Carlisle keeps your hand in his grasp and gently blows over your wounds? Dabbing the cottonball over each scrape and cut.
«I believe I was lured here under the pretence of some answers.» he smiles, you do too, he’s too preoccupied with your cuts, you don’t have to worry he will notice.
«Fire away.»
You think about what you ask for a while, then, since your brain cannot seem able to dislodge from the thought, you ask: «Is it tough? Being a single dad of this many?»
«Sometimes.» A band-aid gets torn from its wrapping, «But it’s worth it, they are my family, and I’m theirs; they are all good kids.»
You don’t feel any sting as his fingers carefully put the wrapping over yours, hands soft and full of care.
«I’m sure they are.» and you say it with such conviction that for a moment it baffles you.
«How about I ask Emmet to have a look at it?»
Your fingertips freeze in the cold night air, you feel like your skin is turning into stone. Your turn is over, the night is not as thick as you are used to and Carlisle is still at your side.
Well, actually, right now he’s at your car's side, having taken the promised look at the mess your vehicle is.
«Thought you were the expert?»
It’s too hard; sarcasm is your mother tongue.
The man laughs shortly, closing the hood of your car and flashing you a pearly white smile.
«Believe me, he’s way better. Plus, you need to actually scrap the whole system. I believe your hooks are mean, but your AC was on its last leg long before you decided to literally punch it into an early grave.»
Oh, apparently it’s his too.
«Fuck, I’m really not looking forward to a freezingly cold drive back home.» you groan and whine, fishing for the cigarette butt in between your lips and stomping it to the ground.
«Leave it here, I’ll drive you back home and have Emmet take a look at it tomorrow.»
The warmth inside his car does sound like a treat right now.
«No, I still need to drive my siblings to school, don’t worry—»
«It’s alright, I start at 10 tomorrow, I can pick you all up, and after your siblings, I can bring you to work. When do you start?»
God, what have you done to deserve this man’s friendship?
«9:30, are you sure though, you could actually sleep in for once—»
«Nonsense, get in the car.»
You don’t have to be told twice.
«Wait, I think I did see Jasper, curly hair, blond, tall, he looks uncannily like you.»
Carlisle smiles, eyes fixed on the dark road. You have actually ditched the fingerless gloves, warmth seeping through your layers like a soothing balm.
«He is, and funnily enough, Emmet told me he saw you in the school parking lot.»
You snort a laugh, forcing yourself to be composed, fighting the urge to just prop a leg on the passenger seat, completely at ease.
«You talk about me to your kids?» There is a pause; you are sure you have caught him red-handed, but he still bounces back quickly enough to dissipate the feeling.
«Alice did for sure, she likes you a lot.» You hum in sync with the tiers, «likeways.»
The car pulls into your driveway sooner than you would have liked. The headlights flicker off, and the engine dies under your feet.
«Thanks, this time for the ride.»
«Ah, so no thanks for the plaster?» another laughter bubbles in the back of your throat, it’s starting to get painful, muscles old and fallen into disuse.
«“Plaster”? god, you are posh.»
You linger, you know it’s wrong, he needs to wake up early because of you tomorrow, but you can’t find it in yourself to actually leave the comfort of his presence.
Plus, he killed the car, right? You can be greedy for another couple of minutes.
«Thanks. For the plaster too.»
«My pleasure.»
«Does he fuck you?»
The entrance light buzzes softly, adjusting to the idea of being on. «What?» you spat it back, it’s not a real question, it’s a threat: repeat it, go on. If you have the guts.
Your father has aged all in one go, sitting on the cold side of the kitchen, the one expanded without a permit and full of holes in the planks holding it together. You know, one day, the wind will blow too hard on the unfinished exterior and exhausted nails will finally give way.
He’s cleaning his gun. In that risible way that in his head exudes power. To your eyes, he simply looks made out of thin paper, hollow muscles popping out from underneath briars of veins.
He doesn’t look his age; he looks decrepit and horrid. Something, in your heart, you can only find disgust and contempt for.
«You’re smarter than your mama, you can smell money when you’re out for them mh?»
You’re attention snaps back, leather jacket still clinging to your figure. The light over your head stops buzzing, it clicks into place and the flicker ceases.
