It was not busy. At all. How bizarre that no one would be sick on this particular Thursday evening. Carlisle sat in his office and stared at the waxing moon, hypersensitive eyes catching each movement as it inched across the sky. Well, there were sick people, he mentally corrected himself. They didn't demand his attention right now, though.
He leaned back in his chair and examined his private office. It sat in the far corner of St. Luke's Hospital , facing the woods and the mountains behind the building. The outer walls were entirely glass and the floor was lined in a heavy, soft carpet. His desk, situated for a proper view outside, was pure rosewood. His seat was well cushioned and comfortable, a pleasant shade of green on the dark wood.
The wood-paneled walls were lined with diplomas and bookshelves and a single hand-carved cuckoo clock. He waited for the clock to strike 8:55, then got swiftly to his feet to make his rounds. Opening the heavy door, he was accosted by the fluorescent light of the hallway. The heels of uniform shoes clicked on the tiles, and his shoes joined them as he strolled down the way.
The fourth or fifth nurse he passed was showing off her stark white, pressed shirt to a receptionist, citing the wonders of bleach. "There was a huge blood stain on it! I thought it'd never come off…"
Carlisle smirked. It hadn't come off, not to his eyes, but her happiness was contagious. He walked lightly.
Ten more steps, and he could hear the clock down the next hall ticking loudly. Somewhere, someone was coughing up blood. The smell meandered towards him through the air and didn't leave him as he entered the intensive care unit.
The ICU in this hospital was one of the firsts in the country, pushed mainly by Carlisle, who had idolized Florence Nightingale ever since he had met her.
Consciously, he tapped the plastic door very lightly. It swung out in front of him as if he had plowed through it with a gurney. The lights here were brighter, and every third one was flickering rapidly. He made a mental note to alert the janitors, because in two or three days, it would be bad enough for human eyes to notice. The tiles were white and grey and beige here, in no particular pattern. He swung into the first room.
Mr. William Roberts, a local police officer, had a misfired bullet in his femoral artery and was awaiting surgery to remove the hunk of lead. Carlisle checked his gauze and tourniquet, elevated his leg higher, and made a show of checking for a temperature, though he could feel that his patient was a little cooler than normal.
He left the room and told the nurse that Mr. Robert's temperature would drop unless she gave him an early dosage of his medication. She nodded and went to the patient. Carlisle pretended to sift through his papers while watching her check the patient's temperature with her hand and then squint back at him. His temperature was lower, but not that she could tell with her weak human senses.
This was the course of things for the next four rooms: Miss Carter with nasty concussion, Mrs. Richmond with syphilis and a worried husband, Mr. Morrison with a bad case of the flu and Mr. Turner with a gangrenous foot.
As Carlisle wandered into the fifth room, he saw exactly what he expected to see: an empty bed. He smiled to himself before returning to the hallway and heading to the nearest nurses' station.
"Miss Kristov is not in her room," he said to the first nurse he saw.
She swooned slightly before nodding. "She went to the waiting room, as usual, Dr. Cullen."
Carlisle nodded back and spun on his heels towards the entrance to the wing. He noticed that he was walking faster than he needed to, and consciously slowed down. Taking an unnecessary deep breath, he exited the ICU.
The lights in the waiting room were dimmer here, closer to the level of light in his office. Normally, people sat huddled together with their families, waiting for news from a doctor. Whenever he walked in, every head in the room popped up and looked at him expectantly. Whenever Annie wasn't playing, that is.
Carlisle had heard the music from Annie's room, of course. He had to make a show of everything, though: 'Yes, I'm human, I don't know where she is,' or people became disconcerted. Mr. Roberts' nurse, Nurse Sherry, in particular, kept a close eye on him; whether that was for her own suspicions or his attractive physique, Carlisle didn't know.
In the corner of the room sat Annie, at a piano donated by a local singer who Carlisle had treated for bronchitis. Her short fingers danced along the ivory keys, occasionally shooting up to tap a black key. Their nails were painted a dark, shimmery blue.
Despite a major concussion from an accident following an attack of fatigue and blurry vision while on a horse, Annie functioned well. Because Carlisle had yet to figure out what's wrong with her, she had to stay in the hospital. The hospital couldn't find an appropriate room for her, however (especially since Carlisle requested she stay within his jurisdiction), and with no family, she couldn't return to an empty house. So, for the time being, she remained in the ICU.
