Hi all! I apologise whole heartedly for the last chapter, it's more important than it looked. Thank you for your well wishes, I'm very grateful. Like many of you, I was shocked by the sudden events in Manchester but I am safe and sound far south. My thoughts have been with the victims and alike of the tragedy.

This chapter was a lot more fun to get my hands around and though it's jumpy, as you will see, it's part of the process. Thanks very much for your kind reviews and messages, I hope you love this chapter as much as I did, if not more.

Enjoy!

Undoubtedly, most assuredly, and completely is the fact that I do not feel well. I haven't felt well since six o'clock yesterday but as I lay squirming, sweating one moment and shivering the next I can only be sure of one thing. Sickness sucks.

'Es?'

Unsurprisingly, I try to hide from the gentle whisper of his voice. Responding to him means confirming that he's right, that unfortunately, I'm right, too and I don't want to be ill.

'Esme?'

Nope. I'm fine. Just because my back is splintering, because my head is full of rocks and because my stomach is churning, doesn't mean that I'm not okay. I don't want to be ill.

'Love?'

He hardly moves and yet it feels like the floor around me is caving in. The weight isn't bearing down his side of his mattress, now. It is half perched in mid-air with a look towards me and a blistering ounce of confusion written on his features. My frown deepens and I do my best to continue counting in the hopes it'll stop the urge to vomit. I really don't want to be ill.

'I'm fine.' I say quickly and I have to say it before he does any kind of probing because I'm too tired to be convincing.

He shifts closer, leaning up on his side to look at my oily face. His breath is stifling on my cheeks. Our mint toothpaste burns rather cools my features and for a bit of air, I push my fringe out my face to find it is soaked with sweat. Just when I was shivering too.

'Just wanted to make sure you're okay?' He asks anyway.

'Mmm hm.' I don't want to risk opening my mouth so I sit up.

As expected, I'm sticky, flushed in my cheeks with my chest rising dramatically. Even when the air feels hot, my teeth chatter loudly, forcing me to bite down to stop my shoulders convulsing. Cautiously, he presses a reassuring hand to my back resulting in a jump when the damp cotton is pressed into my spine. We could pretty much wring the damn thing out.

'Why is it so cold in here?' I gasp, another violent shudder leaving me helpless as it steals the last of my energy.

'It's not.' He says quietly. Despite the darkness, I see the expression on his face, the raise of his eyebrows.

'Don't you dare.' I warn him but he's already made his diagnosis, and unlike me, isn't about to plead ignorance.

'It's not your fault, Es?'

'Don't say it, I'm perfectly fine. It's just hot in here?' It's ridiculously hot in here, so hot in fact that I'm gripping the blankets to me and huddling beneath my arms.

Leaning across, he passes along a glass of water from his side. I didn't realise how parched I was. It's cold and lunges at my throat like ice to hot sand and within seconds, I've drained it all, not leaving a drop left to land on my lip.

'Would you like another?' he offers, still trying to get a glance at my features but after that Olympic drinking, I'm desperate to catch a breath. As well as stop the stabbing pains.

I try to argue it and sustain my independence but my legs don't want to move properly which means it takes a very long time for me to make my way to the bathroom. I have no idea what the time is, I'm just aware that I was wrong earlier and the moment the cold water runs over my shoulders, I melt into oblivion. Oblivion means headaches, however, and not just headaches but further violent shivers and a gut that is more fluid than liquid itself. It's not even five minutes before my body gives up on itself and I find myself hurling. For at least two fucking hours, I swear.

He taps softly on the door, still surrounded in the dark of the hallway, just about to cross his foot into the bathroom when I forbid him from moving any closer.

'Stay there.' I croak, coughing up several more times so that my nose burns and my throat stings.

'Es, I'm a doctor. I deal with sickness all the time. Let me help?'

I vigorously shake my head and regret the movement immediately because it reminds my unsteady organs of the power that is movement and several more rounds of coughing up vomit paints our toilet bowl.

'Please?'

'Stay there!' I repeat and I'm proud of myself for using enough of a tone to give me a bit of space.

The air of the bathroom isn't much better than the bedrooms. It's still too hot and makes water seep down my neck like cars in a drag race but like the grown-ass woman I am, I tie up my hair, wash my mouth several times and let myself slip against the wall furthest from the shitter. Once he's seen my intentions, he copies, abiding to my instructions and avoiding my spoken barrier as he leans against the door frame but in the hallway.

