Chapter Text
It’s as though Edward’s suddenly become the marble he’s always felt like—heavy, cold, immovable. The tenebrosity emanating from James makes Edward scared, in the truest sense of the word, like he’s being hunted by something far beyond his comprehension, his capabilities. He feels rather human, weak and breakable. It’s a novel feeling. One he’s only felt in James’s presence and one he’s oddly starting to adjust to. It's the belief that he could cease to exist at any moment. He feels mortal, in a profound way that shatters his perception of himself.
Yet, all he can think about is how sad James looks beneath that gloom, how the pressure he releases is ladened with mourning and grief, how the shadowy power doesn’t taste like lightning and isn’t tangy in the air, it’s twisted and ashy on his tongue. That all-encompassing desire to embrace James returns, even as Edward feels frozen, locked by fear. By power.
“Nobody will be killing anyone,” Carlisle orders, his eyes heavy on Edward. “Please, James. Explain it so we can understand. We have our own laws about revealing ourselves to others, too.”
I’m sure I could kill him. He looks like a twig. Wizard or no wizard, I’d end him, Emmett thinks.
“You do?” James asks, interest flicking across his face as he leans forward. The darkness that held Edward hostage releases, disperses into the air as though it were a figment of his imagination. “Does that mean you have a governing body?”
“Yes, something like that.”
James makes a pleased face before sighing. “Usually I shouldn’t be revealing myself to you. But, it’s come to my attention that the wolves are—in part—magical. This exempts them from the Statute of Secrecy, since they're no longer considered muggles.”
“And muggle is a person with no magic?” Alice interjects, a small, secretive smile on her face.
Surely, if she’s happy, then there’s no reason for Edward to be so tense. Apart from the murky power that James captured him with briefly, there have been no other signs that James might randomly up and decide to kill them all. Edward wonders if he could do it—if James could murder the entire Cullen coven without being taken out first.
He doesn’t think so.
It’s statistically unlikely, practically impossible. There are far too many of them and their speed and strength gives them an unfair advantage. Magic or no, there’s no way James could take them all down instantaneously. Perhaps one or two of them would die, but the rest would be able to take him down while he is distracted. Edward knows that Jasper thinks so too—can hear it in his mind, can read how Jasper would attack.
He would leave Edward and Carlisle to take the first hit. They’re the closest, after all, and would protect Esme from any attacks even at the cost of their lives. Edward agrees with Jasper’s assumption. He would, without hesitation. Carlisle would too, but Edward is faster. Jasper would make his move once Edward and Carlisle have been attacked. Lunge for his throat. Jasper doesn’t even have the urge to drink from James, but he would still rip his throat out. It’s the fastest way to end his life from where Jasper sits now. Breaking his neck would be easier. Cleaner. But he won’t have the right angle unless James moves during the struggle with Edward and Carlisle. Perhaps Emmett could find his way around while Jasper attacks, snap his neck from behind.
But Jasper doesn’t need to plan for ways to kill James. And neither does Edward need to prepare for the outcome if it were to happen. Edward can see that now, with Alice’s small smile and her hand gently resting on Jasper’s knee. She must have seen their future with James, something new about the situation at hand. Edward tries to read it, but Alice sings in her mind—a horrible song from the radio at school that Alice knows Edward despises—cutting him from the vision by not allowing it to resurface. He glares at her. She seems pleased with herself.
“Yes, that’s what we call those without magic,” James continues, mere seconds having passed since Alice spoke. “I’ve come to the conclusion that your kind are likely the same. Beings whose origin stems from magic. I have someone researching it for me.”
“And if that’s not the case?” Edward asks, turning his gaze back to James’s haunting eyes. “If our kind don’t originate from magic—what happens to us then? Have you jeopardized us by telling us?”
“If you’re not, well, I’ll ask them to overlook it just this one time.”
“And why would they listen to you?”
