Chapter 37:

Kissing Cotton

Esme's mind was on fire for a good week after her peculiar encounter with the doctor beneath the willow tree. It was somewhat upsetting when she thought back to how excruciatingly close she could possibly have come to kissing him right then and there. No one would have ever seen them. It could have been their only secret...

He had taken her hand as the rain poured down, and without a word he pulled her out from under their protective willow and into the storm. Though the force of the rain had been hard and unforgiving, it felt almost sleek and gentle while she was running by Carlisle's side.

The way they ran together, hand in hand, was intoxicating. It was as if the speed and force and swiftness of their run was circulating between them both, a breathtaking synergy that sparked them into perfectly fluid motion. They possessed an undeniable power when they were linked this way, but that power could never be acknowledged.

Together they ran as fast as they could through the storm, all but hovering over the thick grass, clutching the other's hand like it was their destiny to do so.

By the time they had reached the back porch of the mansion, their clothes were soaked, their hair dripping with rain, both breathing hard. It wasn't particularly embarrassing, precisely because the awkward situation was shared, but Esme felt a soft burning in her chest as Carlisle's eyes quickly took in the sopping length of her body. She looked away as his gaze passed over her, pretending to have been blind to it. His hand was still locked around hers, and it had taken only that aversion of eyes for him to gently let go. She felt a tiny prickle of shame, but the sound of his heartfelt chuckling had instantly soothed her unease.

The mutual relief at being under the same roof again was palpable. As they retreated to separate rooms to dry off properly, even Edward's parental disapproval of their behavior sounded reassuring. It was nice to feel that things were mostly back to normal, skeptical as Esme might have been that it could happen in just one night.

It was all because Carlisle had taken her hand.

He had taken her hand so many times by now, yet every time he did it, it marked a new beginning. His warmth always stunned her, and his care always rescued her heart.

No matter how many flaws he let slip past his exterior, it would never change the fact that he was so frustratingly good.

The thought made her smile sadly as she tied the sash of her robe and pulled her drenched hair back over her shoulders, watching the rest of the storm through her window. At this moment in time Esme was never more relieved to ridicule her foolish infatuation. A romantic relationship with Carlisle sounded suddenly twice as preposterous. Everything that had happened between them so far seemed to softly discourage that dream. Unless he would have preferred taking a wife who had endured an abusive marriage, failed in suicide, murdered an innocent child, and all but lost her faith in God…

A month ago, Esme would have believed Carlisle did not deserve such a wife.

He would deserve someone who was loyal and loving, caring and compassionate, spiritual and sweet. Someone who had never spilled a human's blood. Someone who was not a sinner.

But now that she had seen the reality of the man who lay beneath the face of an angel, Esme was struck with a different kind of hope.

Each of them was as much a sinner as the other. Each of them had fallen as many times as the other. Each of them deserved more than they believed they deserved.

Upon realizing this, Esme felt something deep inside that posed a threat to her self-torture. It was almost like something was telling her that if she dared to hope enough, wish enough, and possibly pray enough, she would earn Carlisle's love.

What if it were possible…?

A mind like hers was made to wonder, despite how ridiculous and foolish it may have seemed. People dreamed, and their dreams were made into reality every day. Esme had always been the last person to hope for such a blessing, but impossibility was just a word in this world. There was still the smidgen of a chance, the crackle of a light beneath the door frame that Carlisle could be her romantic rescuer. It would have given her something for which she could be beyond thankful in this life.

It was with these sentiments that Esme dawdled into the month of November with a kind of muted hope. She had never truly wiped away every last drop of shame from her mistakes, and the changing of seasons only hosted a pitiful reunion of guilt and conscience.

There was never a moment to be fully unaffected by the child's face. In her mind, it had become such a strongly recurring image, she'd been tempted to name it, but the thought made her cry. If she'd still had the ability to have nightmares, it would have appeared every night – the songbird clarity of its tiny lips, plump red cheeks, ginger freckles, sickeningly blue eyes. Esme did not know if it had been the face of a boy or girl beneath the small gray hood, and it didn't matter. It had been life. She had destroyed life.