Annie was a twenty year old music teacher at the local school. She was just under 5'4" with broad hips and a strong, flat stomach, yet to be stretched with the weight of a child. Her skin was pale but vigorously freckled and blush. Her round face hid behind a wild head of auburn curls and featured wide, green eyes framed in thick lashes, thick but well-groomed brows, a small, round-tipped nose, small, full lips, and pronounced cheekbones. Carlisle immediately had her unique features memorized for a reason he failed to equivocate.
She refused to wear her hospital gown, instead sending a candy striper out with twenty dollars to buy her a few nice things. Of the belief that she was less a patient and more a fixture, she stated she'd rather play naked in the waiting room then go out in the silly outfit. "Who goes out in their pajamas?" She had asked Carlisle once. He had been so amused that he didn't answer her.
Her English was tainted with a Russian accent, she spoke fluent French, and she was trained in Italian opera. As she played a tune off the cuff, she swayed in rhythm, her curls swinging behind her. Hearing Carlisle enter the room, she turned and shot him a smile that looked too big for her tiny mouth.
With one hand, she made the piano tinkle quietly, while she motioned for him to sit next to her with the other. Briefly he was overwhelmed with what he was sure would have been a blush save his bloodless nature.
As he sat, she smiled at her rapt audience and said, "Three cheers for Dr. Cullen, my new accompaniment!"
His eyes got a little wider than usual, and he whispered to her, "I can't play the piano very well…"
"Nonsense," she stated, "Certainly you know Heart and Soul!" He grimaced slightly as she transitioned into the high part, then the low part. "Copy me."
Though he hadn't played a piano beyond a brief fiddling sixty years ago, he watched her fingers and imitated her movements exactly. "Just repeat this?" He asked, totally caught up in her presence and her playing.
She nodded and began the high part, initially staccato and fleeting. Soon, however, she began to embellish the melody, and before long, she had the whole room clapping along. Carefully but audibly, she slowed down, and said to him, "Switch!" Without questioning, he leaned back and let her slide across his lap while she immediately took up a flourished version of the low part.
Breaking to show Carlisle the high part, she continued playing the low part with her left hand, and took his hand in her other. With uncanny coordination, she plopped his fingers down on the appropriate keys, and before he knew it, he was playing along with her.
Softly, she asked him if he knew his scales. When he nodded, she said, "Up a key, then!" and he complied. They continued for a few more minutes. Every time she smiled at him, he made a mistake, and she giggled. Eventually, she slowed the tune down again, this time to end it. She reached up into Carlisle's ranged and interrupted his hands to finish with style. When the last note faded, the room clapped.
She stood and stepped away from the piano before curtseying, then motioned to Carlisle. "And for our multi-talented Dr. Cullen!" To his surprise, the claps got louder. The nurses had stood up and clapped for him from the receptionist's desk. He smiled, took Annie's hand, and bowed with her.
The clapping faded away into murmurs, but Carlisle didn't let go of Annie's small hand. He lead her out of the waiting room and up the small ramp to the ICU. Annie smiled at him. "Doctor, you're still holding my hand."
Carlisle smiled back. "Your heartbeat is a little irregular, and your breathing seems labored."
"Your heartbeat would be irregular too, if your doctor was holding your hand. And my breathing is only labored from trying to keep up with your long stride."
"I have the prognosis, then, Ms. Kristov."
"Annie, please," She interrupted.
He nodded complyingly and said, "Annie. We must simply avoid any contact, and I'm sure you'll be in the greatest health by tomorrow, at worst!"
They laughed together, but the mood was dampened when Annie started coughing. It got so bad that she doubled over, her long curls teasing the floor.
Carlisle tried to steady her, and the instant his hands neared her armpits he realized that she was burning up. He wondered briefly if it was pneumonia, but didn't wait to establish that as he lifted her and took her to her room.
The change in elevation seemed to affect her terribly. She fainted, her breathing ragged, in his arms.
Upon setting her down, he called for a nurse. "She's starting a fever, and she's fainted. Get her settled and awake, and have a resuscitator nearby. Her lungs are dangerously weak."