You can see him bathed in the ugly light he has stood under his entire life, and seeing him like this revolts you.
You wish for it to be now. The moment this house finally collapses, for it to be now, the moment the wood will close its ugly jaws on you, pulling you down with it, finally crashing down over the graveyard of your infancy and simply swallowing you whole with no more threats of spitting you back out.
You wish for it to be now.
«Kill yourself, Frank. Do me this favour.»
You get to the first step before something grazes your cheek, the empty pot crashes to the wall, sending flying shards all over the room.
Here we go again.
A slap, a punch, a kick, shake it off and repeat.
«You are just like that bitch of your mother!»
You are not a fight-talker; you prefer to communicate with closed fists.
And you do, as mercilessly as you have ever been, one punch after the other, never refined, always precise.
You hit hard, you hit to crush away at the horrible sensation that tightens in your chest. You do it not to dissipate boiling anger, not to feel something under the suffocating blanket of apathy; you do it because you are actually hurt.
Carlisle has been good to you, kind, full of compassion and patience, and for once, for once, in your life, you had had something good going on for you, someone who had cared truly, without the malice of wanting something in return. And you had loved that, you had been so starved of that that you had lapped at every single drop of his grace dripping down his feeding hand.
You hit twice as hard.
One for yourself, one for the precious memory of your time spent with the doctor.
You hit viciously, and the little dam you had built over the years, the one that had stopped you from pulling yet another punch when Frank had gone down, never aiming for more than a simple stop, finally breaks.
And you hit him again.
Even when he’s down, even when you see blood seeping through your white tank, even when the leather gets shinier, slicker.
And then, in your daze, you manage to see it.
The barrel of the gun.
You react instinctively, you grab it and shove it to the side. not because you want to live, not because you fear for your life, but simply out of instinct.
Your ear rings, the loud bang deafens you, but what freezes you from your murdering spree is the loud yelp that follows.
Not yours, not Frank’s.
You don’t turn, later, you will ask yourself why, but now you don’t.
You simply pounce, one powerful jab at his throat. If he killed your sister, you will kill him in return; it’s as simple as that.
You free the gun from his hold, and you aim for his head.
That’s it, and it’s no longer juvie waiting for you with open arms, but the state jury, you will rot in a prison cell, and your life will spiral down the drain of a mouldy three-by-three holding cell, dripping down with the mixture of your sweat, tears, and your father’s blood.
«STOP!» Nick screams, you hear a whimper, Anna’s pleas, your heart skips a beat.
But you still shoot.
Notes:
I'm back! I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger (I’m not🤫) but oh well, let me know what you think of this chapter, of the “Reader” and of Carlisle and of course of their relationship. I’m curious about your opinion on the side character too, so if you want to let me know.
Also, I’ve gone back and edited some chapters that had a very weird formatting so everything should be good now.
Last thing, the first place where I publish is Tumblr, so if you want immediate updates, as soon as I publish (since for AO3 I need to edit the chapter once more before publishing) go follow me there, and if you want, I can also add you to my tag list.
My Tumblr is this one!
Lots of kisses and see you!
Chapter 11: If only there was nothing to fight or protect
Notes:
One day later, the shortest cliffhanger in history…
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Red and blue lights shower your face, you’re smoking on the porch, Nik had called the ambulance, you had barely registered it, inhaling deep smoke into your damaged lungs.
If you were to run from the police —Charlie, you know it would be him, give it a name, a face, a known disappointed look— you would not make it. You would be wheezing a couple of strides in.
Useless.
Useless.
Useless.
You haven’t even helped Anna, standing there like an idiot, crimson red splattered all over your face, eyes unfocused.
Angry.
Why? Why had it still been anger festering underneath your skin? Why had your first thought been “If only she hadn’t been there” when turning around, you had seen your own sister clutching at her shoulder?
Why were you rotten till your very own thoughts?
«I’ll fucking kill you bitch! Let me go! I’m gonna kill you, I swear on your mother’s grave!»
You inhale.
Close your eyes.
Close the world outside. You deserve to rest in peace. If only you had aimed a bit more to the centre.
If only you had let him shoot you.
It’s your own name, called once, twice, a hundred times.
You only register it when someone actually touches you, your face in the cup of cold hands.
To this, you react, retreating into old habits, old vices that make your stomach churn and twist into knots.