'Are you okay?' Carlisle asks and there's a slight arrogant tone to his questions.

'Go away.' I whine, catching a breath.

He doesn't like the fact I've disregarded his title and at this moment in time, I couldn't give a fuck. My body can't handle effort. Another glass is pushed along the tiles towards me. I eye it greedily.

'Sip it.' He reminds but I take my independence one step too far and guzzle it down. I bring it back up not even seconds later. My hand only just grabs the rim of the seat, dinner and various other foods now being expelled like demons into our pristine bowl and like the know-it-all he is, he can't help but break my rules.

My body lurches, the drool hanging from my mouth like poison as I spit repeatedly, my body shaking and it's just as I'm mid-expelling I feel his smooth hand rubbing up my back, not as gently as I'd expect but somewhat useful.

I'm pissed off that it's helping.

'Cullen!'

In silence he hands me the glass of water.

'Please just fuck off, I don't want you to see this.'

'Why?' He asks curiously and before I even have to move he's handing me tissue and then my toothbrush with the perfect amount of toothpaste on the bristles. The smell is making me feel ten times worse so I don't know how the hell he's coping.

'Because I'm repulsive.' I say around the brushing of my tongue. He couldn't seem less bothered.

'Not at all.' He swears and knowing exactly what I want, he drops a towel around me in attempt to make me feel better.

Typically wearing his white T-shirt, I regret not being more focused to appreciate the loose boxers on his person and for no particular reason, it makes the air hotter but not necessarily in a good way. The shape of his calves, the pale skin, the tense thighs, his manhood and here I am looking my absolute worst and smelling disgusting. The air compresses down onto my bare shoulders as I take another drink and then another.

'I hate being sick.'

'I know, Hon. Give yourself a few moments, wait till you feel sure.'

He returns within moments carrying a bucket coated in the strongest disinfectant smell I think I've ever encountered and it makes my head hurt.

'Last time I was this ill I was doing Jager with Alice. Even then, I wasn't vomiting this much!' I'm not a vomit-y person and it's very rare that someone can drink me under the table.

'I remember.' He chuckles, his eyes sympathetic and he sits cross-legged by me. 'Just let me know if you need anything?'

'Is this why you're a doctor? Because you're never ill?'

In total honesty, attempting to speak to him is one of the stupidest things I decide to do because it means forcing the most head splitting pain into my body voicing just one coherent word after the other. Though suddenly I feel like hearing speak him might help. At the very least it's comforting having him so close to my miseries.

'The last time I was sick was back when I was bringing up pool water.' He's patient as he waits for me to respond but not intrusive.

'You proud Son-of-a-bitch.'

Once more, he chuckles.

'Can you stand up okay?' Just in case, he poses an open palm out towards me. My knees are the problem though my legs aren't much better but we manage to get to the preferred standing position as he holds the bucket behind him. 'Did you want to try and get some sleep?'

I lift my chin. 'Mm. But I think I want to sleep in my room?'

'Are you sure?' He repeats and I can't understand the sudden concern. Unless maybe it's that I'll choke in my sleep.

'I don't want to make you ill.'

'Oh.' He says and then repears himself in an attempt to convince me otherwise. 'If you're sure?'

I nod again and stumble my way back into my room. If it could even be classed as that. Everything is too white and busy rather than the sleek and classy darker colours of Carlisle's room. The air is luckily not stifling but its worse. The cold stings my arms, my face and the sheets feel like Greaseproof paper around my skin. Though that doesn't stop him. He helps me into my usual side of the bed, fetches me a glass of water, the bucket and several more blankets when he sees I'm shuddering. In fact, he very much goes above and beyond the usual doctor's route. He fixes the window for me, turns off the lights and on my insistence, stays on the borderline in the hallway, chatting softly to me about work until I fall quickly back into sleep.

An hour later and I'm up rushing to the bathroom again to repeat my actions. This time, I don't get chance to tell him to piss off. He's holding back the loose strands of hair with one hand and rubbing a cool palm along my back until I've finally stopped coughing. I'm sweating even more now, drinking greedily with even less energy than earlier but he simply repeats his actions with the same effort as before.

