The Fairytale of New York.

A half moon hung, fluorescent against the jet-black plane of the sky, hovering over the city of New York. All around the grand city thousands of inhabitants, mixed with a fair smattering of tourists, walked the white streets – the snow that had blanketed the sidewalks was turning brown in places, due to squeaky wellington boots and soggy shoes.

The bright lights of Broadway highlighted a little boy, his galoshes yellow and squeaking, his small feet bouncing upon the wet floor. His delightfully curly, brown hair was hidden underneath a woollen hat. A gloved hand reached upwards towards his mother; a beautiful young woman with wonderfully auburn curls framing her heart shaped face. Walking alongside the pair, their footsteps perfectly synchronized, was a softly handsome male, with waves of blonde hair – a boy of eighteen months, with hair the burnt copper colour of a dying fire, in his arms, his face buried against the collar of his father's black trench coat.

On the next street corner, the blonde gentleman raised the arm that wasn't wrapped under his son's bottom to hail a cab. A few passed straight by, paying absolutely no attention, but one kind man saw the young family and pulled his taxi to a stop by the curb. The four of them climbed into the back, the gentleman being awfully careful not to jostle the child in his arms and told the driver to take them up the road to Central Park.

The driver was tipped very generously by the good natured father as the four of them left the taxi and walked slowly into the park. The little boy left his mother's side to run and jump into the hills of snow – pointing at the sky when he saw more white flakes fall, he shouted with a childish delight;

"Look at the snow, Mommy."

"I see it, baby," his mother, returned, turning to her husband with a very contented smile. Her snow boots crunched in the fresh snow, and as she turned to watch her first son, she hit an uncovered section of wet ice – her legs buckling underneath her.

Only to be saved by the warm hand of her husband, who had saved her nearly ten years prior. His fingers wrapped around her bicep, steadying her, before pulling her body to his and smiling before pressing his lips against his bride's brow.

She beamed up at him, his favourite ever smile; "You're forever saving me, my love."

In the small borough of New York called Greenwich Village a fair number of students resided. Esme Platt, a first year Architecture student at Cornell University, walked daintily along the sidewalk heading to the third floor apartment she shared with her flatmate; a blonde dancer at Julliard she had met on her first week in the city while she was sat in a busy Washington Square Park, the blonde had been bunking with her twin brother. The roads and paths that she had walked upon were dangerous, the snow that had covered the city over the course of the third week of November had somewhat melted, becoming incredibly icy in most places.

She was well protected against the cold; a duffel coat covering the burgundy Cornell University sweater she wore with pride, a canary yellow woollen hat – with an abnormally, out of proportion, pom-pom knitted to the very top – sat on the very back of her head. A few errant, auburn curls coiled ethereally around her face.

All the twenty year old wished to do was curl up by the fire, with a cup of hot cocoa and a dog-eared Charlotte Brontë novel, as was her customary on a weekday evening.

Her arms felt very tired after carrying three, rather heavy, text books back from her early morning lecture; the top a tribute to, who Esme saw, the greatest architect to ever set foot on earth, Frank Lloyd Wright – whose Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum she had visited religiously over the three months she had been studying in the city.

She could see, just a couple of blocks down, her cheery red door – that the Psychology major that lived one floor down, Alice, had voted was to be painted the brightest cherry the six inhabitants of number 163 had ever in their lives seen. She was right. The large Christmas wreath that resided upon the door, forest green on red, called for her and for a fleeting moment Esme forgot that she was far from graceful. Her small feet, covered by a large, clunky pair of snow boots her parents had purchased for her a few Christmases ago, suddenly found no purchase on the smooth, slippery layer of ice she had walked upon. Then Esme felt like she was flying.

Only to find out a short moment later, when she landed flat on her back, winded, her books scattered everywhere, that what she had indeed done was fell – rather ungracefully. She scrambled to her knees, quickly, and kneeling in a puddle of freezing cold water her worn jeans sticking to her knees, she started to gather her books together.

"Here let me help you."

She looked up, surprised, at the young man who had stopped to help her. He was crouched down in front of her, a hand extended towards her, the Lloyd Wright book balanced carefully in the other.

"Thank you," she responded, shakily, accepting the book from the kind man and placing it gently atop of her pile.