You are this, why had you thought you could ever be something else?
Anger simmers underneath your skin, stretching it thin, cracked and raw.
Your hand flew, you grasp him at the wrist, vicious grip tightening maliciously.
«You are in shock.»
It rolls off your tongue in a spitted hiss. «Fuck off.»
Carlisle looks at you with pity in his eyes, and you can feel the grinding of your teeth; you can feel your grasp constricting over unyielding skin.
«No.
Please, let me be here for you.»
You have regressed into your old self, all bite without a premonitory bark, but not of all bridges you have made a bonfire.
Your father’s words play on a loop in your head: “Does he fuck you?” Your anger flares up, wounded pride, wounded soul.
You’re bleeding feelings into the uncaring asphalt underneath your feet. You had punched your father in his name, for the anger of something so cherished by you twisted into something to be ashamed of.
But nobody reads the same nobility you wanted your gesture to be, in the violent outburst of a rabid dog.
Not even the man you had been defending.
«There is nothing you can save here.
Stop wasting your time on me.» It’s the best you can do; a word more and you would have started to feel the itch underneath your knuckles.
You wish to hurt. Someone else. Yourself. It doesn’t matter.
«I’m begging you.»
The cigarette in your hand sizzles, your eyes fall to the hand holding it, around his own, a pile of smouldering embers resting on his skin.
Your throat seizes up, a horrible sound rasps to get out, a chimaera of a dog’s whine and a sob.
You recoil, curling up on yourself, throwing the half-finished dart as far away from you as possible. Pathetic.
«Please, please forgive me—»
For a second, you feel trapped. Then the hold surpasses the caging sensation and becomes suffocating.
Perfect.
You feel like you could die in his arms. And he’s no longer only caressing you, touching you as if he’s scared of breaking you, of your bite, of your raging fury; he’s crushing you in his hug as if knowing you can take it, that you’re tougher than stone itself.
And for some unknown reason to you, you breathe ten times better in his unforgiving grasp.
A second ambulance comes in the distance, you can’t see it cowering in his arms, first one disappearing in a dying sound of repetitive wails.
His hand comes to rest on your head, a grounding presence seeping cold comfort under your skin.
You won’t cry.
«We are taking Anna to the hospital; you can ride with me or her. It’s your choice.»
You can’t form coherent thoughts.
You can’t.
«Please, Carlisle, don’t leave me.»
The hospital’s lights buzz over your head; your sister had been wheeled into the operating room, Carlisle had followed, Nik doesn’t speak to you.
He resents you. This much you know.
But you don’t know how to love unless it’s with your teeth and fists, you don’t know how to comfort, you don’t know how to console.
You are not Rose. You had never been.
Your ears still ring, your vision blurs around the edges from time to time.
You miss the suffocating feeling of being constricted into cold arms, you miss the sensation of needing to fight for your next breath, too free, too left on your own devices.
You need a cigarette.
You need to get away from the quiet waiting room, from the receptionist's judging stare, from your brother’s cold shoulders.
The door opens with a clanging sound under unnecessary brute force.
You are going back to juvie.
No. Worse, you can no longer play the dumb teen card.
This time, you are going to jail.
For a moment, you feel like the entire world could not possibly have enough air to dislodge the choking feeling clawing at the back of your throat; it couldn’t possibly be.
Your car stares at you with unlit eyes and dull colours shining in the dim moonlight.
In the bar’s parking lot across the street, exactly where you left it.
You move as if willed by someone else.
You start the engine, it sputters into life the minute you turn your key, not even pretending to stop you.
You engage the third gear, your blinker clicks lazily, and you drive away.
You pass the Forks sign, and then you dare a mile more.
You stop at a turnout.
Sitting in the yellowy light of your own car in complete, utter silence.
You could keep going.
What waits for you in Forks? Nothing. The cold shoulders from a kid you have tried to save your entire life, the quiet fear from a girl too good for her own good, the pitying gaze of the only friend you had managed to make in more than twenty years of existence.
Jail.
Your father.
A dead-end job, a dead-end life.
You scream.
You grab your head in your hands and then you hit solid leather.
You scream so loud your throat burns and scars, and you cry. You cry so loud and so freely your head starts to hurt, and the palms of your hands turn red and then raw from hitting and gripping the steering wheel.
