Okay, we might get more Carlisle chapters than I reckoned. This one might not seem too important, but I think it is.

Blue Moon, Chapter 2

That night, Carlisle eased away from Carys, careful not to wake her.

He stood to the side of the bed and watched her sleep peacefully for a few moments. Breathing softly, she lay on her side, one hand curled into a loose fist above the covers, the other resting beneath her pillows. Her hair was loose. Whether she gathered it into a silk scrunchie or let it free, she tended to stir every so often to adjust the mass - as if worried it was in his way. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flooded with colour, and he could see the smallest sliver of the whites of her eyes beneath her dark lashes.

Accepting she was far away in her dreams, he quickly and quietly donned his clothes and left the room.

The house was pitch-black; the moon cast its pale silver light through each small crevice in the shutters of their bedroom, and would do the same in the foyer or behind any of the doors he made his way past; the halls were free of the ethereal glow.

He smiled to himself when he passed the bathroom nearest the foot of the wide stairs in the foyer. Now secreted within the bin, twenty-one of the twenty-five pregnancy tests had come up positive. He paused, lingering there for a long moment before he continued to the car. If he thought about it for too long, he would probably return to bed.

A minute later he pulled out onto the darkened street. The roads were all but deserted at this time on a Sunday night. The pavements were almost as empty. It was near two in the morning. Most shops had closed at four o'clock for Sunday trading (five if they had opened at eleven rather than ten) and most would not open until six or seven - at the earliest - the next morning. His best bet was a newsagent's, and he found one as easily as he expected. Parking on a single yellow line nearby, he checked the road by habit and crossed quickly.

The small shop blazed with artificial light. A single, disinterested, shop assistant was sitting behind the counter when Carlisle arrived, his hands supporting his head, one headphone in his ear, the other dangling from his t-shirt. He looked up when the small bell signalled his customer's arrival. His eyes ran over Carlisle, and he returned the vampire's nod almost absentmindedly before he yawned. His mouth uncovered as it was, and Carlisle's nose being what it was, there was no barrier to the scent of sickly sweet chewing gum, bad breath, and stale beer before the man returned to the magazine he was reading.

"Good evening," Carlisle greeted, using his accent freely now that he was home.

"Card machine's broke," the man replied without looking up, in a thick East End accent. "Cash only. There's a machine down the road if you'll be needin' it."

Carlisle was likely far from the first customer the man had seen that night, and would not be the last. Or the strangest, he thought. Something about the other man suggested he had likely seen it all.

For a brief moment, as he picked up a basket (which he was surprised to find, as not all newsagent's had them), Carlisle found himself wondering what the shop assistant would say if he announced he was a vampire.

More likely than not, he would roll his eyes, label Carlisle a 'bloody nutcase' under his breath, and then tell him, 'Yeah, sure you are, mate, so'm I. That'll be fifteen forty'.

Carlisle walked through the cramped aisles, gathering items to tide Carys over until they could make a proper run to the shop the next day. He had long since become used to shopping for the sake of appearances. The novelty of buying things someone would enjoy had not yet faded, and he took his time deciding.

A few minutes later, he made his way to the counter, his basket filled with the decaf coffee he'd gone for, along with a large bar of Dairy Milk, two packets of bourbon creams and one of Garibaldi's, a packet of Walkers prawn cocktail crisps, a packet of Skips, six large eggs, HP sauce, chilli sauce, rice, pasta, bread, and three bananas. As he passed a shelf, he added a small jar of gherkin pickles.

He placed the basket down at the edge of the counter. The nameless shop assistant pushed up and looked over the purchases with a heavy sigh, shoving his magazine to the side.

"You need a bag?" came the gruff request.

He didn't wait for a response before he licked his forefinger and thumb, pulling a plastic bag from a set below the counter.

Carlisle smiled so that he wouldn't grimace. He wanted to say that he had already calculated the total from the small bright orange labels and that he was happy to carry his purchases in his arms, but he didn't want to offend. He held his tongue while the man checked each label in turn, typing out the prices onto the register, throwing them into the bag willy-nilly.

"I'll take those," Carlisle said when the eggs looked set to go the same way as the rest, "the bag's getting a bit full."

"Huh. If you say so."

The man passed over the punnet and Carlisle took it gratefully, resting it upon the counter and asking:

"Good night?"

"'Spose," came the bored reply. "Not much goin' on on a Sunday night, is there?"

"No, I suppose there isn't really."

There was a long pause, during which the only sounds in the shop came from the other man's headphones, his actions, his loud breaths (Carlisle was holding his, moving his shoulders to make it appear as if he was breathing), and a disembodied beeping from the small room at the back. Two floors up, a man paused to laugh at a television program. Half a second later, his companion added her laughter to his; a fake, appeasing sound.

