Theladyingrey42's Gift

Dear Karin,

When I asked Jen what you liked, she said BxE (among other things) and knitting. And I said ... I can do that.

For better or worse, these drabbles are the sum of what came of it.

Wishing you the very happiest of birthdays...
 -Diane.

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Bella POV:

The first time I notice him, all I see is the beauty of his face. All high cheekbones and soft, red hair, he is haughty. Perfect.

Removed.

Every day he sits in the back of the library with his head tilted down, thick-rimmed glasses sliding down his face. He speaks to no one and no one speaks to him.

In class, too, he sits alone, and I try to understand what's different about the Edward I see in class and the one whose image taunts me in the library.

Then I realize that, in the library, his hands are moving.

~o~

Sitting behind him in biology, I watch those hands. They are long and elegant like a pianist's, but it doesn't seem like music they are making as they tap idly at the desk.

In the library, they have a rhythm all their own. When I finally dare to venture closer, I realize I can actually hear it, a faint tap-tap-click that matches the motion of his wrists.

He finally notices me and sits up with a start, pushing his glasses up his nose and staring angrily at me. Shifting, he tries to cover up his lap.

But I still see.

~o~

I wait a whole week before I approach him again, and this time, as I do, I clutch a bag of my own. Sitting down two seats over, I take out the ball of yarn and needles and unhurriedly begin to cast on. I focus intently on the work before me, ignoring the way his eyes keep seeming to drift over to me.

Ignoring the way his gaze affects me.

The period is almost over before I get the courage to make my move.

Intentionally, I drop a stitch.

"Hey," I whisper. "Any chance I could borrow a crochet hook?"

~o~

The next day, he shifts his book bag when he sees me coming. Accepting the silent invitation, I sit immediately to his right.

For a while, we knit without speaking, each glancing over from time to time. I can feel the heat of his arm radiating through me, but it is no match for the heat of my blush every time I catch him looking.

Finally, I break the silence.

"So how did you start knitting?"

He coughs.

"My mother taught me, back before she..." He trails off, shrugging. Quietly, he offers, "It's one of few things that calms me." 

~o~

The rhythm of our days matches the rhythm of our hands. We spend every lunch together now, and eventually we start speaking more comfortably. I tell him about my grandmother and her perfect rows of knits and purls. Slowly, he begins to recount stories of his mother's life. 

Immediately after, though, he always shuts down.

The glassiness of his eyes behind his lenses makes my heart ache, and I place my knitting in my lap. In equal measures, I long to touch and comfort him, reaching out with an unsteady hand toward his shoulder.

But every time, he pulls away. 

~o~

We fall into a holding pattern, for all that I long to advance. After a few weeks, his sweetness and his sadness have come to eclipse his physical beauty, and my heart is utterly bewitched by him. Undeterred by his distance, I keep trying to get closer, intruding on his space with a wandering hand or fidgeting knee.  

Each time, he shifts away uncomfortably.

One day, the quarterback of the football team happens to wander close, and Edward's eyes follow him, glowing with something I cannot name.

My heart shatters a little further as a suspicion clicks slowly into place.  

~o~

Suddenly, I need to know.

Nudging him with my elbow, I point with my needles at the man. Edward's look is quizzical.

"He's cute," I shrug, testing and breathing hard.

A range of emotions passes over Edward's face. Hurt, then confusion.

And finally realization.

His jaw drops and he sputters, "What- I'm not-"

I giggle with relief as he runs out of words, his face blushing brightly. But it's not until he puts his needles down and begins to pack his things that I realize he's angry, too.

Looking down, he hisses, "Just because I knit doesn't make me gay." 

~o~

My hand is on his arm before I know what I'm doing, the feel of it surprisingly solid beneath his shirt.

"Edward, no, I'm sorry."

He is still turning away, though, hiding his face. Hurt and anger drip off his words as he murmurs, "Just because you don't find me attractive..."  

My hand falls away, my voice small as I whisper, "That's the thing, Edward. I do." Gulping, I continue. "It was a theory... I was trying to figure out..."

I look up to find him staring at me. "I wanted to know why you wouldn't let me touch you."  

~o~

My face is burning instantly, my eyes stinging with tears. Cursing myself for my own stupidity, I stuff my knitting in my bag.

He isn't gay, Bella. He just doesn't want to be touched by you.  