Then there were those few sparing angels who saved lives. Carlisle, most specifically, lingered on the far end of that spectrum, and while he wished lesser life upon those who wronged others, it was an appeal to his character. He could not be blamed when he was so devoted to justice for the rest of them.

Esme could be thankful for this compassionate conqueror she had found in Carlisle Cullen. She could admire his beautiful will to be decent, his dreams to walk in the footsteps of Christ, and his vicious altruism that obliviously made the world a better place.

She could be thankful for him.

Esme was newly enlightened. Finally crawling out of the deep dark hole of her depression, she realized that she could be closer to Carlisle. Romance, no matter how wonderful she dreamed it could be, was not the only power that could bind two people together.

They could be dearest friends, and it could be wonderful. She could be satisfied with this if she only gave it a chance. Perhaps to deny herself this kind of closeness out of fear was the wrong way of doing things. Perhaps a change in her mindset was needed. Perhaps this would lead them, readily and patiently on the proper path, hand in hand with destiny.

Carlisle seemed to want the same. He was encouraging closeness, in his subtle, gentle sort of way. He was showing her, by every little motion and every little glance that he appreciated her. For once, Esme felt a power over his needs, and not the other way around. For once, he looked at her and she was not reminded of a chasm between them. She was only reminded of a mutual, equal distance between a man and a woman which begged to be filled.

And he shared this hope.

It came to be one quiet morning, where she had been curled up on the armchair in the sitting room, with her ankles in her hands and her head at rest on her shoulder.

The clock chimed five times to mark the end of Carlisle's night shift. The birds were starting to sing, their song weakened by the frost. She knew he would be home any minute, but waiting for Carlisle always took longer than she wished it would.

Her eyes opened when she heard him come inside the house, the tightness in her chest knitting soft little circles as she listened to his footsteps cross the hall.

She knew he had been watching her from the door. She heard the soft shedding sounds as he removed his coat, the pad of his shoes on the carpet as he walked around her chair to block the dim blue light from the window.

Her eyes went up to him immediately, needing to see his face. He wore his doctor's coat, all white and clean and pure. His face was just the same, even cast in shadow.

"Edward said you haven't felt like talking."

She shrugged. "I'm...all right."

"Why don't you come outside for a while?"

"It's too cold, don't you think?"

"I mean come out of this room," he whispered with a small smile.

"Oh," she sighed, rising from her comfortable little space on the armchair to follow him. "Okay."

For once she did not try resisting that small sparkle of light when he offered it.

She was so glad that she chose not to resist him this time.

Carlisle's unfailing patience was Esme's saving grace. Every day he forced her closer to accepting herself in spite of her imperfections, and suddenly, with this strange new will to open herself to the man he truly was, she ceased fire upon his good intentions. He had shown her that imperfections could mar even the holiest of men. Even those who tried the hardest, even those who appeared the purest were often just as lost as those whose failures were heard round the world.

He was so wonderful when he was like this, utterly glowing with mercy and compassion and sensitivity, no longer ashamed that she had seen his subjection to sin. Esme showed Carlisle every day that she accepted him all too gladly in spite of his failures. He never left her side.

Slowly, he encouraged her to speak out about her fears and worries. In time, she'd confessed to him her lingering pain regarding the accident, and since then he had done everything in his power to help her cope, subsequently revealing much more about his own past to her attentive ears.

"There is no escaping it – the life of a vampire will always be profuse with death," he told her as they watched the sun rise from the windows of his study. "While it may sound discouraging, nothing less should be expected when we speak of eternity."

"I understand," she sighed. "It's only that... I've never dealt very well with death. I'd hardly even taken the time to think about the consequences of my own death."

She could feel his eyes burning through the filmy layers of her subconscious, and with a slight tip of her chin in the opposite direction, she politely discouraged the invasion.

The weight of Carlisle's stare was something she feared she would never grow accustomed to. No matter how much time she spent becoming familiar with every nuance in his gaze, his eyes made her feel so readable, so…exposed. And while this feeling had become strangely appealing over time, she found that she still had to duck her head to avoid it.