He ran to his office to get his medical dictionary. He figured that if this had affected her heart and lungs, it might be systemic. Praying that it wasn't, he jogged back to Annie's room.
She had yet to wake up, but the nurse had stabilized her. Carlisle arranged himself in the chair next to her and opened the book in his lap. This, again, was a show. He had memorized this book at least two years ago, but the nurses knew him as a doctor only freshly out of graduate school. Her occasional fatigue pointed towards Neurasthenia. The cause of and cure for Neurasthenia, however, were unknown. Carlisle frowned as he reread the suggested treatments. Bed rest. That was hardly useful. Though admittedly, she had been out of bed quite often lately; maybe some rest would do her well.
There was only one other treatment listed: electro-shock therapy. Carlisle shook his head. When you can hear what that does to the heart and body, you know it's not helpful. He sighed.
Then there was the problem of her fever. Fatigue and dizziness could be signs of a weakness in the immune system, which could make her vulnerable to pneumonia or other infections. He had few ways to treat it, if it came to that, and he could hear in her body and feel in her temperature that it was going to. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate.
She stirred, and when Carlisle looked at her, her eyes were open. "Dr. Cullen? What happened?"
"You're getting sicker, Annie," He said carefully. "I think your immune system is weakened, making you susceptible to infection. You might be developing pneumonia."
Annie bit her lip; she knew that wasn't good. No one had developed a particularly useful cure for pneumonia, either. Not yet. Then something occurred to Carlisle; he recalled his days traipsing around France near the end of the nineteenth century. He remembered a friend of his, Ernest Duchesne, and his experiments with a type of fungus called Penicillium Notatum. The fungus had seemed to have bacteriostatic effects. Carlisle wondered, would it help?
While this ran through his head, he never stopped looking at Annie. Her eyes were still bright, but she was pale. Her dark hair made it all the more profound. She looked like she had lost weight.
He took her hand briefly before running out the door, enjoying the sound of her heart fluttering. He let his sense of smell prevail (a dangerous thing for a vampire to do in a hospital), and searched for a moldy sandwich or something. He had to run outside to a nearby restaurant to find something, but find something he did. There was a moldy apple near a trash can; Carlisle's sensitive senses told him it was exactly what he needed. He returned to the hospital, looking slightly crazed, and ran to his personal lab.
Repeating his friend Mr. Duchensne's experiment, he replicated the injection that the Frenchman had given to sick guinea pigs. Looking at the set of loaded syringes in his hand just a few hours later, he prayed briefly in his head for this to work.
When he got to Annie's room, she was in bed, asleep. This saddened him, surprisingly. He was hoping she would be up and about, giggling and playing tunes for the families of patients in the hospital. Of course she wouldn't be, he told himself. She's sick.
Carlisle set the syringes on the bed-side table. "Annie?" He murmured, nudging her hand slightly to wake her. Her eyes fluttered open; their bright color shocked him. "Annie, I'd like to try a somewhat experimental treatment on you." Her brow furrowed.
"Do you think it will work, Doctor?"
"Carlisle, please," he said automatically. She smiled abashedly, and half-consciously took his hand, still resting on the bed near hers, in her own. Carlisle could have sworn his heart had been shocked back into beating from the electricity between them. He hesitated, trying to catch his breath, before he finally answered.
"I don't know. There is no drug in itself, like a pill, that you can take. I haven't tested it before, but I know a man who has tested it on animals. It has worked there. I think it's your best option."
It was her only option, now. Her fever had spiked while he was gone. Lingering above 102°, she was at risk of affecting her natural homeostasis. The nurses had put icepacks in her armpits and under her neck, but they barely affected her.
He didn't let go of her hand for a long moment, and right before he did, he brought it to his mouth and kissed it gently. He tied her arm with a tourniquet then and prepared the syringe.
It hadn't even taken a day for the fungus to kick in, doing exactly what it did to the bacterial infections in the guinea pigs. Her fever was down to a manageable 99° and she looked less pale. Carlisle stayed with her instead of retiring to his office or going to his small apartment. They talked for hours, and when she slept, he watched her. He was sure it was the closest thing to sleep he'd ever experience anymore. On the third day she seemed well, he walked her down to the waiting room and sat with her as she played some melody of her own creation.