I sniffle even harder at my own harsh words, but I know that they are true. I ignore his pleas as I push past him, the door to the library hitting my forearm hard as I rush through it and out into the empty hall.

"Bella! Wait!"  

I don't listen.

But then I feel it.

I freeze as his hand entwines itself with mine. 

~o~

Somehow we end up in a deserted classroom, our hands clasped together the entire time as he guides me down the hall. With a loud click, the door closes behind us.

For the very first time, we are truly alone.  

Once inside, he pulls away, and I feel the loss immediately as his hand slips from mine. Slouching painfully, he drops into a chair before gesturing to another at his side.

Agitatedly, he rubs the back of his neck and tugs at his hair.

His eyes are still cast down as he asks, "How much do you know about me?"  

~o~

"After Mom ... died, I - I was a mess." He speaks quickly but deliberately, his fingers threading themselves together as he fidgets. "My dad tried to fix it with money. A car. I got into some things that didn't help..."

When he glances up, it is like he is begging for something.

So once more, I try.

This time, when I touch him, he doesn't wince or flinch. If anything, his whole body seems to shudder in relief. 

He looks down again, staring at our hands. His voice is stronger when he speaks. "That's when Rosalie - that guy's girlfriend - got involved." 

~o~

"She said she wanted me." His whole expression is riddled with pain, and I can feel him shutting down. 

"It's OK," I murmur. With one hand still clasped over his, I take my other to his face, inhaling deeply at the warmth of his cheek as I brush it with my fingertips and sweep his hair behind his ear.

For a moment, he stops and simply breathes.

"When it all came out," he whispers, "it destroyed me."

He looks up at me with sad, terrified eyes. "Bella, I swore no one would touch me again.

"But I want you to."  

~o~

Neither of us moves for a long, breathless moment, but then suddenly I am exhaling, my lips curling up as my vision swims with unshed tears.  

"Oh, Edward," I breathe, my hand cupped tenderly around his cheek. I seek to thaw his frozen, fragile features with my touch, even though I know it's what he fears the most. Pulling him forward, I shift until we are directly face to face, our foreheads touching.  

"The money - it - I didn't know what you had yesterday," I whisper softly. "And it won't matter tomorrow."  

"Edward, I promise that all I want is you."

~o~

His voice is shaky as he says my name. So tentatively, he lifts his hand to let the backs of his knuckles drift over my face.  

"There's no one else I've wanted," he whispers. "I didn't mind being alone. But then you … you seemed to like me for who I am. Weird, quirky hobbies and all." He chuckles and shakes his head. "It seemed too good to be true."  

"I do," I whisper, insistently. "I do."

He takes my head in both his palms, his eyes asking.

With my own, I respond.  

Then, finally, he presses his lips to mine.  

~o~

Our first kiss is so soft and so unsure. He swallows hard as he pulls away, but neither of us is ready for this to be over. Feigning confidence, I pull him back to me, parting my lips slightly until his mouth opens, too.  

By the time we kiss for the third time, the weeks of wanting begin to push past his terror and my reserve, and when our tongues touch, tasting, he moans.  

We separate soon after, knowing that this step forward is enough.

But the wideness of his smile tells me that there won't be any going back.  

~o~

"Bella?" As he pulls me from my daydream, there's a tentativeness to him that I hardly recognize.

Three perfect months have passed. Three months of talking and knitting.

And kissing.  

Things haven't always been easy, and I know he's still learning to trust. For the most part, we have ridden in my truck, and I have insisted on going dutch on everything.

But slowly, so slowly, the wariness has disappeared from his eyes.

And just a touch of the sadness has, too.  

"Bella?" he asks again, and I smile.

"Um," he stammers, "I have something I wanted to give you."  

~o~

It is my turn to be wary, and I look up at him with one eyebrow raised. Laughing, he leans forward to kiss me, and I feel my face relax.  

"Here."

Still somewhat uncertain, I pull the tissue from the bag.

And find, inside of it, the most beautiful scarf I have ever seen.  

"It's from a pattern my mother gave me," he says quietly, watching me.  

Without hesitation, I jump into his lap. "I love it," I murmur fervently against his lips. "It … and you."

He smiles and wraps his arms around me fully. "Bella, I love you, too."  

~ FIN ~

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