A warm hand wrapped its way around her upper arm, and with his aid she managed to pull herself to her feet. Now that she was up to full height, she managed to have her first full look at her saviour. He had the most delectably blonde hair, arranged in loose waves that fell in front of his baby blue eyes, clear eyes. He wore a striped shirt of blue and white, a navy blue gilet over it, with a pair of grey jogging trousers and a large woollen scarf wrapped perfectly around his neck. He was easily the most beautiful man Esme had ever seen.

"Are you okay? You look cold," he pointed out in a kind voice. When all Esme could do was nod, with a small shiver, he said;

"Come on, I'm buying you a coffee," seeing she was about to argue, he continued with a kind smile, "I insist."

With a nod, and another small "thank you," he touched his hand to the small of Esme's back, leading her towards the quaint coffee shop on the opposite side of the road.

The windows were a touch wet, with condensation, and as they entered - the blonde man holding the door open for Esme - a small bell dinged above them. It was empty, save for a balding, middle-aged, business man who sat in the corner; a coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other with a half eaten Danish pastry on the table before him. The ripe smell of grown coffee beans was luscious in the air as he led Esme over to the table by the burning fire, he gently removed her jacket, placing it on the back of her chair before pulling it out for her to take a seat upon. The blazing fingers of the fire warmed her back tenderly, the warmth felt beautiful against her cold skin and she almost forgot about the young man until he placed a fresh cup of steaming white coffee on the table in front of her.

He removed the scarf from its residing place, revealing a perfect creamy neck in its wake, and placed it on the back of his chair, his body warmer following suit.

"I'm Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen," he said after a small sip of his steaming drink of choice.

"Esme Platt," he returned, with a slight wave of her hand.

"Esme," he repeated, seemingly savouring her name on the tip of his tongue. "That's French, it means 'loved'."

A small blush painted the soft cheeks of Esme Platt.

"You study Architecture?" Carlisle Cullen pondered, with a small nod to the books that Esme still grasped in her lap.

"Yes," her voice was hoarse. "Yes I do. Do you?" she asked hopefully.

"No," he answered, quietly. "I have always had an appreciation for it though. "I came from London to study Medicine here."

Esme was in awe at the gentle soul she sat across from. His fingers softly touched the rim of his coffee cup, lifting it to his lips to take another sip, before holding it between his hands – the steam rising to fan at his face.

"I am really sorry about before. I wasn't watching where I was walking."

"Nonsense, I am very glad I could be of assistance," his blue eyes wandered around the room for a moment, before coming back to catch the wondering gaze in her green eyes. "Where do you come from?"

"Ohio," she answered. This was the starting point. Their conversation flowed easily, he was a beautiful listener and his attention was always on her. They talked for over an hour, the coffee turning cold without notice. And by the end of the hour they were laughing and smiling at one another as if they had been friends longer than sixty minutes.

"Are you warm enough?" Carlisle asked as they got up to leave. As he opened the door, a blast of the cold air from outside the café hit the pair, causing the smaller to violently shiver. As quickly as he could, Carlisle removed the scarf from his neck, wrapping it around Esme's neck and pushing the longer hair from away from her face. "Beautiful."

As the pair walked in slow, deliberate paces down the street to where Esme had pointed she lived, Carlisle kept a hand at the ready, just in case she was to fall unsteady again.

"Is it rash of me to ask if I can see you again?" he asked hopefully as they stood next to black banister that led up to the red door of her apartment.

"I'd like that very much," Esme returned with a big smile, fishing a pen from her knapsack and scribbling her number down on the back of his hand.

"Me too," he said, caressing her brow with a gentle brush of his lips. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Esme."

With one last smile, a touch of his lips to the back of her hand and a gentle wave, he walked down the road in the way they had just come. Esme watched him until he was out of sight, and with a heavy sigh and a hand to her heart she pulled her key out of the pocket of her jeans and let herself into her apartment.

That night, the novels she was so accustomed to reading held no attention. She struggled to focus; on anything really. The words she had read so many times, passed by in a blur. He roommate, Rosalie, could sense something was up with her usually upbeat and quietly talkative friend as they sat down to last night's leftovers, but she knew better than to bring anything up. As Esme relaxed in her customary bubble bath that night, the only thing on her mind was him. Her mind was racing, and as she sunk below the water to wash the suds off her hair all she could remember was his beautiful blue eyes and his gentle nature. And when Esme curled under her childhood patchwork quilt later that evening, the street lights reflecting against her ceiling above her, her phone vibrated once; a text message. Flipping it open, there was only one word displayed across the screen; "Hello", and it was enough.