"I've never dealt well with death either," Carlisle admitted in a low voice, his eyes managing to look dark even in the soft light of a dying candle that splashed over his face.

Esme raised one eyebrow and tilted her head back to appraise him critically. "And yet, you are a doctor," she pointed out, creating a rather twisted shadow-smile in her effort to mask her tentative amusement.

"Which is why I find it continuously challenging to accept death as a natural end to human life." He took a deep breath and faced the window distantly, his eyes like amber mirrors reflecting the young sun. "I still find myself wishing I could save them all..." He shook his head idly. "But I know it would be terribly reckless and unwise."

He turned his head and looked at her with a wry smile. "Venom is a dark gift never to be used liberally." He reached up with one hand to absently smooth the wrinkles from the curtain. "I often forget it is not some prescription drug I can dole out to whomever I please."

She bit her lip in uncertainty, wondering privately what had inspired him to resort to his venom in order to save her. The little voice in her head pleaded with her to ask him, but she ignored it vehemently, not wanting to sound presumptuous in any way.

"What inspired you to become a doctor?" she asked instead, to sate her curiosity.

His immediate smile made the tiny space between her heart and stomach soar almost painfully. "Nothing ever made me happier than the thought of making an irony out of my given situation. If, as a vampire, I was meant to take the lives of humans, then I would do just the opposite. I would rebel against my instincts and save them instead."

Esme was aware then of how embarrassingly starry-eyed she must have looked as he said this, but she could find not one ounce of effort to censor the unflattering gawk and gape of her expression.

"You were the first to do this?" she supposed, fairly certain now that no other of their kind would care enough to spare the lives of humans, especially after having tasted the temptation herself.

"As far as I know," he admitted with a light shrug of one shoulder. "I was always something of a peculiarity among other vampires, as you well know." His smile quirked awkwardly at his own word choice.

"With the Volturi..." She remembered Edward's stories.

Carlisle nodded, his expression somewhat grave. "They never understood why I was so disturbed by the way they killed without qualm." He was quiet for a long moment as the memories flashed behind his eyes. "I had seen so many useless deaths while in Volterra. Not only their blood victims, but other vampires as well. Whether they had come, begging for their end, or they were simply too naïve in the ways of our world to understand their mistakes, it hurt me deeply to have to watch them die."

His head bowed slightly, seeking closeness with the light.

"Why did you?" she whispered, leaning closer to the flame as he did.

He took a deep, thoughtful breath. "I felt, foolishly, that if Aro or the others were forced to see my pain as I watched them, then they would realize the wrongness in their actions. But they never did, of course." His brow furrowed in pity. "The damage of so many centuries is all too irreversible for one man to change."

His forlorn expression gave her the desperate urge to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly – neither of which she could indulge.

"That was why you left," she guessed.

"Part of the reason," he sighed, beginning a tentative pace beside the windows as she watched. "Aro and his brothers persistently encouraged me to adopt their lifestyle. They told me the only cause of my distress was my own foolish abstinence; that if I were to give in to my thirst for human blood, I would find the satisfaction I so desperately sought. They were incessant. I came dangerously close to considering their offers until, eventually, I could bear it no more."

His slow pace came to a standstill, and his hand absently reached out to clutch the curtain again, as if he needed the slight support to remain standing. "My home never was with the Volturi," he said, his sigh filled with a soft sort of strength. His eyes swept over the landscape from the window, somehow assured with conviction. "I supposed it would do me better to avoid the temptation of their lifestyle altogether rather than to test my limits in resisting it. I knew I could never live with myself if I became the monster I had vowed to never become. That was why I left."

Esme smiled distantly to herself as his solid annunciation stroked her ears. The steadfastness of this man's morality was painfully inspiring.

"You are a very brave and very wise man, Carlisle Cullen," she declared softly, and was promptly rewarded with his intensely surprised gaze. He blinked several times out of habit, clearly flattered to the point of being speechless for a short moment.

He looked away with a pensive smile. "I would deny it, but because I chose to leave, I found Edward... And I found you."

Her heart stung guiltily as she shook her head. "I've only caused you trouble since you found me."