You thrash and shake, your voice cracks and your sobs get swallowed by thick rivulets of snot and tears. You punch the dashboard until the whole car is shaking, and the tires squeal over the damp asphalt.
You scream yourself dry, and when you can no longer, you sob into the cups of your ruined hands.
Silence stifles the last embers of your fury.
Your ears still ring and your lungs burn.
You can’t.
Not if it means leaving them alone.
Not even if on your grave no flower will be left.
No one mourns guarding dogs, and yet they’re loyal. That’s just how things are.
You know what needs to be done.
The band-aid over your knuckles hangs on for dear life, renewed wounds leaking blood all over your hands.
Plaster, right, not band-aid, plaster.
The car comes back to life without any fuss, unfazed by your breakdown, following once again your every whim.
You pat the dashboard in apology; it doesn’t care, you do it regardless.
You still find it in yourself to put the blinker on, and then you turn around.
Forks welcomes you back.
You will die in this place. But she doesn’t have to.
You will not let her do it.
No one notices you entering back. Nik stands up in a hurry; he knows. He looks at you with childish fear and the paralysing terror of being left to fend for himself, then, when you sit, he curls up by your side.
You let your head fall to his shoulder, eyes heavy and tears ridden.
«I’m not leaving you.»
But you can’t let her live like this, even if it means tearing at your soul.
A couple of minutes later, Carlisle emerges from the operating room.
«She’s all good, she’ll wake up in an hour maximum.
Can I—» his eyes fall to Nik’s figure, stalling on something he wishes to ask.
«Go. You are bleeding.» Your brother’s voice is old, so old for his age.
Twelve.
He’s just twelve, how could you have thought of leaving him alone? Again.
Carlisle speaks for you: «I’ll be as quick as possible. Do you want to watch over your sister in the meantime? She’s in room 23.»
You left your brother at the door of the hospital room. He hugs you, his arms digging into your middle as if scared you’ll do just like Rose, even if he had been too young to remember that day, he lets go after a long time, disappearing behind the white door without looking back, leaving you with a short glance at your sister’s sleeping figure.
«Let’s go to my office, okay?»
You expect coldness, you wonder if he’d ask you why you haven't de-escalated this situation too, hell, you are —somewhere in your mind— even ready for a strike, force of habit never truly dying. What you don’t expect is for him to ask you that.
«Do you want another hug?»
And of all of the things he could have said, of all the self-centred, hostile, practical things he could have said, he still keeps confusing you.
«Please.»
It feels like it’s the only thing you know how to say tonight.
His arms are towers around you, and it’s not awkward, not even when you curl your arms to his chest instead of around him, not even forced, as if he had felt obligated.
It’s natural; he simply tucks you in, guiding your head to the crook of his neck underneath his chin and leaves it there. Like he did on your driveway, holding you still, somehow placating the jittering inside your bones.
«It’s okay.»
And if you could, then why not just do it?
The first tears rolling down your face are used; unshed ones still lingering at your peripheral vision, remnants of an old batch.
Then fresh ones cascade down, and you no longer feel like you can survive just standing there, so you grasp at his sweater, taking fistfuls into your hands, and you cry and you sob into the soft fabric of his clothes, as a hand holds your head steady and the other keeps you afloat in the sea of your own sorrows.
You stay like that for minutes; if you could, you’d stay for hours, but you have children to look after, and you don’t think he has time for your meltdowns even if he’d never tell you.
«Oh god, are your kids home alon—»
«It’s fine. They are all fine, don’t worry.» his grip tightens, he sways gently as if lulling you to sleep.
You believe him.
It’s only when you detach that you notice you have bloodied up his sweater.
«Fuck I’m a mess, I’m so sorry I—»
Your name is pronounced firmly, a reprise, and somehow you shut up.
«It’s alright.
Please, let me medicate you.»
And you comply. Of course, you comply.
«What happened.» It’s not even a question, well, it is, but his voice is so firm it doesn’t even sound like one.
«I shot him.»
«What happened before?» This time, it’s gentler, kinder; it reminds you of the tone he had used in this very room, when you had barged in unannounced, gripping a cup of cold coffee.
It’s the same tone he had used with Alice, soft, firm, gentle.