From that moment onwards a great romance blossomed. For the man that saved her on that bitter afternoon, who bought her coffee, walked her home and treat her as if she was precious became everything that Esme Platt had ever wished for. They had their first 'date' a week after they met, he arrived on her doorstep with a polite knock five minutes before they were due to meet, holding a plastic sunflower – for Esme had resided in him her sorrow at watching flowers wilt. She had taken it into her arms, cuddling it to her bosom with a great smile, while he kissed her cheek and told her she looked beautiful. That night they visited the small restaurant a few blocks further down the road, the candle that was lit on the table in between them had melted most of the way down before they got up to leave, slightly tipsy from the fine wine the sommelier had served. He walked her home again; her arm tucked in the crook of his, his black dinner jacket over her bare shoulders, and left after a longer kiss to her cheek, a promise that he had the most amazing evening and a vow to call her soon.

Her first Christmas away from Ohio, away from her family, was spent in his living room. A large homely room, with a worn leather sofa and armchair, wall-to-wall bookcases filled with medical texts and historical novels for his roommate and a six and a half foot tall, traditional Christmas tree standing proud in the corner. She had opened her presents from him; a painting set filled with the richest of oil paints and a hand stretched canvas, and the most beautiful, hand-knitted scarf, with much delight, jumping exuberantly into his arms with an outcry of "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." She had handed over her presents to him; a lamb's wool sweater of the most delightful grey and a phrenology skull, and was rather surprised when his hands grasped hers and pulled her towards the hallway. By his front door, in the unlit foyer, her dream came true, as he pulled her towards him and gently brushed his lips against hers.

He smiled, and whispered against her forehead, "I've wanted to do that for a long time, I was just waiting until the right time." His eyes drifted upwards, and Esme had to laugh when she saw just what he was looking at.

"Mistletoe? Oh, you sentimental fool!" she cried in delight. She rose up on her toes - his hands coming to grasp at her waist in order to keep her steady – and ruffled his impeccable hair with her fingers, before pressing her lips against his. "You didn't have to wait so long." They spent the rest of that merry day laughing along with one another. Esme busying herself around the stove; Carlisle chopping vegetables at her request, carving the turkey once it was done and stealing intimate touches and even more intimate kisses. When the day had come to an end, she fell asleep in his arms; his nose buried in the waves of her hair, a fire burning opposite them and the credits of a bad Christmas movie rolling on the television.

She also spent New Year's in his arms. They took a cab deep into the heart of the city and he took her to Rockefeller Centre, and they ice skated. It had been the first time that Esme had ice skated, intentionally, and she grasped at Carlisle the whole way around – she became a natural within ten minutes but still his hand never left hers. He bought her a Statue of Liberty crown from a man on a street corner, and laughed when she complained that it made her look "touristy", and they stood by the tall buildings at Times Square, his arms around her, to watch the New Year ball drop. The people around them counted down from ten to one, screamed a jubilant "Happy New Year" to one another and confetti rained down all around them as Carlisle took Esme's face between his gloved fingers – his mouth covering hers;

"I'm falling in love with you, my beautiful Esme."

She smiled, shyly, and placed her head against his heart. "I love you too, Carlisle." They stood like that, her head on his chest, his chin on the top of her head, his arms tight around her back, in their own little bubble as around them the people of New York City celebrated the dawn of a new year.

During that year a lot happened in terms of their relationship. In the summer, Esme took Carlisle to meet her parents. Born and bred in the town of Columbus, Ohio they had never met an Englishman before, and to Esme's great delight both seemed absolutely taken with the handsome blonde with the strange accent. When he asked her mother for more "pudding" on that first night, Esme swore her mother's heart would jump out of her chest in excitement. Carlisle and her father, seemingly with nothing in common, hardly stopped talking over the two days they spent with the pair and often Esme saw her mother watching her beloved boyfriend and her with misty eyes and a soft smile. He was everything that Joan Platt had ever wished for her only child, and undoubtedly more.

A few months following the visit to Ohio, Carlisle asked Esme to move into the two bedroom apartment that his roommate, Jasper, had recently vacated. She accepted, with great delight, and enjoyed each and every moment of the moving process – especially sharing everything with the one she loved.

