Disclaimer: I don't own, we already know this.

Since, The Godparents has decided to be a pain and not make my fingers and brain play nicely together, I thought writing a one shot would get me back in the groove.

This is dedicated to Aunt Bell, who I promised this to for her last birthday. It might have even been the birthday before last-I can't really remember. I hope you like it bb.

You might need a tissue, but I'm not positive. I hope you enjoy.


"Isabella Mare Whitlock!"

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud as my husband's voice floats in from the front yard. Hearing his boots stomp up the front steps, I turn the water off and lean against the sink to face his fake wrath head on.

The screen door slams moments before he appears in the kitchen doorway and I can't hold onto my laughter anymore as a small chuckle escapes me.

"It's not funny, woman." He growls, stalking forward and caging me in his arms; his face only inches from mine.

"But, Peter," I say as I pout. "He looked so sad at being left out. I just wanted him to feel better."

My husband closes his eyes and I know he's counting to ten. When he opens them back up, he says, "Isabella, he's a big black horse whose name is Hercules. He does not nor will he ever feel left out when you put a pink bow in your horse's mane."

I grin as I shrug my shoulder. "He seemed to be happy with it, since he nudged me with his nose and gave me a neigh when I was done. Oh, and he licked me too."

Peter finally gives me that smile of his I love and shakes his head. "What am I going to do with you, woman?"

"Love me?" I ask innocently.

"Baby, there is never any doubt of me doing that." He says before closing the distance between us and pressing his lips to mine.

I sink into the kiss like I always do, like I've done for the ten years we've been together. Before it can get too far out of hand, his cell phone rings from his pocket, eliciting a groan from him.

As he pulls the phone free and answers I start to lean forward, but his words and tone stop me.

"How big?" He asks and I close my eyes as he says, "I'll be ready."

When he takes the phone from his ear I ask, "Where?"

"Port Angeles." He whispers as he leans down and kisses me.

I nod and then watch as he makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs to our bedroom. As I hear him start to change I turn back to the sink and fight the tears that I know will hate to see.

I should be happy that my husband is such a kind soul; it's one of the first things that drew me to him, but at times like this, when he's going into danger is when I have the hardest time with his compassion.

I wish that being the only vet of our small town would be enough for him, but it's not. And I knew when I married him, there would be times he would need to go off and do what he's about to, but it doesn't make me like it. It doesn't even help that my brother, Emmett, and his brother, Jasper, are there to watch his back because they are my family too.

"Bella?" Peter says.

I reach up quickly, wiping the tears that managed to escape before I turn around and take him in. While I don't like what he does, my heart still stutters with the way he looks in his fireman uniform.

He sighs when he sees me and quickly walks over, taking my face in his hands and placing a kiss on my forehead.

"I love you," He whispers.

"I love you, too." I say back just before his mouth descends on mine until a horn honking pulls us apart.

"Come home safe." I say as he starts to back away.

"Always." He says with a smile.

I wait until the door shuts behind him before I move to watch him leave. He walks quickly and with purpose across the front yard and climbs into the backseat of Jasper's truck; a last glance toward the house, a wave from him, Emmett and Jasper, and then he's gone.

I stand there for a few more minutes before I move to find something to distract my thoughts. I don't know why I bother, nothing ever works when he has to go to Port Angeles. I think it's because I know that if the Port Angeles fire department has to call in the volunteer firemen from our small town 45 minutes away, then the situation is bad.

After ten minutes of housework, I give up and settle on the couch with a book. I read the same page five times before I set it to the side and grab the T.V remote off the coffee table; while I know I shouldn't, I press the power button.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I can only find court or talk shows on the main channels. However, my relief only lasts for one episode. The 5:00 news brings with it a ball of dread that makes my stomach churn, but I can't seem to pull my eyes away.

The breaking news banner flashes as the camera takes in the horrific scene. I listen as the reporter talks about the kitchen fire that has turned a beloved two-story, Port Angeles restaurant into a building of flames. I watch as the men in fluorescent yellow use everything they have to put the fire out, knowing that while I try to find my husband in the chaos, I won't see him. I pray that everyone got out safely, but when I see the first ladder truck extend I know that isn't the case and I start to pray that everyone does get out safely.

The fire continues to burn as three firemen rush into the front door, carrying a hose. The feeling of dread starts to grow and it is all I can watch. I flip the T.V off and get up, going into the kitchen. I pull things from the fridge, intent on making dinner.

My hands find a rhythm as I chop the vegetables and chicken I need for stir-fry. It's Peter's favorite and he will be hungry when he gets home.