The smile that spreads across James’s face is slow, mischievous. Like he knows a secret the Cullens don’t. He doesn’t explain, instead saying, “Don’t worry too much. The worst that would happen is that they erase your memories. They won’t kill you for knowing.”
Edward’s stomach drops.
He hadn’t known it could still do that.
He hadn’t known he could still feel fear like that, so human and volatile. Something that spread weakness in his stomach. This is worse than what he felt earlier, when he felt mortal and weak and inches from possible death. That was fear of death and power. This is fear of loss.
It is much scarier.
The fear of forgetting James. Of never having seen him. Of the visions, gone. Never to have existed.
Those visions that he so despises, that left him ruminating for months, that he collects like a crow collects precious things, hoarding them in a corner of his mind to review when the sun is down and the night is long. Even if they’re not real—even if they’ve never happened and might not ever happen—Edward still cherishes them. Cherishes the possibilities they hold and promises they whisper, of a life where he’s not alone forever.
The only benefit of living for so long is that that one can experience love for the same length of time. Edward has always been excluded from this. Alone in his family of lovers. He used to sit in his meadow and remember his human years, as much as he could. The touch of his mother’s hand on his forehead, the scent of his father. Abstract and distorted through time. Barely memories any more. Merely fragments, remnants of his failing human existence. He used to sit and wish to remember the vivid clarity of mortality and his existence as a human. The pain and pleasure he knows he felt in those short seventeen years. Since James, though, Edward hasn’t sat and wished to remember his human years.
Not once.
Instead, he takes the visions with him to the meadow nearly every night. Sits under the stars alone and replays them. Visits his favourite ones over and over and over again. One of him and James, in that very meadow, entangled in each other’s arms, bathed in the warm sunlight of spring. Another, of them together at home, Edward’s home, in his bedroom, listening to his favourite record spin on repeat as James rests his head on Edward’s lap. He’s reading and carding his fingers through James’s hair, the soft locks curling between his fingers in dark clusters, stark against his own skin. There’s one of James listening to Edward play piano. One of Edward running alongside James on his motorbike under a crisp morning fog.
And more visions, those even more precious. Even more coveted. Ones Edward wishes Alice had never seen—not because he doesn’t want them to exist, but because he wishes he could keep them all for himself. To remove them from her memory completely. One of James and Edward, tangled in his bed, his hands running along the divot of James’s spine, fingers gripping those alluring dark curls and pulling until those bright green eyes stare back at him. One of Edward, his back against a tree, James’s lips against his own, his hands dipping beneath Edward’s shirt and running along his chilled chest.
Another, one so depraved and secret Edward disappeared for two days when Alice first saw it. She never spoke of it, never even thought of it again. But Edward remembers it—he’d shoved it into a corner of his mind where he could pull it out in secret, roll it around in his hands and consider the implications of such a thing. The fact it even exists as a possibility. What this means for who Edward believes he is, again. His sense of self constantly being attacked and destroyed by James, in visions and in real life.
The vision taunts Edward with pleasure and pain. With the knowledge of what might come to be, and Edward’s horror at the idea—and the undeniable excitement that has venom pooling under his tongue. It’s one of a house Edward doesn’t recognise. A room with deep red walls and expensive, wooden furniture. Grand furniture with gold accents and elaborate designs carved into them. There’s a four poster bed with light tulle draped from the top, a soft cream that cuts through the darkness of the room. It matches the curtains, which are open, peeled back and tied at the sides, only letting the moonlight inside. The fireplace across from the foot of the bed glows with dying embers, the flames barely flickering.
James is on the bed, the covers sprawled around him, half on and half off. His chest is bare, but blurred, as though pixelated and undefined in the vision. His neck is bruised, the outline of a hand and dark kiss marks lining his throat. He cocks his head and curls his finger, calling Edward to the bed. Back to the bed. Edward knows those marks are from him. The idea is horrific—that he would exert such strength onto James. A human. Or a wizard, now, but soft and breakable all the same. Edward has never imagined himself to be someone rough. Someone aggressive. Until this vision. Until he first saw how he crawls to James when he beckons, how he grips James as though he belongs to him. How he kisses along James’s neck to the sounds of soft moans and rough fingers pulling him closer, tugging at his hair, legs wrapping around his own. How he opens his mouth, fangs elongated and—
“What do you mean?” Edward snaps, cutting the vision off. He can feel his family watching him because of his harsh tone. “They’ll make us forget? You can do that?”