'You're okay.' He murmurs soothingly, knuckles coming up my spine as I rinse and repeat. I wish I'd decided to look away from him because I'm almost gasping for air. He's noticed. The curve of his eyebrow proves it. 'How are you feeling?'

Crouching towards me, he settles the back of his hand on my forehead. I use the last of my effort to roll my eyes. Then his hand moves to hold my cheeks, my neck. I'm starting to wish his hands were cool like the marble they resemble and less likely to soak up the heat bunching about my hair but he doesn't seem repulsed.

'A little warm.' I admit. His hum agrees and he pulls me to my feet again. The walk to my bed is harder this time because I'm more tired and have been further emptied of the very things I need for energy.

The same routine happens twice more until I realise he's decided to sit outside my room waiting for the next round. I have nothing to bring up this time just water and sure as hell, that comes up in litres. My body is still flitting between freezing and overheating but I'm back to the Spanish island stage and continue to pour sweat out just from breathing.

I don't walk to bed, I get carried there pretty much but I think he knows the appreciation will come when I can be bothered to give it. For now, I'm sticking to the role of self-centred and nauseous person who is so pathetic that the only way to ignore the pain in every crevice of the human anatomy, is to breathe loudly.

The duvet is pulled up to my shoulders, a delicate hand gently massaging my disgustingly foul scalp but he waits till I'm at my weakest to pounce.

'Can I stay?' He begs, softly, no louder than I need him to be and I really hate myself and him for making him everything that I both need and want.

'Go to bed.' I groan, guiltily and I'm angry that he kisses the top of my head goodnight and does as I ask. Him and that fucking cologne of his is the only salvation I'll admit to having at this moment.

'Carlisle?'

He stops just outside my door, tilting his head back to me, his fringe slipping into his view, his delicate smile being everything I want for a bit of relief.

'Can I have a cold cloth?'

'Of course.'

The next thing I'm aware of is the cooling material on my face as it dampens the burn of my temperature. It's heaven. Or the only chance of heaven I'll be granted while feeling this shitty.

'Can you rub my back, too?' I ask, weakly and like a helpless infant, he dotes on my every need. Except that this is not an infant like scenario and though it is innocent, there's also something thrilling about the way his fingertips dance along my back, soothing the aches with little movement and sending me into the soft power of sleep while keeping my face cold and refreshing.

Two hours later and I'm so cold, I think I should start up an ice rink. It starts off with shivering and then they get worse and more violent and within moments, I've wrapped myself up in all the same blankets, huddled around the body heat about me and pressed myself to his back.

He hums gently when I fidget, his hands moving along my back again as if guilty for stopping. Yet as he feels the violent shiver under his palm, he wakes himself up to move closer.

'Sleep will help.' He promises and it nearly makes my heart ache as badly as my head when he wraps his arm around me and holds me to his warm chest. I keep shuddering for the moment. Then slowly, they slip away and the hot breath I'd been hating earlier quickly becomes my relief.

'Talk to me.' I murmur and though I don't want to wake him, there are so many areas of discomfort going on in my body that I just want to focus on anything else. Anything.

'What would you like to hear?'

Realistically I'd like to hear anything but I'm aiming for the least painful and easiest thing my interest grasped from earlier.

'You said you were taught to cook?'

He nuzzles my gross hair, soft lips warming up my insides as he keeps me warm and sleepy under such security. My hand unconsciously tightens around his shirt, clutching the fresh scent from the fibres and holding onto them.

'I was.' He confirms, his narrative softening into storytelling mode. 'By the chef. I was never meant to have met her but circumstances often lead to her taking care of me, especially while young. She couldn't speak a word of English and so I had to learn Italian in order to understand her. She'd start by naming fruits and vegetables, giving me little phrases to learn and having me repeat them before starting on sentences and then conversations. The market was close to the site and when I was permitted, we would walk along the cobblestones, through the alleys with houses as tall as towers…'

And before long, I'm calm enough to sleep once more.

By morning, I discover there is no such thing as mercy in the world. Just when I thought I was done, I'm corrected. My head is throbbing, my back aching, both shivering and sweating once more. I lay here a little longer, appreciating the sudden space in the bed while hating it too. The churning in my stomach twisting uncomfortably. I manage to hold it down for a maximum of three minutes forty. Then leaping from the bed, luckily still dressed, I rush into the bathroom and throw the door wide open, ignorant to roar of the shower and the steam alike.