"You buyin' in for...?"

Carlisle redirected his attention to the other man and drew a breath.

"The missus."

"Pregnant is she?" the other man asked, typing in the price of the chilli sauce as he stared at the bananas and pickles.

"Seventeen weeks." The admittance had been easy, Carlisle realised. He hoped Carys wouldn't mind that the first person he'd told their news to had been a shop assistant making stilted early morning conversation.

"Your first?"

"Seventh."

That garnered a response. The shop assistant's fingers stilled on the register. His eyes opened wide as he turned a disbelieving stare on Carlisle.

"Seventh!? Bloody...," he said, and then, under his breath, "poor woman."

Carlisle's lips quirked. He doubted he would have been able to hold back the evidence of his amusement if he had tried.

"You don't look old enuff," the other man said dubiously, eyeing Carlisle's face and hair. Free from the confines of his usual style, it fell loose against his brow and temples.

"Our first together," he clarified.

"Oh. Right... Gotcha."

Carlisle was sure the other man had just as many questions now as he did a moment before, but he simply stuffed the jar of pickles in the bag and read the register.

"Total's twenty-eight thirty-two."

Carlisle whistled despite knowing the cost already and extracted his wallet. "Steep," he murmured, counting out the notes and coins.

"It's London," the man responded, on the defensive as he took the money, which he glanced over before stuffing into place in the register drawer. "You'll 'ave to go as far as Blackfriars to get any different this time'a night."

"I expect so," Carlisle said, though he was sure it wasn't quite the truth. "Well. Have a good night, anyway."

"Yeah. You 'n all."

Gathering his purchases, his wallet in the same hand, Carlisle flashed a grateful smile and left the shop. He tossed his keys in the air on the way back to the car, soaking in the sights and sounds of the sleeping city. The couple above the newsagent's changed the channel; the woman's laughter became genuine.

When he returned home, Carlisle ambled to the kitchen, first, where he unpacked and left the groceries where they were. Balling the plastic bag, he crushed it into a small disk against his palm. A near-silent replacement for the keys now secreted in the pocket of his jeans, he threw and caught the disk in his hand on the way upstairs.

Every step drew him closer to Carys' soft breaths and rhythmic heartbeat. The closer he came, the more something eased within him. He could feel himself relax. It had been that way since they were first together. If he was honest with himself, it had been that way since he met her. The feeling had only grown stronger in recent weeks.

Carlisle would have to wait to join her. He followed, instead, the habit he had made a long time before, moving to the bathroom where he stripped and stood under the stream of scalding hot water. Avoiding his hair, he allowed it to flow over his body, warming his cold skin.

Carlisle closed his eyes on a sigh.

He was scared. The truth of it. The truth he had tried to deny. Carlisle was scared of losing Carys. It was building - the painful dread that would have stuttered his heart if his worked; stolen his breath if he needed it; poured ice through his veins if he wasn't already cold to the core. But it wasn't as bad as when he had nearly lost her weeks before. Nothing could have prepared him for the terror and physical pain he had gone through. Twice. Once on the mountain, and again at the hospital when the fever raged.

He shut off the steady stream and dried himself quickly. He needed to get back to her before the memories consumed him. Gathering his clothes, he padded through the hall to the room they shared. The small pile was discarded beside Carys', on the chair. That was human, she'd assured him, to have a... What was it she called it? A clothes chair, or a floordrobe. Either or. Just as human as having a carefully ordered system, or a hamper.

He had hardly made a sound, and Carys did not stir. She remained almost as he had left her, but she had stolen one of his pillows at some point, hugging it to her chest and face. Carlisle took another moment to admire her. His Cleopatra - smart, passionate, strong, witty. Beautiful, yes. Her beauty presented itself in a way that was immediately clear but grew the longer you knew her. And kind. Good-hearted.

And she could be frightening at times.

To others, at least.

Carlisle rather enjoyed watching her intense protective streak play out. It sometimes aroused him in a way he preferred not to spend too long trying to decipher. Only once had he seen her wield the sword in her own interest, and that had been in the midst of defending others. Emmett, Rosalie and Jasper had once likened her to Galadriel based on her ability to leave vampires trembling in her wake, the way she put people at ease, her kindness, and the powers they thought she might gain from the change. Emmett was laying hints down to see if she might realise, but Carlisle doubted it was a connection she would make, or that she would accept it if it was spelled out to her. He had to agree; it was a stretch.

But dodgy comparisons aside, of everyone she might have chosen, she had chosen him.