While they were walking back, Carlisle asked her about her family. She had no husband, children, a sibling she wasn't in contact with, and both of her parents were dead. She considered her music students her family, talking often about each individual child and how she missed them. She, in turn, asked him about his.
Carlisle paused very briefly. "My mother died when I was very young. My father was a priest, though we…don't speak. He doesn't approve of the medical profession, you might say."
She nodded appropriately. "You're not married?"
Carlisle smiled and laughed a little, and said, "No, not at all."
"Well, that doesn't seem right."
"You should talk, Annie. What is a talented young woman like you doing without a husband?"
She scowled. "As if it's about talent."
Carlisle looked at her curiously. Her eyes shifted to him as they walked in the room, and she sighed. "My sister, the one I don't speak to, is a perfect lady. Demure, quiet, pretty. Looking forward to being a housewife…
"My brother-in-law used to be my boyfriend. He kept trying to propose, and I kept denying him. I just…didn't want to settle down yet! I had aspirations to be a teacher, and I was only 17… why rush? Anyway, he decided that was hardly a womanly way to behave, and he began to eye up my sister, Mary. And that's that."
Carlisle nodded with understanding. "Things have a habit of working themselves out. Maybe it's for the best, this way. Maybe," he said carefully, "you were waiting for someone else."
Annie swallowed nervously and leaned against the window of her hospital room. Carlisle heard her heart flutter with anticipation, watched her bite her lower lip till it was red and swollen. He realized what she wanted him to do, and before he even realized that he wanted to as well, he was already leaning towards her.
He brushed his nose against her, holding his breath for good measure, then pressed his lips ever so gently against hers. They were soft, melting against his. Her breath was sweet and warm. He pressed just barely harder, and she responded by slipping her arms around his neck. He held her close, taking special care to be more than gentle.
When their lips finally parted, her eyes remained closed for a brief moment before she opened them to look at him. There was a small smile on her lips, a bright blush in her cheeks, and a loving twinkle in her eyes. Again, Carlisle thought he felt his heart beat hard. She pressed her hand against his face, not seeming to mind the cold.
She kissed him once more, briefly, before pressing herself against his chest. He held her tightly to him and buried his face in her curly hair. She smelled like lilacs and vanilla.
Three more nights passed without much ado. Even on his night off, Carlisle came to visit Annie, bringing bright daffodils to her. Before she went to sleep, he kissed her good night.
Carlisle walked home that night, wondering if Annie could be sent home. Even if her pneumonia was gone, however, the neurasthenia could prove fatal in an unobserved setting. She had to have someone to check on her, like a nurse, or…a doctor. A bright idea flashed in Carlisle's mind, and he rushed home to make it possible.
The next day, Carlisle strolled into Annie's room with a smile on his face. He put down his clip board and sat on the side of her bed, taking her hand. She was asleep, but his touch woke her.
"Carlisle? You're beaming." She wasn't upset, but confused at his expression.
"Annie, your pneumonia is all but gone. Another treatment should do it."
"Well, that is good news." She smiled with him.
"And I have an idea to get you out of the hospital."
Her smile faltered. "Well, I suppose you need the room," she said dejectedly.
Carlisle chuckled. "Silly girl. Your condition requires someone to check on you regularly. Someone like a nurse, or –"
"A doctor?" She interrupted, her smile returning.
Carlisle's smile widened in response. "Annie, I would like to ask you to come live with me."
Shock dowsed her smile. "R-really?"
He nodded, more sober now. "Really. Of course, that's only if you wish to."
"Wish to? Carlisle! Of course!" She jumped from her bed into his arms, and he swung her around happily.
Annie checked out of the hospital that day, as Carlisle arranged for her things to be brought to his apartment. He had already prepared the spare room, cleaning it out promptly, and he had filled the cabinets to the brim with foodstuffs. To be safe, he had made six extra syringes of his homeopathic remedy, which he had taken to calling penicillin, and he brought with him a few stabilizing medical tools like a respirator. They were almost entirely settled by nighttime.
Annie had few things, something that didn't surprise Carlisle. Short of a few very nice pieces of ornate, hand-carved furniture – a bed, nightstand, trunk, chair, and desk – a piano, a limited wardrobe, and various bed linens, her collection was limited. The spare room was certainly big enough for everything of hers to fit in, and Carlisle added a rug to cover the bare floor.
