Edward stilled. Not for the sudden rush of movement. He has no fear of Carlisle, that Carlisle might wish to hurt him purposely. And still he is not expecting it -- not expecting what it evokes in, and from, him.

But the tightness of Carlisle's grasp, as though it isn't even tight enough still, close enough or hard enough to be real, and his own pride, amid other things, pushes him past the memory. To press his palms, one against Carlisle's back, and one crossing up against his shoulder and the nape of his neck, and hold him where he is.

Edward voice crossing confusion and concern into a sharper place for all of its quietness. "What happened? Are-" milliseconds pause and change. "Is everyone alright?"