"That could not be further from the truth, Esme," he quickly declined. But at her dubious glance, he smiled bashfully with an insecure chuckle. "Well, I suppose to an extent is has some truth..."

She looked down with a reluctant smile of apology.

He continued softly in earnest, "But I have not once considered you a burden to me, and I want you to know this: The struggle over blood-lust is something all newborns must overcome; it is a natural part of your growth into this life, and it is nothing to be ashamed of."

"You expect me to feel no shame over murder?" she whispered doubtfully.

"On the contrary, I believe your shame is what will prove to be your ultimate salvation," he insisted gently. "Your devotion to virtue is a gift, Esme. You must never lose sight of it, for this sensitivity is what redeems our humanity."

He let go of the curtain to step towards her, and her nerves flinched under the subtle swell of his scent.

"What if it happens again?" she posed in a hushed voice. He said nothing at first and she panicked. "I don't ever want it to happen again," she whispered desperately, her eyes unfocused as she relived terrifying flashbacks of the incident through her memory.

The memories melted away, broken by the intrusion of Carlisle's face as he genuflected before her and placed one hand gently on her knee. "Do not worry yourself with the future. Live in the moment, never in fear."

Her trembling settled only mildly as she focused on the soothing heat of his touch. His hand slid forward slightly and he spoke in smooth, even tones, "You must also remember that you were not entirely at fault... I made this so much worse for you by being untruthful." She stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise. "I should have never left you in the dark," he murmured, rushed and painful, his eyes glistening with guilt as he turned his gaze to her feet.

Her eyes closed heavily and she bowed her head. "You cannot always take the blame, Carlisle."

"But I made the fault seem to be Edward's when in fact it was as much my own as his. I should have told you from the beginning why he left, but I was so ashamed of what you might think of me...if you knew that I wished your...husband dead."

"He is not my husband," she reminded softly. "He never was, Carlisle. You said it yourself. Our marriage was nothing."

"But that does not make it any less wrong," he whispered brokenly.

He lifted his eyes to gaze at her, wearing that perfectly pained look of vulnerability, and this time, when she longed to touch his face, she did not deny herself that touch.

Carefully she lifted one hand to press her palm against the cool marble plane of his cheek, and a slow, feeble shock trembled through her arm at the foreign feel of velvet contour beneath her fingertips. He fought admirably against the precious lassitude that tempted his eyelids to droop softly at the contact, and her heart fluttered as she caught the involuntary wilt of his lashes before he quickly revived his receptive stare.

Without the pressure to restrain her desire for this touch, it was remarkably easy to succumb to it. Without the nagging rejections of romance singing in her head, she could show him care. It was so easy...

"I could never blame you for thinking such things when I often thought them myself," she continued, her voice strong and certain despite the tremulous tickle in her throat. "Edward has shown the truth to both of us – we all wished Charles gone; we all felt there was some justice in it, no matter how wrong it might have been."

"We did..." Carlisle agreed, voice still laced with dwindling regret.

"You feel so much shame for these things, Carlisle. But you should listen to your son when he tells you that this shame is only destructive to you," her voice wavered, but it was with passion that she redeemed her strength. "You are so good all of the time. If you think one moment of weakness is reason enough to hate yourself, or even reason for us to hate you... you couldn't be more wrong."

His gaze dropped the faintest bit, as though his focus played toward her lips as she spoke. Her hand faltered against his face insecurely, as she wondered to what extent it was appropriate to elaborate her touch. She never found the courage, and so her aching caress remained, forever frozen upon his cheek. But as his head tipped gratefully against her open palm, by even the shyest of margins, she found that her entire body had been stunned. She could not have moved that hand if she wanted to.

"Oh, Esme," he breathed huskily, and her hand slipped away, weakening subconsciously with the sound of her name, little more than a sigh upon his breath. "You'll never know just how much you have taught me..."

Her eyes furrowed skeptically as he met her gaze. "But, the mistakes I've made—"

He interrupted her in a voice filled with hushed passion, "Can you not see that your mistakes will be insignificant so long as you leave them behind you?" He found her fallen hand and tucked it safely within his. "You said yourself we mustn't dwell on our mistakes."