To celebrate, the next day Carlisle took Annie out for the day. They got their photograph taken at a local frame shop whose owner had come across a Lippmann plate; half the town (those who could afford it) had gotten fantastic color portraits taken. The two stood next to each other, Carlisle's arm on Annie's back. She didn't mind the cold even then.
A week passed, and as Carlisle was walking to work, he eyed a jewelry store that he had always passed but never took any particular notice of. Sitting in the center of the display was a beautiful ring with an emerald the exact color of Annie's eyes. Rushing inside, Carlisle paid immediately with a check. He walked out with the ring in a little satin box in his pocket.
Work dragged on that day, and Carlisle considered taking a couple weeks of vacation. He wondered if the hospital could get by without him as he idly fingered the box in his pocket. Was he really going to do this? She had only been in his life for a few short months. Was this realistic? She didn't know he was a vampire. She didn't know what she was getting into.
It was then that Carlisle resolved to tell her the truth.
Too excited and nervous to be patient, he took an early leave and rushed home to Annie. He smiled at the jewelry store as he jogged past, and he leapt up the stairs to his apartment. As soon as the door was open, he called out to her.
"Annie?"
There was no response. "Annie?" He briefly looked in the living room and kitchen before heading to her room. The door was ajar, and he knocked lightly, thinking her asleep. When she didn't answer, he opened the door. She was in bed, indeed, but her breathing was far too shallow and uneven for her to be asleep. She was unconscious. He walked over to her, noticing the portrait that sat on her night stand. He looked from the portrait to Annie's face and realized that she was paler than she was just a few days ago. In their excitement, Carlisle had failed to notice her symptoms returning.
Immediately he retrieved one of the syringes from the drawer by her bed. He rushed to the bathroom to clean it with rubbing alcohol before returning to the room. As he stepped in, he hesitated. She smelled strange. Her scent before had been reminiscent of lilac, but it was now tinted with a tinge of moldiness. Despair fell over Carlisle; his mould had given her Bacteremia. There were spores of fungus in her blood that were causing her immune system to attack everything in sight, including her vital organs.
No wonder her breathing was ragged. He grabbed the respirator and put it in her mouth, pumping vigorously. After only a few minutes, she regained consciousness; she hadn't been getting enough oxygen to her brain. It was true, then. The Bacteremia was attacking her lungs.
He worked without consulting her, pressing his ear to her chest on both sides. The left one was most definitely more affected. Even removing the lung, however, wouldn't stop the spread of the infection. It would have to run its course. Carlisle shuddered, predicting that she wouldn't survive it with a weakened immune system.
She was looking at him, scared. "Annie? How do you feel?"
She coughed into the respirator, then removed it. "It's hard to breathe."
Carlisle's brow furrowed. What could he do? If he killed the fungus, pneumonia would kill her. If he didn't, this was going to kill her.
He laid next to her that night, monitoring her breathing and using the respirator more often than not to maintain it. When her mouth wasn't being blocked by the hunk of plastic, she murmured his name.
She woke the next morning to Carlisle sitting in a chair beside her bed. He was looking at the floor.
"Carlisle? What's wrong?" She asked quietly.
He was glad he had no tear ducts at that particular moment, at the moment he looked her in the eye. "I've failed you, Annie." She bit her lip and took his hand.
"You've done all you can, then?" He nodded. "That's all I can ask, isn't it?"
Carlisle hesitated. "There is…one more thing. Let me first say that save a miracle, you can't survive this, Annie. Now, there is something I've been hiding from you."
He paused again. She was slightly dazed on what few antifungal and pain medication he could provide to her. He wasn't sure she could make an informed decision. Part of him chuckled at regarding what he was suggesting as a medical procedure. Did he have a choice?
"Annie, I'm a vampire."
One eyebrow raised itself on her pale face.
"Not like the vampires you might have heard of. I have no aversion to garlic and I don't drink human blood, and sunlight doesn't make me shrivel up. I won't hurt you."
The second eyebrow joined its companion.
"Carlisle? Have you lost your marbles?"
"No, Annie…watch." He looked around for something strong but unnecessary. His gaze landed on the bar in the closet that held her few articles of clothing. He pulled it from the wall and looked at her, then bent the solid metal into a circle. "I'm very strong and very fast."