James stares at him before slowly nodding. “Yes, although I doubt they would, if I asked. Besides, it won’t matter if my hunch is true.”
“So the wolves are magical,” Carlisle reiterates. “And you’re a wizard. You must know why we find that hard to believe.”
Instead of replying, James waves his hand gently in a complex loop, flicking his fingers just so. From his fingertips, a burst of blue light escapes, releasing a small orb that hovers in the air, blindingly bright.
“Oh, sorry,” James mutters sheepishly, waving his hand again and dimming the orb. “There. Is this proof enough?”
The Cullens don’t reply. They all stare, transfixed on the orb floating magically around the room, bouncing slightly like a jellyfish would under water. Edward wants to touch it. He wants to grab the ball and wrap around it and keep it protected from the ugly world outside. He releases his fists, letting the cracked fissures in his knuckles heal as he glances back to James, the scent of ozone thick and heavy in the air, on his tongue. He wants to drink it in. He slams his eyes shut, begging the idea, the vision to disappear. For his fangs to retract and the venom to stop. He swallows it down, takes a moment before reopening his eyes.
James is watching him. Watching his hands. Watching those small cracks heal as Edward shakily lets the death grip go and feels his fangs retract. James waves the orb away.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Edward doesn’t know how to tell James he wasn’t frightened of his power, or the glowing orb that floated around the room, or the crackle of energy that flowed from James’s fingertips. No, what he was afraid of was the way it made him feel. The way that magic called to him, deep inside, at something he always swore didn’t exist any more. The way he could have sworn his frozen heart stuttered a beat.
“You know, it’s quite hypocritical of you to not believe in magic when the wolves, and yourselves, exist.”
“I suppose seeing really is believing,” Emmett mutters.
“I’m sorry, James. We didn’t mean to offend you. You must understand why we were hesitant to believe such a story. It seems we shouldn’t have been.” Carlisle shakes his head, a small, disbelieving smile on his face. Nearly four hundred years and I’m still learning new things about this world. “What is this treaty you have in mind?”
James nods his head, but Edward’s still lost. Lost in himself. In the thoughts of James. In the visions he shouldn’t have hoarded and reviewed until the point of memorisation. He feels untethered in time, watching everything speed by when usually it’s so slow to pass. Edward can’t help wondering what this means for him and for James. What are wizards capable of? How long do wizards live? Is this why James watches them in Alice’s visions? What does this mean for all those possible futures? Is this where they begin? What does that vision mean for him and his place with the Cullens?
He knows that Carlisle is discussing something important. Logically, he knows that. But his brain is separate from the discussions he should be actively listening to, actively participating in. It’s a shockingly human experience. One that niggles at memories long-thought lost, erased to time mercilessly. He truly could be sinking, drowning, and he would be unable to notice. He has the oddest urge to drag in a deep breath and oxygenate his brain.
He doesn’t need to. Not that it would help him, anyway. Jasper, as always, is there to save him, prodding at his emotions until they’re boxed up, until whatever it is that shuffled awake inside of him slumbers again and Edward feels his focus hone in, his brain clear, and his ears reopen to the noise around him. You can’t fall apart now, Edward. You’ve just found him, Jasper thinks and Edward doesn’t dig any further. Doesn’t want to know what Jasper feels deep in Edward's emotions, in the places he begs ignorance to.
“We can agree to that.” Carlisle gives an affirmative nod. “If you agree to a few of ours.”