Carlisle obviously leaps out of his skin when he realises I'm awake again but throws himself to the wall in what could be a mix of humiliation and shock. My brain doesn't have time to take it in. Not even the fact that for a second it definitely looked like he had a hand around himself.

'Christ, Esme!'

For the moment, I ignore him as I hang my head over the toilet bowl and fucking hurl my guts out again. It comes rushing out dramatically, burning my throat as it pours out of me.

'We need a second bathroom, huh?' He jokes, barely loud enough over the water stream.

From what I gather, he's shaking his wet hair under the water but I am not moving until the heaving stops. It doesn't stop immediately, the drool slips off of my tongue and miserably, I spit my way into ridding the putrid smell of vomit from myself.

I can't tell what he's doing, though if I just moved my right arm, I'd be able to. I assume, he's still washing but he no longer seems shy. It wouldn't matter anyway, I'm not exactly going to jump him. The shower turns off, followed by a few sentences under his breath but I'm still patiently waiting to see if I'm safe from vomit-Ville again.

'Water?'

'Please.' I reply, hearing the echo of my words and a few coughs in the toilet bowl. Urgh, my head hurts so freaking bad. 'Maybe a towel?'

'Anything else, Madame?' He teases, passing a glass towards me but rather than drink it, I hold it to my forehead and breathe deeply a few times.

'My toothbrush.'

There's a kind of soft sentence from him before I feel a towel wrapped around my shoulders followed by him holding out my toothbrush exactly as he's been doing all night. I snatch it from him and hurriedly brush my mouth out with the burning mint.

'Please be gentle. You don't want to damage your gums?' He chuckles at his own joke and another towel is dropped to my knees.

Oh God. Mid-brushing, I gag and because I gag, I vomit and drop my toothbrush in the toilet surrounded by red and white bits of stomach lining.

'Ow,' I whimper, feeling really fucking victimised, the corner of mouth dropping dribble into the bowl.

'Oh, Love.' He whispers, humorously. I can't be arsed, I'm fucking exhausted and these towels are doing fuck all and my head hurts and I just feel so unbelievably shit.

'Have we got any new toothbrushes?'

Ever noticed how hard it is to speak after you've vomited too many times? Another is passed to me and I try again to clean my mouth. He presses the flush, grimacing at the colour.

'How bad are you feeling?' He asks, hoovering close by my side. I look up for the first time since entering the bathroom. I didn't even hear him turn the shower off? Yet here he stands, a towel around his waist, technically naked with his torso on show and I'm wasting it. His voice as relaxed and as genuine as normal. So thanks for the towels. I shake my head, then pause because it's making me feel sick again.

It's not even worth an answer. The ceramic bowl doesn't look so sparkling clean with my stomach contents sploshed onto it. He squeezes my shoulder affectionately but I pause thinking I'm about to hurl again….and the moment passes.

I turn to make a face at him. He's sitting on the corner of the bath, smiling looking very refreshed and very eager to continue his day, the water droplets stopping at the hips of his towel. Least he tried to cover up this time. But I like it when his hair is a mess. It looks hotter.

He chuckles so that it plays in his dark blue eyes like a little spark. I spit the mint out until I'm dribbling into the toilet again. My head still spinning and up comes the last of the water.

'You're okay.' He continues to say, rubbing a hand on my back as my body tries to expel every repellent and germ littering my stomach.

'Cullen. Fuck off.' I groan, swatting him away as I gasp for the relief of air. He's gently humming again, kissing the top of my head before doing as I asked and stepping away.

'If you need me-.'

'Go!'

I don't want to even think about vomiting anymore with him in the room. I'm sick a few more times and shit out the entirety of my intestines but he gives me space. So I lay on the floor for a good five minutes, exhausted and completely without energy. Maybe an hour and then there's a knock on the door.

'Are you decent? Can I come in?'

I groan in reply. The words I'm trying to say are a 'if you must'. Luckily, he can speak every language known to man and translates this easily, pushing the door open to find me sprawled.

'Oh Hon.'

'Urgh.'

Another groan from yours truly. He's dressed now and his soap is giving me pain in every sinus possible. He crouches to where I am and combs my hair away from my face.