A bitter taste filled her mouth as her words were twisted against her. "But mine are unforgivable," she countered automatically.

He was silent for a moment.

"Look at me," he pleaded, and she humbly raised her eyes. "Do you consciously recall making the decision to kill, Esme?" he whispered.

"No," she breathed weakly, lost within the redemptive sea of his gaze.

"Edward and I made a conscious decision to kill; you did not. You claim we deserve forgiveness. So why should you be denied forgiveness?"

He paused to allow the realization to sink in, smiling softly at her.

"You are a good and moral woman beneath this," he said as he stroked the back of her hand with his fingers. "And you always will be. This is the first of many tests you will face, but with faith you will overcome every one of them."

She wanted to sob when he spoke like that. His voice, so sure and soothing, could have made the heavens weep. The injustice that any man's voice could sound like his was positively villainous.

Her hand fidgeted within his as the heat between them began to build like a suffocating wall, invisible and indestructible. She wished it would melt like a sheet of ice in a bonfire. But it was too hot. Hotter than any source which made melting simple. It was possible that they could push through it, and it would not go away, but instead it would blanket them...and they would be trapped together, suffocate together.

How long could they breathe and stare like this? How long before something snapped? Before she burst through the lush curtain of heat that surrounded him?

His lips parted, and the tiny motion, because it was a speck of dust in a sandstorm of emotion, put her every sense on alert. He still stared so deeply into her eyes that he must have been somewhere in the slippery mush of her brain by now. He was free to look upon her mind's eye.

Her lungs were working laboriously, and he must have noticed as his eyes fell to her chest, slid down her middle and came to a gentle rest where their hands fit like sad, solitary halves of a disturbingly perfect whole.

The grainy sap of her subconscious boiled as he placed his free hand over hers, with the solemn air of a priest giving a blessing. "Have faith, Esme," he whispered, eyes closed and heart open.

Her hand may as well have been liquid between his, but she was slightly shocked when he released her to find that it was miraculously whole again.

He rose gracefully to his feet and looked down at her with compassionate eyes. "Have faith, and you will never lose hope."

Have faith.

For the rest of the day, she repeated his words; she connected herself to his words. She tried to be a steadfast stallion of parables by paradox. She tried to be like him.

She took a Bible from his study when he was not looking, and hid it under her arm as she walked out. He had so many copies of the sacred anthology, surely he would never even miss it. If she had asked him for it, he would have gladly given it to her…but she did not want him to know.

It was an older book, worn at the corners, but it still had a sturdiness about it that only a Bible could maintain after years of use. It was dark in color – in some lighting it looked green, and in other lighting it looked blue. It was heavy.

She sat on the edge of her bed and held the Bible in her hand, but she did not open it. She just felt its weight, felt its holiness, and soaked them in.

She was what she was. A hopeful proselyte to Carlisle's faith. She was unread and unsung.

Esme kept the Bible in her bed that night, just holding it, but never opening it. Never did she read the Word with her own eyes.

Throughout the darkening hours she lay wide awake, and her eyes flickered with the strangest visions... Snapshots of her humanity rendered fantastical by her imagination.

Charles was there, his face still hauntingly unclear from her lack of memory, his voice like drops of iron echoing in an empty well. He was commanding her to offer herself to him; his hands were cold and rough on her arms, bending the bones beneath her flesh with insulting ease.

Only his voice was recognizable, in the absence of his terrible face. But she imagined him behind her as he carelessly stripped her garments from her helpless body. She could almost hear the bleak glint of his drunken eyes, the absinthe-inspired gust of his hot breath, heavy on the back of her neck. She cringed.

He clamped his hands around her waist as she struggled. She fought to save herself from his grip, pushed and pulled against his force to free herself from the traumatic trap she knew she had yet to face.

Then, right on that brink of horror, that heart-pounding second where doom was all but certain, everything stopped. The rough hands and hard force and the burn of alcohol-laden breath on her skin dissolved into something entirely new...