The house phone rings as I finish the last of the carrots and I know before I even answer, that I will regret picking it up off of its cradle. On the second ring, I set the knife down with a trembling hand. The third has me drawing in a deep breath and the fourth has me releasing it. The fifth comes with a step closer as do the sixth and seventh. The eighth finds my hand on the receiver. It doesn't make it to number nine as I lift it to my ear.

"Hello," I whisper, hoping if my voice stays low I will have been worried for nothing.

The sound of my brother's voice as he says my name, tells me that isn't the case. I can't compute all of the words he says after my name; all I get is pieces-Peter, building collapsed, somewhere inside, trying to find him.

I don't know how long I stand there, staring at the wall and holding the phone to my ear. A warm hand taking it from me and putting it back in its place, brings everything into focus again and my head turns.

My best friend and Jasper's wife, Angela, stares back at me with tears in her eyes and all I can do is shake my head as my own tears start to leave wet trails down my cheeks.

"Come on, Bella," She says, leading me, with an arm around my shoulders, to the living room.

She sits me down on the couch and disappears back to the kitchen. I can hear her moving around for a few minutes before she returns with a cup of tea, handing it to me as she sits beside me.

The first hour passes in silence as my tea cools without me taking a sip. The second comes and goes with just the sound of the clock on the mantle ticking. The third hour brings words from Angela as she takes the cup from my hand, "Jasper said he'd call when they know something", but they hold no comfort as the hour ticks away into number four and I start counting the minutes until hour five.

At four hours and 48 minutes, lights wash across the far wall and the sound of a vehicle comes to a stop in front of the house. My eyes find Angela and if the room wasn't bathed in darkness, I know she would see the panic that is slowly taking over my body.

My legs feel like lead as she pulls me to my feet and leads me to the front door. I don't want to go, but the need to know has me pressing my hand against the screen and pushing.

My head is down as I step fully out onto the porch and I can't look up, so afraid of who I will or will not see.

Seemingly unending seconds pass and then I hear him say my name. A sob bursts from me and my hand finds the porch railing as my knees give away. Angela isn't fast enough to catch me, but he is and we go down easy-his strong arm holding me tight against his chest.

I cling to him as his lips meet the top of my head and he whispers over and over again, "I'm okay, baby."

My tears finally dry and I look up to find his blue eyes staring back at me. My eyes rake over him. He's covered in soot and ash, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and his left arm is in a sling; but he's never been more handsome than he is right at this moment.

His eyes follow me as I push myself to my feet and reach my hand out for his good one. Helping him to stand, I walk us into the house, up the stairs, and into our bathroom.

He leans against the counter as I turn the shower on and step back to him. Never taking my eyes from his, I reach up to the Velcro of his sling and pause, letting the silent question hang in the air.

"Dislocated," He says a second later and I continue on, removing everything he's wearing without a word in response.

I don't ask what happened, tomorrow I will, but for now I need to wash away this night.

When our things are in a pile on the floor, I take his hand and walk us into the shower. He steps under the warm water, wetting his hair down as I reach for his shampoo.

I make sure I wash every bit of the soot, ash, and sweat from his body. I try to ignore the bruises that are starting to show along his left side, but I can't and when he's clean I press my lips to each one, lingering over them until the water turns cold.

We step out and I dry us both off before putting his sling back on. When I'm finished, he wraps his good arm around my waist. As we walk to the bedroom his lips find my shoulder, drawing a low groan from my throat.

When we make it to the bed, he tries to lower me down, but I shake my head. I need to be as close to him as possible tonight and I know only one way to achieve that.

At his questioning glance, I turn us and push him to the bed. With just that one action he knows what I want and slides to the head of the bed propping against the headboard.

My eyes fill with tears as I look at him and as the first one slips down my cheek he says, "Come here, baby."

I go to him immediately, getting as close as I can and joining every part of me with every part of him. My heart pounds in time with his as our bodies move together. Our breaths mix as our lips meet again and again. Hands roam, drawing sounds that we've made many times, but they've never sounded as sweet. And when we finally fall apart, it's stronger and more intense.

The gambit of emotions I've felt today catches up to me as I struggle to regain my breath. I collapse against Peter, suddenly exhausted and can barely hold my eyes open as he struggles to get us under the covers. I help get us situated before I fall into the sleep that my body is craving.

I wake often through the night, my hands reaching for Peter as my eyes search the darkness. He's there every time, telling me with his words and body what I need to hear-He came home safe.


Well? How was it?