'You need rest.'

I shake my head initially but it's only because I can't move and I don't want to move and I feel so shitty. I let my eyes close again, lying on the tiles where it's coolest, my cheek pressing into them.

'Esme?'

'I have class.' I croak, weakly.

'Not today.' With gentle arms, he manages to pull me up and hold me to him, ready to carry me to his room but I insist on mine again. He's reluctant at first, knowing how bloody uncomfortable it is, I'm sure, but after fetching me a few extra pillows, kisses my forehead and encourages me to sleep it off.

'Call me if you need anything.'

I can't even be arsed to answer him.

Thankfully, I find I do quite well to sleep off the majority and I don't wake up till past twelve. At which point, I'm running to the bathroom again. I'm exhausted but I can't sleep anymore and with a flannel pressed firmly against my forehead, I stand towards the stairs.

Typically, he's leaning against the bannister, blue eyes locked on mine, a fresh glass of water in his hand.

'Need any help?'

'I'm coming downstairs now.' I murmur. 'I can't sleep anymore.'

'Only if you're sure?'

I nod tiredly and because I'm really struggling to get these feet moving, I allow him to help me down. He's utterly brilliant and when I curl up on the sofa, he wraps as many cushions and blankets around me, places a bucket close to my head and makes another cold drink. I'm regretting being grumpy but my stomach is hurting and I can't make an effort to speak.

The window has been delivered which I assume he'll be wanting to fix soon and out of ease, I don't give it a second look, focusing on the television instead. There's nothing interesting on it.

Though I can hear him try not to, after a while there's several curses coming from the kitchen. I've slept again. It's closer to three and though I'm feeling crap, my energy levels are rising.

'Goddammmit.' He hisses, and suddenly there's a clatter of metal. I'm awake anyway and I don't have the effort to yell so instead I wrap the sheet around my shoulders and stand in the kitchen doorway.

I think this is an image I need to document, fall in love with and remember for the rest of my life. He's bent over the washing machine, fiddling about with the back and pressing buttons at the front, all the while driving himself into irritation. His hand are slight but look black against the machinery and his forehead is creased.

'Need a plumber?'

He turns, his expression guilty as he holds his hands in place. 'I didn't mean to wake you, I'm sorry.'

'Need any help?' I offer and I think we can both guess how little help I'll be when after five minutes, I have to sit down again.

'I don't know what the heck Edward has done to it. I leave it working and return to it-' he rams his hand into one of the back pieces, alarmed when the noise starts up and all of a sudden, the washing machine starts to fill up. 'I wasn't expecting that.'

The grin he returns me is almost childish in his glee, sweetly innocent and proactive.

'You're so hands on.' I say quietly and for half a play, I raise an eyebrow at him.

'When you're feeling better.' He promises and that's all he says before a charming smile of his makes my stomach flip. The movement is painful though and with my vulnerable tummy as it is, I rush upstairs.

'Hon, there's a bowl down here?'

The bowl means nothing. I'm not even vomiting, I'm just dry heaving and it's causing the worst kind of cramps I think I've had in a long time. I'm thankful for the five minutes he grants me of space and even more grateful that he ends my five minutes of space with his presence.

'Come on, Love. Back to bed?'

My posture is slump against the bath, my knees shaking uncontrollably when I try to use them so instead he gently gathers me up close to him and lets my head roll to his neck.

'I want to be downstairs.'

'You need sleep.' He insists, and despite his sweet tone I know I'm not going to argue with this.

'Let me sleep on the sofa? I'll be quiet?'

He wants to hesitate but I think he knows that the reminder of vomit isn't where I want to be. His arms are warm around me and settle the shivers as he descends the steps.

By the time I'm wrapped up on the sofa again, he's chosen, on my demand, to sit with me, close to where my feet are, writing up something on his laptop as he scans the textbook next to him. I keep slipping in and out of sleep, my eyes heavy but this time around I'm shivering again clenching my stomach painfully and holding my breath.

'Try to relax.' He says soothingly but I can't help it and my hands grip my skin, my shoulders and teeth chattering as I curl up tighter.

He reaches out again, finger on my back when I swat him away but as he moves, I change my mind and grab his hand again, pulling it to my aches and pains. 'Keep going?'