In this dream, her heartbeat softened. In this dream, where she had a heartbeat, where she had a thrumming pulse, it slowly melted away. Her eyes were still blurry, but the sounds became more clear.

The breath that washed over the back of her neck was not tinged with absinthe, but with the sweet, soothing spice of daydreams and forgotten prayers.

She was cold, naked, still shuddering from her first brutal encounter with the man who had almost destroyed her. But she now felt no shame, enveloped by the new warmth this unseen man offered her. Her bare flesh was protected under his clothed embrace, as he gently wound his arms around her body and held her with reverent care. His fingers nursed the bruises on her skin, their caress soft and certain, soothing away the ache in her limbs with each patient pass.

Esme knew this embrace. The recognition was immediate, alarming, but calming all at once.

She knew this was Carlisle.

Tiny flicks of frustration chipped away at her patience as she tried to face her compassionate captor. But this dream was not pliable. She would eventually grow tired of looking for his face, and surrender to only the feel of him behind her – the doctor's soothing, healing hands on her bare belly. Then, if she waited long enough, she would be blessed with the sounds of his voice.

Carlisle spoke to her in this dream – softly, seductively. But the words he whispered against her neck were of spiritual vocabulary. The words themselves made no sense as he strung them together, murmur after throaty murmur, but alone they were the answers he offered to her every unspoken question.

"Redemption." as he nuzzled her ear.

"Faith." as he stroked her collarbone.

"Salvation." as he pressed his warm body securely against hers.

Her body, trapped in two dimensions at once, was being suspended between his embrace and the quilts of her bed. The two mingled in a most disastrously pleasing way. And, by the will of her imagination, she was being held by Carlisle...in her bed.

His slow, sure, smooth hands were moving across her vulnerable body. They felt warm in some places, chilling in others. They did things to her – wonderful, scandalous, beautiful things.

She writhed against his unspeakable touch, needing more, seeking the very words he promised. But he never gave them.

The face she finally found in her subconscious belonged to neither her hero nor her destroyer. It was, she believed, the face of Christ. Blue, washed out, melancholy, with the words Kyrie Eleison scripted beneath it.

Esme broke from this vivid daydream with a jolt, always trembling, more from disturbance than unrectified need.

She rolled over, her cheek still cold against the pillow, her hands clutching her thighs too tightly, the sheets clinging to her body as if they were trying to stop her from leaving.

She forced her thoughts to dwell on Carlisle. One of these days, she wanted to look into his eyes and see that he was simply a man. That he could make her feel a certain way, but this fault was not his own, and it was not another sin for which he could blame himself.

She thought long and hard about Carlisle's kindness, about his generosity, and his holiness, and a little about his sadness.

And these thoughts cooled the fire.

Carlisle was someone who needed her, perhaps as much as she might have needed him. But he needed her companionship, her understanding. He needed her to listen to him when he had no one else to speak to. Anything that would see them buried in this bed together was of such insignificance.

She was blind to think otherwise.

What he needed from her was something far more important, far more worth cherishing.

The morning came quickly, chasing away the residue of her throbbing imagination, and Esme rose from her bed with the Holy Word quivering in her hands.

On a whim of decision and a little out of fear, she took the Bible and raced to place it back where she had found it in Carlisle's study – on the small table by the window, next to the elaborate book of hours, under a tiny crystal sand dish filled with used matches.

After this dream, Esme supposed her faith would come with time, that it could not be fabricated overnight by memorizing scriptures she did not understand. The power of the Word alone was untouchable to someone with such small experience in the realm of the supernatural. She owed her faith to Carlisle, not to God Himself. It was a stubborn piece of her heart that felt she should wait a little longer, even just to please him.

She wanted Carlisle to open her heart to God. She did not want to read the words in unfeeling silence straight off the page, alone in her room. She wanted it to be his voice revealing the truth to her. Deep down, she wanted this. Yet she almost didn't believe it could happen, and this made her desire for it even stronger.

Esme's fingers lingered on the spine of the old book, intimidated by the foreign lettering, trying to piece together a dim golden puzzle. The only problem was, she did not know what the end result should be.