Lifting the covers, he eased in behind her and gently removed the pillow from her grasp, settling it beneath his head. He was careful not to jog her, his arms wrapping around her with practised ease. Picking up the book he had left on the edge of the bed, he returned to his page. It was one of Carys' and he had decided to give it a go. It was well written. The plot? A little dubious. But... He quickly found himself engrossed.

Three chapters in, Carys shifted against him. He was on the edge of his seat so to speak. The heroine had briefly escaped the clutches of her kidnapper (the same man who had robbed the bank she worked at) and was recaptured, only to discover he was actually a spy trying to keep her safe. Carlisle stroked Carys' side and pressed a kiss to her hair, soothing her so that he could find out whether or not the heroine believed the spy, but she turned in his arms, snuggling closer. She wrapped her arms and one of her legs around his torso, blanketing him with her warm softness. Eyes closed, her lips twitched and, from the depths of sleep, she declared:

"Mine."

His chest quaked with silent amusement as he discarded his book. It bounced, once, on the bed and lay still. Flush against him as Carys now was, clinging to him, any attempt to leave her again would be easily thwarted.

Carys moved sinuously against him, making herself comfortable. It continued to amaze him that she could find more comfort in his hardness than she did the soft bed. He then had to remind himself that she wasn't aware of his body stirring to life and that she needed her sleep. She wouldn't thank him in the morning if he woke her too soon.

"I dreamt you went off for a bit," she grumbled sleepily, resting her cheek against his chest, "... but you're warm... 'ow's your book?"

"It's good," he told her. "I can see why you like it."

"Mm-good..."

Carlisle hummed and smiled to himself as she fell back asleep with a soft sigh.

It was rare that she caught him up and about. Sometimes he wondered if he should just admit that things took him away more often than she knew, but he enjoyed her sleep-laden possessiveness as much as when she ventured forth - half-asleep and wrapped up in their covers - to drag him back to bed, or when she joined him to sleep in his office while he worked. In the morning she would discover that he had been out. For now, Carlisle abandoned thoughts of his book entirely and held her tight, raining feather-light kisses over her soft skin.

Over time, his thoughts drifted to the day ahead. He would enjoy their trip to the British Library far more than he supposed he should. He loved libraries almost as much as he loved what he found there. And now he would have a companion for his research - one as interested and absorbed in the subject matter as he was.

His wife.

He liked the sound of the word just as much as he had when they'd first made vows to one another months before. He doubted Carys understood how nervous and desperate he had been. He had, he had thought, all but begged her to marry him. When she had relayed the story months later, she had made herself out to be the nervous one.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift back to that night. The moment played out in full colour. He could hear, smell, touch, and taste as if he was there. He would follow it by replaying their wedding two days before. Only then would he clear his mind of everything he could.

Laying with her like this, absorbed in his memories, daydreams, or almost nothing at all, it was the closest he would ever come to sleep. It was yet another cruelty - vampires experienced mental fatigue, and there were few ways of allaying it; they simply had to wait for it to pass.

Carys had encouraged him to make this a daily ritual when he'd admitted his envy for her ability to cut off her mind and revitalise. He had indulged the habit before, but she had convinced him to lie in bed while he did so, in her arms for the most part. He found it far more soothing for his exhausted mind.

An important question I forgot to address publicly and then was asked again: (I've gone back and made a note on chapter 33) Carys drinking at the wedding. I checked the UK medical recommendations, I promise. We'll find this all out from Carlisle soon. Carys had a very small glass of champagne for a toast before the wedding at about 2pm (t'was alcohol-free but Carys didn't know that), then a cocktail at 3.30pm. A unit of alcohol typically takes 1 hour to leave your system, and she mentions the champagne she has at 10.55pm goes to her head more than anything else she has had since the cocktail. Carlisle also appears soon after and takes her glass. Those were the only drinks he couldn't switch or have switched and were spaced hours apart. I looked it up before writing, and it's alright (UK) to have up to two full drinks in your 2nd and 3rd trimesters as long as you don't become inebriated and it's not a frequent thing. Carys doesn't drink usually these days and precautions were taken :).

Btw, the food Carlisle bought should have been about £20 even with inflated prices. He got ripped off and they both knew it.

Thanks to: seconddragon, Momochan77, chellekathrynnn, Sakura19Haruno95, WickedlyMinx, KEZZ 1, DiLayla, BubblyYork, and Guest (thank you for asking - I forgot to answer it publicly before. Carlisle took precautions, but in a way that didn't stop her from enjoying any part of the day. The Amen was very targeted then! It amused me. It's one of those things that's so ingrained and memorised!)