This is just a fun idea that's been bouncing around in my head for a while. Remember back in Chapter 4 of 1950, when Carlisle made (and won) that bet with his coworkers, over whether Rosalie and Emmett would soon be moving back home? I wondered, at the time, whether it was too out of character, but decided to keep it because it was just so funny. And let's face it, Carlisle is only twenty-three. He can't be the responsible father all the time.

But just for kicks, I thought it would be fun to peek in and see what caused him to make such an uncharacteristic move. Turns out he had overheard his coworkers talking about him in the doctor's lounge, commenting on how inhumanly perfect his life was. So he made the bet in an attempt to appear a little more human. And just for fun, let's peek in via an original character's point of view. Ken is the same doctor who later sent Carlisle home, when he suddenly "came down with the flu".

Ken POV

What a night.

I shoved open the door to the doctor's lounge, all too glad to leave the noise and stink of the ER behind me. I peeled off my lab coat and stethoscope, tossing them onto the back of my chair and cracking my neck as I opened the refrigerator. I took out a root beer and guzzled the whole thing in one go, wishing the "root" part was nonexistent. What a night. How did these people manage to injure themselves so creatively? I mean, how does a man manage to impale his own hand with a tent stake? How did that kid manage to stuff three marbles up his nose at once? The worst part was, it was still just three a.m. I had one of those headaches that felt like someone was tightening a vice around my temples. I eased down into one of the chairs around the table, leaning my head back and wishing I had the energy to get up and turn the lights off.

But no sooner had I closed my eyes than the door banged open again. Blasted energetic residents…

"Ken! Thought I'd find you hiding in here."

"Just be a good boy and turn the lights off, would you?" I grumbled.

Scott laughed and ignored my request as he got his lunch out of the fridge. Or dinner, or whatever it was you ate at three a.m. He sat opposite me, and the smell of liverwurst filled the room as he cracked open a sandwich. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked around a mouthful.

"Starved," I sighed. "But Blanche has me on a diet again. She packed me rabbit food."

Scott shook his head. "Can't say as I blame her," he joked, waving his sandwich toward my paunch. "You packed on what, twenty pounds since I started here?"

"Funny." I pulled out a cigarette; at least Blanche hadn't gone off the deep end about that. I lit up and leaned back in my chair again, aiming a smoke ring right at Scott's face. He coughed, waving it away.

"Forget the rabbit food," he said around another mouthful of liverwurst. "What you need to do is kick that."

I rubbed my temple with the three fingers that weren't holding my cigarette. "What?"

"Smoking. Didn't you read last month's JAMA? It causes lung cancer."

"Does not."

"It was right there in black and white! Puts tar in your lungs."

"Listen. Kid." I took a deep drag, smiling tiredly as I shot him another smoke ring. "The AMA's always looking for the latest trend. And if there isn't one, they start one. This thing about smoking and cancer is just another fad. It'll pass."

"Well you won't catch me tarring my lungs."

"That's because you're young and impressionable. Stop reading magazines and use your head, kid. I smoke a pack a day, and I just ran a marathon last year. Do I look like I'm about to keel over? You young whippersnappers need to save your passion for your practice, not for passing fads."

"What about Dr. Cullen? I've never seen him light up, and he's at least two years older than me."

I coughed out a laugh, sitting up straighter. "Carlisle? Man's barely human, Scott. Why should he need cigarettes?"

His brow wrinkled; like all of his fellow residents, he worshipped the ground Cullen walked on. "What do you mean?"

"I mean his life is squeaky clean. Great house, no debt, perfect kids, brilliant on the job, never gets sick, body of a Greek god… and have you ever seen his wife?"

Scott's eyes glazed over; he had seen her, all right. I had met Esme Cullen last year at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new Children's Ward, and I was still recovering. "I'm telling you, the whole family is right out of a magazine. Carlisle himself could be a supermodel, along with the rest of them. Why shouldn't he keep his lungs squeaky clean, too? When you've got a perfect life, you don't need a pack a day to keep yourself sane. To say nothing of brandy…"

As if on cue, the door opened quietly, and Carlisle appeared. He seemed worried about something, his perfect face shadowed as he shifted over to the cabinets. He couldn't even walk like a normal person. Didn't he ever get tired?

"Good evening," he said to us, nodding politely. Scott sat up a little straighter.

"Evening, Dr. Cullen," he said, for once speaking without food in his mouth. "Everything all right?"

"Yes… just some family matters on my mind," he said serenely. He pulled his lunch/dinner out of the cabinet, somehow making this mundane task look like a graceful dance. He sat beside me, taking out his usual thermos: Esme Cullen wasn't just drop-dead gorgeous. She was also a gourmet cook- naturally- and treated him five days a week to a hot meal at work, while the rest of us were chewing on liverwurst and rabbit food. Was there anything about this man's life that wasn't perfect? I groaned in envy as he opened the thermos, filling the lounge with the tempting aroma of chili. Blanche could learn a thing or two from Esme Cullen, about how to how to properly fill a man's stomach.

"Family trouble?" Scott asked hopefully, flashing me a There, you see? look.