Gentle.
«He tried to shoot me. Anna was behind.»
You barely register the Hydrogen Peroxide’s sting, not in the heap of pain searing through your hands. Twice in a day, this must be some sort of personal record.
«You did good.»
The absurdity of it should hit you, but it doesn’t.
«I shot my father.
I thought he killed her, and… and I—I wanted him dead.» his hands slow, soft circles around the few places where you are not bruised or cut, a deja vu of a sensation as he wraps them in soft gauze.
You bask in his care, in his gentleness, so starved of a soft touch you lean your hand in it, even if it means suffering the pain of contact on an open wound.
«And yet you didn’t. And you survived.»
Your eyes fill up once more, but your head is no longer hidden, so you swallow the suffocating feeling back. «I’m so tired, Carlisle.»
His response is immediate, as if he had been able to tear you up and simply read your insides. «I know.»
You look for his arms, reaching out the same way you had wanted to do in his car, but this time you know his clothes are soft, and it’s not that you want to find out.
You just want him closer.
He indulges you, and there is no barking dog behind your mask, only a wounded girl keeping on going.
You are pathetic right now, you are aware, but you no longer possess any energy to feel the burning sting of shame.
So much so that your next words are cried on his shoulder.
«I don’t want to go back to prison. I—I’m not a fighter, I’m not violent, I don’t want this.»
His lips are cold on your temple, your knees buckle, and in the unfairness of life, you grant yourself the luxury of taking what isn’t yours: his care, his affection, whatever he’ll be willing to give you.
His hug is warm; you wish to be swallowed whole by the sensation, but you cannot linger any longer.
«What happened to… him?»
«He no longer has an ear.»
Good.
You give yourself no more than a minute to collect yourself.
«I need to go back to them.»
«I know.»
You know he knows, you just don’t think you’re ready to do what needs to be done.
«You are going to live with y— our sister.»
Anna doesn’t even blink; she’s not even surprised. She just answers: «No.»
You try to make fury rage behind your eyes, better like this, better painless and compliant than fighting,
«Yes. I want you out of the house by the end of the month.»
Yes, yes, that’s it, just another push, another shove away from the gaping wound of your loneliness and that haunted house life had buried you all in.
And this time she breaks.
«You can’t send me away!» She screams, high and desperate, cracked voice mingling with the thickness of tears in the back of her throat.
You grab her face, still bruised, still as pale as the hospital’s sheets, fingertips digging into the plump flesh of her cheeks.
You’re your father’s daughter, under every ugly light you have ever been showered in.
«Yes. I. can.» somewhere inside you, you are still furious; at Frank, at life, at Rose, she is right, you are nothing and nothing you will remain, not a mother, not quite a sister.
A scary dog barking on the other side of a fence.
You don’t have the force to say it louder, you just murmur it: «And I’m doing it.»
Yeah, let her hate you as well, let her despise you, let her think you had never loved her. Let her think you had never bled for her, every drop holy and devoted.
Let her think you had never cared.
«I’m sorry I was born softer than you…»
And the worst thing is that it’s not a retortion, a sick way of twisting a knife in a wound, it’s just the truth, it’s her looking straight into your soul, peeling away every rotting layer of your infecting fury and speaking the truth.
It bubbles out of your chest from the depths of your very own heart. So deeply buried and true, you question everything else you had ever said up to this moment: «You were born perfect.»
Notes:
HIIII super early, but all the lovely comments motivated me so much, I pulled an all-nighter full of inspiration and adrenaline and just finished this chapter in a giddy haze.
Sorry, not sorry.
Also, this was my first fic out of my mother tongue; I cherish this fic so much how yall have no idea, and (although I matured during the writing of this) I still wanted to share this amazing slip-up I had that I corrected SEVERAL days later which to me is still the funnier thing I ever wrote by mistake 🥲
At the end of chapter 4 (Look for the truth in the back of my hand) I meant for the Reader to say: “knock yourself out” but mixed up the way of saying and wrote “knock yourself up”, referring to Carlisle🤡
So yeah, if you want to go back and appreciate the hilarity of the conversation with this slip-up in mind, be my guest. Not so smooth now, are we, Reader?
I love you all, guys; you make my day better every time.
See you next update!🩷
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