Edward has been rather unstable lately. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I need to mention it to Carlisle, Jasper continues to think, unrestrained thoughts, floating into existence before he has time to check them and attempt to hide them. Edward looks at Jasper with scornful eyes, shaking his head in a pleading no.
“What’re your conditions?” James asks, head cocked to the side as he throws another biscuit in his mouth. The coffee sits untouched still. Edward knows Esme will be in the kitchen practicing brewing all night.
“First, we ask that any information you find or learn about our kind is shared with us. It’s something of a personal interest of mine, you see.” James nods in easy agreement to Carlisle’s first condition.“Secondly, I must ask you to refrain from telling anyone else about our condition. Obviously, this will be reciprocated. Lastly, it would be appreciated if you could visit us sometime. There are very few people we can interact with on a truly honest level. I feel your friendship would be invaluable to us.”
I can always count on Carlisle, Alice thinks with overwhelming joy. Edward falls into her head, searches, just slightly, trying to find the vision she’s speaking of, to make her recall it, but she starts singing again. He rips himself from her mind with a glare.
“I suppose that’s fine,” James agrees reluctantly and Edward realises how long the silence was for. He looks back, only to be caught in James’s eyes once more, falling into their depth. James is frowning at him slightly. Edward wonders how long James was watching him for.
“You don’t want to do that,” James says, staring straight at Edward now.
“What?” Edward rasps out, gasps out, grumbles. He’s not sure how he responds, really, only that air whooshes from his lungs and the sounds form in his mouth and James holds him prisoner still.
James taps a finger to his forehead. “My mind. Stop trying to get in.”
Edward reels back. He hadn’t realised he had been trying to—but at this point, it’s more like habit. To graze along the thoughts of those around him. To drop in and out freely.
“What do you mean?” He somehow says, playing dumb.
“It’s a pain, constantly feeling you scraping against my barriers. You don’t want in—trust me. Could get lost in there. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been told it’s a rather uninhabitable place for others.”
Carlisle touches Edward’s shoulder and he realises his hands are creaking, cracking again under the pressure of his grip. He wishes to fling from the couch and into James’s mind even with his warning. In fact, the warning has made him more intent to see. To know what lies beneath. How different it is to others.
“You can feel Edward reading your mind?” Carlisle asks, fascinated.
“So, you’re a mind reader.” James's tone is rather unimpressed. “I can feel him against my barriers. He’s lucky I have them.”
“You can block him from your mind? Is that something you can teach?” Rosalie asks, for once speaking softly, her tone hopeful.
“Perhaps. Depends on how magical you are, really. How many of you have these abilities?”
“Edward is our only mind reader. Jasper is an empath, so he can sense and manipulate moods. Alice can see the future,” Carlisle explains.
James lets out a short, sharp laugh and is promptly standing from his chair. Edward scrambles from his, unsure why he feels the need to chase. James’s heart rate is through the roof. His blood too fast, each whoosh through his heart is a call of anxiety, of stress.
“Right. Do we have a treaty, Dr Cullen?” James holds out his hand and Carlisle stands, shaking it firmly.
“We do, James.” Carlisle hesitates slightly. “Are you okay?”
James nods his head before turning to Alice. She stands up, sombre, face unflinching. She was expecting this. She was waiting for it. From her vision that she wouldn’t let Edward see and now he resents her for it—resents her for keeping it to herself when it obviously it is important enough to make James leave so hastily. To fill him with the acidic scent of anxiety, lace it with the crackle of power so intoxicating Edward wonders if it’s light-headedness he’s feeling.
“James,” she replies softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop them.” James scowls and turns from her, pacing for the door. “They’re not set in stone,” Alice calls after him. “They’re malleable. Changing. Simply glances into possibilities.”
“I don’t care,” James replies over his shoulder. “Keep me out of them.”
And then James is gone, disappeared into a black fog, displacing the energy in front of the door that he stomped to but didn’t even use.
“What the fuck was that?” Emmett asks Edward, as though he is somehow more knowledgeable on the mystery that is James Granger.