That winter, one year after they met, Carlisle took Esme over to Surrey, England to meet his parents. A modest four bedroom house rose from the snow, and with open arms and a broad smile, Carlisle's mother welcomed the love of his life into the family. They had a traditional Sunday dinner on that first night, a fire burning as Carlisle's father, a pastor, said grace and thanked the Lord – much to her delight – for bringing Esme into his son's life. He took Esme to the city, and took great pleasure in watching her enjoy the great architectural history. He loved her when she placed her hands on the black iron fence of Buckingham Palace and stared lustfully at the grand building, he loved her when she nearly pulled him over in the snow just as the changing of the guard procession started. He loved watching her emerald eyes light up when they took a tour of the Tower of London to visit Her Majesty's crown jewels and he loved her so undeniably that at the top of the London Eye, he took out his grandmother's engagement ring his mother had given him when he saw the look in his eyes, and dropped to his knee, asking her to be his from that moment forth. She agreed, oh, of course she agreed!

They married the next February, in a small chapel in town. Esme carried a small bouquet of orange blossoms and wore an off-white vintage dress, which had exquisite lace detailing on the bosom and a modest train; Alice had fallen in love with it and just had to have it for Esme's wedding. It was not a lavish affair, by any stretch of the imagination, it was small and intimate and perfect for the pair. Rosalie and Jasper were bridesmaid and best man respectively and the rest of the gathering were made up of family and close friends who were undoubtedly over the moon to see the pair marry.

Carlisle was just out of his residency at the nearby hospital when Esme announced she was pregnant with their first child about two years after their wedding. He was so utterly overjoyed. He told everyone he worked with, worked nightshifts so he could be with his wife and her ever growing bump every day, he would often be found singing to the baby bump very softly; and from the moment Emmett Cullen entered the world, blue eyed, dark haired and beautifully red cheeked, he had his father wrapped so tightly around his little finger. The pair upgraded their apartment to a house, it had a large enough back yard that when Emmett was older he could run, and swing, and play catch until his heart was content. They completely doted upon that little boy. And when Emmett was three and a half, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen welcomed a second child into the world – Edward Anthony, and their beautiful family was... perfect.

"It's always an utter pleasure, darling."

The three of them walked towards the lake, following the small footprints their five year old son had left indented in the snow. As they got nearer, they saw their first son on the bank of the river, his hands swinging by his side, a look of pure confusion on his little face.

"Be careful by the lake, baby," Esme said, walking up to him and laying his hand on the top of his head, brushing a few from his face.

His son tilted his head back, so he could see his father walk up on the other side of him. "Ducks, daddy?"

"There's no ducks, buddy."

Just as Emmett went to ask where they had disappeared to, his little brother started to wake up. He lifted his head from his father's shoulder, sleepily rubbing his weary eyes before touching a perfect snow flake that had landed on Carlisle's cheek.

"Snow, baby. Snow," his daddy, encouraged, bouncing him a little in his arms.

Emmett walked over to the pair, he stood right by his father's shoes and looked up at the pair – his chubby fingers grasping for his younger brother. Little Edward looked at his brother and pointed the hand that wasn't wrapped around his father's neck;

"Em."

Seeing that he wanted his brother, Carlisle lowered his son to the ground, grasping the folds of his waterproof jacket until his little legs were steady. Emmett took his brother's gloved hands, walking a foot or two in front of his parents at his Edwards pace.

Wrapping an arm around his wife's waist and pulling her against him, her arm wrapping around his waist too, Carlisle could not help but thank the Lord that he had everything he had ever dared to wish for. He knew from the moment he saw Esme Platt, kneeling on the ice that one day at noon, that she held the power to forever change his life. He did not know who he wanted to be when he lived with his parents in England, his parent's had paid a fortune for him to move to America and change his life for the best, for which he was forever grateful, but one little fortuitous moment had the chance to flip his world right side up. When she had cooked him that first Christmas dinner, and cried with him – her head on his shoulder - in his second year of medicine when he lost his first patient, he knew she was the one. Hell, even on that first date when he saw her bright green eyes in the light of the candle, he knew – more than he had known anything in his life – that that one girl, his precious Esme, was his place in the world. In her arms, her lips on his, his ring on her finger – that was right.

"Darling?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"Does this remind you of something?"

"It does," they had come to a stop in a pool of light. Carlisle held his wife's waist reverently between his two hands, lowering his face so there lips were adjacent. Esme felt her heart sing, for kissing the man of her dreams always made her fly and just before their lips met, Carlisle whispered;

"Happy Anniversary, my love."

This was inspired by a long bus ride home in the delightful snow that England received a couple of weeks ago.
Please Review.
Happy Holidays.