Her curiosity got the best of her, despite the interruption of the occasional cough. "What are you getting at?"
"I…can make you a vampire too. It won't save your life, but it will save you from death."
It was too much for her to bear; the stress of the news put her heart and brain into overdrive, and she collapsed. Carlisle cursed and dropped the bar to the floor. Her fever had spiked and her heart was racing. He rushed for a cool wash cloth, and replaced the resuscitator in her mouth. Her left lung was crippled badly by the disease.
The next day followed suit. She had brief moments of consciousness. Near the end of the night, Carlisle couldn't wait anymore to tell her how he felt.
The ring box had never left his pocket. He pulled it out and sat down on the side of her bed, like when he had asked her to live with him at the hospital.
"Annie?" Her eyes had been closed, but they opened at the sound of her name. She smiled at him. He smiled back, and said, "Annie, before it's… too late, I have something to give you."
She sat herself as upright as she could manage and looked at him curiously. He took her hand and placed the box in her palm. Her heart raced suddenly, and in the back of his spacious mind, Carlisle worried it would be the end of her. He brushed her face with the back of his hand, trying to calm her.
"Open it, Annie."
The hinge quietly creaked as she opened the box. Carlisle could hear the pads of her fingers brushing against the velvet case. He heard the breath stop in her throat as the gleam of the stone shined in her eyes.
"Carlisle?"
He took the ring out and slipped it onto her third finger. "Annie, marry me. I want you to be my wife."
Her eyes grew wet with tears and her lips trembled with the force of holding them back. Carlisle kissed the ring on her finger, then pressed his lips to hers. They wrapped their arms around each other and laid back against the pillows. Annie fell asleep against him, murmuring yes between breaths.
In the middle of the night, she began coughing, her mucus red with blood. Her fever reached its peak, and Carlisle knew it was near the end. He tried to wake her, but she just murmured her love for him in her fever. "Annie, please," he whispered, "I don't want to give you something you don't want. I don't want to scare you, but I don't want to lose you. Please, Annie. Tell me what to do."
She didn't answer him, and he couldn't bring himself to bite her. Till morning he murmured his pleadings for her to awaken, but she didn't. As the sun rose, her heart slowed its pace and her breathing was worse than ever. It was his last chance, and he knew it. Carlisle bit his lip and tried not to think. His instinct took over, and he sunk is teeth into her neck. It pierced the artery, and Annie's sweet bloody, as thick as honey, slid down his throat. He shook himself out of the trance of her taste, then, knowing he needed her to survive more than he needed to satiate himself. It was an idea that he couldn't get out of his head, in fact.
He kissed the bruising bite mark, smelling the venom flowing through her veins already. "Please, please work," he prayed, "God, save her for me and I will never make another. Please."
Her heart was too weak, though. It failed before the venom passed through it, and Carlisle listened with great remorse as her heart stuttered at the edge of death.
"I love you, Annie," he whispered, and kissed her eyelids. She let out one last breath, and slipped into the darkness.
Carlisle made sure the funeral was beautiful, though few people were there. Some people from the hospital had made it, people for whom she had played. A woman that looked similar but simpler than Annie was there, sobbing just barely too dramatically for Carlisle to be convinced. That must be Mary, and the sister-hopping husband. Apparently she had contacted the parents too, for next to the first couple was an older one. Annie's mother's eyes were just like hers, and they were filled with tears. Her father looked stern.
Other than that, he could associate with no one. When Annie's parents asked how he had known her, he had smiled sadly and said, "I was going to marry her." The bewildered look on their faces went unnoticed, as Carlisle's eyes were too thoroughly trained on Annie's casket.
Years passed. Carlisle moved to Chicago not long after the funeral, his fading footsteps silently promising never to return to the town in the Appalachian Mountains where he had met Annie. The Spanish Influenza had hit the Windy City full-force, and Carlisle was prepared to do what he felt he was meant to do. Day in and day out, inciting some suspicion but mostly quiet gratitude, he saved every life that passed in front of his eyes that could be saved by modern medicine.
He had been under the impression for the months passed since Annie's death that he would never meet again someone with a life so valuable that it could not be left to die. For that reason, he was surprised in both the occurrence itself and the form that it took when he met the bright eyes of Edward Cullen…