Title: Heartbeat
Author: Claddagh Ring

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Stephanie Meyer and a minor plot element belongs to Jean-Pierre Jeunet and the film A Very Long Engagement.

AN: This is a post-Eclispe, Edward-centric/instrospective piece told in a limited third person's point of view (and I don't care if Edward and Bella married in this fic; it's up to you). Gift-fic for Amanda.

The first time Edward and Bella had made love, he'd remained awake, his hand resting on her breast, long after she succumbed to her exhaustion. He could feel her breath, rising and falling in constant rhythm. The gentle warmth of her skin slowly thawed the ice of his hand. And her heart, her glorious heart, fluttered under his fingertips, beating another second of beautiful life into her tiny frame. How many nights had he rested next to her, listening to her live? How often had the simple sound of her pulse given the kind of peace that rivaled the peace of sleeping that he'd missed for many years until he'd met her? Her heartbeat, a simple repetition of a single note, was the most amazing sound his ears had ever held. With his hand over her heart, on her breast, on her bare skin, he'd never felt closer to it. It was like he was holding her very essence in his cool, pale palm.

If she'd have let him, he could've carried on for all of eternity like that, holding her heartbeat in his hands, keeping it safe and warm and thriving.

But she'd made her choice. Compromises, remember? She'd risk her soul if it meant being with him. It wasn't a silly teenage passion, meant only in the heat of a moment and in the most metaphorical way possible. No. She meant it literally; her soul be damned so long as his hand could hold hers.

It was one thing to give his life for hers. But he couldn't ask for her life in exchange for his. He'd already lived longer than a lifetime, made multiple memories of the same experiences. He'd felt the pains of a century. He'd laughed. And he'd loved. He'd loved more deeply than he ever expected his dead heart to love. If he died a true death tonight, it would not have been counted amongst the unfulfilled.

But she was still so full of life, so new, so breakable. She was warm, wide-eyed. And he knew she wouldn't appreciate him thinking of her like this, but she still so naïve about the world and the people in it. Even as she entered his world, like a midnight sun more brilliant than the rays over Norway, she was filled with a child-like sense of wonderment and curiosity. And it returned every time she discovered yet another myth of the underworld to be true.

It filled him with fear, the very thought that she might lose that innocence. He'd gone too long without innocence; it made him feel ancient. He never wanted her to feel that way. He was terrified that one day she would wake up and despise the sight of him. That she'd blame him for her unhappiness, say that he'd sucked her into this world and destroyed her and she regretted it all.

He hadn't needed to think about the future in many years but now the future plagued him, laughed at him as it sent uncertainty to dance at his feet. It would've driven him mad by now if not for that steady heartbeat pulsating in her chest and into his hand. It was comfort, unadulterated peace.

He would carry her through this life, as long as she would have him. And if the days of that life meant that her heartbeat faded away to nothing but a memory, a soft ache in his palm, so be it. He was past the point of ever letting her go. Let her hate him. Let her love him. Just so long as it was her, he would live.

I write, you read, you review, I write more... but not for this because this is a one-shot.