At the cruel catch of his scent behind her, she froze, and if she weren't utterly mad, she would have believed her skin had erupted into gooseflesh at being discovered out of place.

He was breathing. Not saying a word, just breathing.

She had to speak.

"What does Kyrie Eleison mean?"

If he was surprised at the nature of her question, he did not show it.

"It is Greek," he said in the voice of a teacher, "and it means 'Lord Have Mercy.'"

"Do you ever say it?" she asked, her tone hushed. "When you pray?"

He was quiet for a long moment before he answered.

"Sometimes."

She twisted her hands insecurely against her middle.

"Does God ever speak to you?" she asked him, almost fearful that he would say 'yes.'

"Rarely," Carlisle admitted in a whisper. "But I always recognize His voice."

Unraveling her hands from their knot, Esme stared down sadly into the open flesh of her palm. Her finger dipped into the middle of her palm, tracing along the ironic remains of her life line toward the curve of her wrist.

For an instant it flashed before her eyes, twisted and limp, like the hand of a broken doll. There was a tiny smear of blood over flushed skin, then just as quickly, the pallid milk of perfection replaced it.

"He broke my wrist once." The words spoke themselves, stretching mysteriously through the air to the man who listened from behind her. "I never told anyone. Even he didn't know."

Carlisle was breathing again. Heavily. And Esme knew how aware he was, just from the lightest disturbances in the pattern of his breath. He knew of whom she spoke.

He tried to console her.

"My father used to strike me when I disobeyed him." His voice was weighed down by understanding, concern, and something else – something fragile and disconnected. The child inside of Carlisle was confiding in her, sharing his darkest secrets – trustingly, foolishly.

"Carlisle..."

She turned around to face him, ready to hush his words, but his lips were already moving.

"My hands had gashes in them..." he murmured, his eyes rusty with shame, "I always held them closed so no one would see."

He was doing it again. Twisting his hand in that awkward way against his hip. His palm was closed in on itself, defensive and helpless. She longed to reach out for that hand and open it to the world, to show him there were no gashes there anymore.

"He told me...I was an ungrateful son..."

"Carlisle."

His name sounded like the soft power of religion itself as she whispered it, and his gaze was afire for her voice.

Shyly, she stepped forward, reaching out with her fingers to explore his limp hand. She lifted it for a moment or two, and it felt very heavy as she bent his fingers back gently, just enough to see that his palm was clear. Open in her hands, she showed him how perfect it was. Smooth, white, pure, and good. Every single line in his palm spoke of his goodness.

"I see no gashes," she whispered comfortingly, and laid his hand back against his hip with care.

He swallowed hard, looking as if he were on the verge of tears. "The venom masks the wounds, but it cannot heal them."

His voice was so low she had to inch a little closer to hear him.

Or perhaps this was just a pitiful excuse for nearness.

"You're right. It cannot," she agreed sadly.

Her tongue moistened her lip as she stared up into his weepy eyes.

"Pain often works in mysterious ways," he murmured, his accent overpowering in his hushed voice.

Esme tilted her head to the side, trying to place why these words sounded so thick with familiarity. "How so?" she inquired.

Faithful to his stillness, Carlisle replied softly, "Without pain we would never know a good feeling when we felt it."

Her heart found it appropriate to simmer at the sensuous truth of his words. An airy "Oh" was all she could offer in reply.

"It makes you wonder, does it not?" he asked delicately.

She carefully skirted the direction of his question. "I've never wondered about pain. I just learned to live with it." Her words sounded so dark even to her own ears. She immediately wished she hadn't spoken them just to fill the silence.

A silky shadow veiled over Carlisle's eyes, his beautiful face remarkably intense.

"He hurt you... Every day, didn't he?" His voice was softer and deeper than distant thunder.

She knew what Carlisle had been trying to ask. He was weaving the questions, piece by piece into the conversation. But she was shocked that he had now chosen to address it so forwardly.

"I...I can't remember," she excused lamely, rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

Her stomach flipped as Carlisle gently captured her restless fingers and stilled her.

"He hurt you," he stated, hard and husky.