Carlisle sighed, staring down into his thermos. "My daughter. She and her husband are coming for a visit this weekend. Edward – my youngest- is having his White Coat ceremony tonight at Dartmouth, and she wants to be there."

"Hey, that's great!" Scott said. "Another doctor in the family."

Carlisle smiled. "Yes, I'm very proud of my son."

"But what?" I prodded, eager to see what could cause the great Carlisle Cullen to feel less than perfect. "What's so bad about your daughter visiting?"

"I'm afraid it may end up to be more than a visit," he said sheepishly, digging into his thermos with another frown. I hardly ever saw Carlisle eat anything, now that I thought about it. He saw me watching him, and took a big bite of chili. He chewed as though his life depended on it, swallowing with gusto and licking his lips. "Rosalie's husband is a good man, but he has absolutely no control over his household. She's been spending them into the ground, and I'm worried that this 'visit' is going to turn out to be a permanent arrangement."

"There, you see?" Scott said triumphantly. "The man's human, after all."

Carlisle smiled, digging into the chili again. "We all have our difficulties, Scott; just wait until you've got children. Life is never as simple as it promises to be."

"You can't fool me, Cullen," I said, depositing my cigarette butt in the tray. "You're not like the rest of us mortals. I'll bet dollars to donuts your daughter is coming home for some perfect reason. You know, like to show you her latest humanitarian award, or announce her latest book being published, or to tell you a grandchild is on the way."

A look of pain flashed across Carlisle's face, but when I blinked it was gone.

"Grandchild?" Scott echoed in disbelief. "I thought you were fresh out of Harvard, Dr. Cullen. How old's your daughter?"

Carlisle smiled again. "Rosalie's adopted, of course. So is Edward. My wife and I can't have children of our own." Scott opened his mouth to gloat again, but I kicked him under the table.

"I don't mean to complain," he continued. "I'd love to have our daughter back home- and Emmett is a fine young man. Esme would be over the moon if we had everyone under one roof. But a man wants his children to be independent, if they can."

"Darn right," I added. "My boy's still at home. The most I can get him to do is deliver papers and moonlight at the grocer."

"How old's he?" Scott asked.

"Thirty," I grumbled, and Carlisle laughed, giving me a commiserating smile. "Aren't you thirty yourself, Carlisle?"

He nodded, and I frowned back at him. "You don't look a day over twenty-five," I complained. "It's just not fair. Here my wife has me on a diet- again- and I can still use my gut as a desk. And don't tell me your wife doesn't feed you, either. Where do you put it all?"

Carlisle sighed, scooping another spoonful of chili out of the thermos and eating it. He didn't seem to enjoy this bite as much as the first; in fact, he was starting to look a little sick. "I'll take that bet," he murmured, after swallowing loudly.

"What bet?"

"You bet me that my daughter isn't coming home because she's broke. I say she is."

I laughed, taking out another cigarette. "The sky is falling, everyone! Carlisle Cullen has just become a gambling man! Next thing you know, he'll be keeping a flask in that lab coat!"

"Human after all," Scott said, holding his sandwich aloft like a champagne glass.

"It's just a friendly wager," Carlisle said, looking contrite. "I suppose my son-in-law is starting to wear off on me."

"If you win this one, Cullen, he'll be wearing your shirts, too," I joked. "All right, it's a bet. Fifty?"

Carlisle looked even more embarrassed. "Twenty."

I nodded, lighting up again and sending him a stream of friendly smoke. "You got it. Hey, you all right? You don't look so good."

Carlisle looked down into his thermos, looking sick indeed. "I think I may be coming down with that flu that's been going around," he admitted. "Not much appetite today." He screwed the lid back on the thermos with a sigh of relief- or fatigue, I guess. He was acting downright human today. "Guess I'll get back out there. Better kick that smoking habit, Ken, or you'll be liable to get lung cancer someday. Didn't you read that article last month?"

I harrumphed and shot a glare at Scott, who was doubled over with silent laughter. Carlisle stood, graceful as ever, but frowned and laid his hand on his stomach. He put his lunchbox away and headed, not back into the ER, but down the hall toward the restroom.

"What did I tell you?" Scott asked as he finished off his sandwich. "Human as they come."

.

.

.

When Carlisle got into work the next evening, he was wearing a smile that made all the nurses blush like schoolgirls.

"I take it I've won our little bet?" I asked, sauntering up to him at the nurses' station.

"No, you've lost it," he said proudly. "Emmett and Rosalie are back to stay, and I couldn't be more thrilled to have them. I believe you owe me twenty dollars."

I groaned, passing him the twenty. He tucked it into his lab coat and went to work looking well-rested and cheerful… more like a twenty-year old than an overworked ER doc. Still, it was nice to see Mr. Perfect dealing with some real life, for once.

Later that night, I heard two nurses giggling over their favorite doctor, Carlisle Cullen. Who else?

"And he's so sweet," the one whispered behind her clipboard. "Did you know he just donated twenty dollars to the Ladies' Auxilliary?"

"Of course he did," her companion gushed. "He's the most generous man I've ever met. Unlike some doctors I know." They both shot me a rude glance, and moved on. I just shook my head in wry amusement, heading into my next patient's room. Carlisle Cullen might be human after all, but he sure made the rest of us look like something less.