"My memory is—"

"Do not cast these memories aside with such haste, Esme. They resurface for a reason – they want to be recognized. They need to be acknowledged." He was being such a doctor. It almost infuriated her, but at the same time...

Oh, who was she fooling? It was wonderful.

"I don't want to remember," she whimpered weakly, her fingers struggling in his grasp. He wouldn't let her go. Instead, he lowered their linked hands between them again and touched her firmly with his gaze.

"But you do," he countered in a piercing whisper.

She almost panicked, her feet unstable and knees quaking as she fought to stay standing before him. "I'm beginning to…" she admitted breathlessly.

He stepped closer, his body warm and fortress-like, blocking out the cruel, cold world around her.

"It's all right," he whispered tenderly, gripping her a little bit tighter when he heard her heart crackle. "I'm here. I will listen if you want to speak."

She did want to speak.

As much as she despised the thought of speaking, she passionately wished to speak. For Carlisle.

She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in his scent, letting the words roll off her tongue. "All I remember is the pain," she told him monotonously.

He gasped, so softly she wondered if he actually did gasp at all. Maybe she had imagined it. But she could feel the lush pressure of his attention, knowing he was hanging on her every breath.

"I used to wish for my childhood doctor," she revealed somewhat wistfully, "to heal me again."

Carlisle's eyes widened by the slightest of margins in a tiny burst of acknowledgment, strangely devoid of any true surprise.

Driven by her aching heart, Esme desperately but tentatively thrust her hand against the center of his chest. "It still hurts," she whispered. Her chin was practically trembling.

The silent will in her eyes was pleading him, begging him to bear her burden, just for this moment. Her breath hitched as she waited, on the brink of breaking before he would accept her in the wake of his mercy.

A chill raced through her as he leveled her perfectly healthy hand in his, the aches and stings returning with each tender caress of his fingers around her wrist.

She whimpered. "It won't go away."

Then his hand at rest twitched, raised slowly, and curved snugly around the other side of her wrist, trapping her. Esme's eyes felt heavy as they soaked in the sight. Her lips, feeling just the same, could not seem to press together.

"Can God take away the pain?" she asked in a hopeful whisper.

Beseeching butterscotch eyes fluttered closed as Carlisle bowed his head, barely daring to move.

Esme swallowed and lifted her chin a little higher, refusing to give up. "Will He take away my memories if I ask Him to?"

Carlisle brought her hand a little closer to his heart. "He will bring you better memories, Esme."

She looked down at his feet, shaking her head. "There are so many things I want to forget. But I can't forget," she murmured, bewildered. "I couldn't remember, and now I can't forget…"

Carlisle closed the space between them and tucked her head against his shoulder, still holding her hand between their bodies.

"I cannot forget either."

Because he was so close, his confession stirred inside of her.

She could not even respond because he was so soft and firm and strong, and cold and warm in so many different places. And he was so incredibly closeto her that it would have appeared to any outside witness that they were attached.

But they were not. She did not feel attached to him. And this was a shamefully inadequate feeling to have while being held by the one she loved with all her might.

No matter how close they were, there was still something missing. No matter how close, distance could still be measured between them. Being connected would mean negative distance – the impossible value she feared they would never possess. But she would always want it.

"Stay with me."

Carlisle's words were an infuriating cross between those of a passionate lover and those of a child asking for his mother's embrace in the dark.

"I can't go anywhere," she reminded with a pitiful little laugh that faded into nothing, her lips brushing the fabric on his shoulder.

"Then just stay here," he said, simple and soft. "Maybe forever."

She sobbed inside because these were both the worst and the best sort of words to hear.

"I'm not sure that I believe in forever."

He sighed, every disappointment of the world a silent chime upon his breath. "Then just stay with me for as long as we last."

All she could do was nod against his shoulder and hope he knew she was nodding, her lips brushing faithfully against his shirt at the slightest motion.

She was kissing cotton.

A/N: Carlisle and Esme are slowly opening up to one another about their insecurities, and although revealing secrets about themselves can sometimes be painful, in a positive sense it brings them much closer to each other. I also wanted to show that they are both equally capable of healing the other when they offer comfort.