'Sure?' He asks but he feels how I relax under him. My stiff body loosens as he kneads my back, warming the skin and making the tight muscles drift into comfort. It's cruel of me but it means for the next few hours, he does his work one handed.

I'm fidgeting again. It's horrible. One minute I'm fine, next I'm not. I can't deal with it, it's the worst. I just want it to be over.

'You're looking flushed, Sweetheart.'

'I'm cold.' I complain, hiding in the duvet. He feels my cheek, his fingers soft and cool and makes a different expression.

'Would you like a hot water bottle?' I nod as enthusiastically as I can manage. 'There's a condition.' He warns. I frown, shifting to him to prove my irritation. He looks sympathetic at first, and obviously wild attractive.

'You're hot. I'll do you a hot water bottle on the condition you take off one of the blankets.'

If this was an attempt to see me naked, it was a shit one.

'Eurgh. Carlisle! I want the blanket.'

'I know you do.' And he makes an effort to stroke my hair, fingers slipping through the fallen strands as he tries to weave them back into the bun.

'Can't I have both?' I plead softly but he shakes his head, decided. 'Please?'

He's refusing to back down.

'But I'm freezing!'

He's smarter than he looks and doesn't vocally press the matter further. He does move to make the water bottle and once I've reluctantly disregarded the duvet, hands it to me to curl up against. He works for another few minutes but stops when he sees I'm getting uncomfortable and with a gentle movement, he pulls me into his side and lays his head on the arm rest, his arm curled around me.

'Are you okay?'

'Feel a bit nauseous.' He admits but that doesn't stop him making me better.

I think we both must fall asleep together and even when Edward comes walking through the door, he doesn't even feel tempted to take the piss. He just sits in the arm chair, eyes on the book in his hand while he listens to the TV.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how I ended up so wrapped around Carlisle's body when I feel like utter trash but he's warm and surprisingly, more comfortable than the sofa. Even with my hand on his T-shirt, we're not flirting. We're resting.

'How are you feeling?' Edward asks, flicking his eyes up to the both of us. I can't tell if Carlisle opens his eyes, all I know is that we both grunt in response. 'Take it no work today then?'

'Or tomorrow.' Carlisle adds and just the tone is enough for me to realise he's talking about me, too. No work. There are some upsides to being ill. But I don't want to phone, I don't want to think about how much trouble I'm going to be in and I really don't want to step even close to that stupid coffee house. I need to slow down, I'm feeling sick again.

'I have a question…'

This time I feel Carlisle move his head towards him. Edward hesitates I think, playing with a grimace in his throat because he's weirdly concerned for once.

'I want to invite Bella round for dinner?'

There's silence as I assume the question is posed to me.

'Now?' He asks, his voice resonating dangerously in his chest.

'No, not now. Thursday?'

Carlisle grimaces. 'I'm not sure how we're both going to be feeling, Edward…'

'How are you feeling?'

'Shit.'

'Do you want some paracetamol?'

'Kissing my ass isn't going to help. For now I'll say a provisional yes but it's not set in stone.' I don't know if Carlisle's tone is based on the fact that I've infected him or because he's tired, nevertheless I can't help but smile. 'But I really don't feel hosting is a good idea. Isn't it Emmett's turn?'

'No…' Edward says quietly. 'I'm just inviting Bella… only Bella.'

Finally I open my eyes. 'Only Bella?' I repeat, my voice thick.

From across, Edward peers up from his book and shyly nods, his hair a complete mess as he drums a tune onto the arm of his chair.

'Yes.'

'Edward?!' I pull myself up, struggling with the dizziness for a moment but Carlisle doesn't move. He's looking paler than normal. 'Only Bella?!'

'Yes.' With an amused smile, he rolls his eyes, forcing himself to return to his book though I know he's not reading it. Carlisle on the other hand is keeping a regimented breath tucked into his mouth.

'What kind of dinner do you want? Like a takeaway or like a big home-made meal?' I ask and despite my stomach ache and my heavy head, I want to know what he is hinting at. 'What does this mean?'

He looks guiltily up to me, a smile hidden on his face with his cheeks tempted to blush. 'Nothing.' He murmurs but he's grinning.

'Well how 'all-out' do I have to go? Like three course meal or bigger?' Despite my crappy day, I'm thrilled by the idea and I have no idea why.

'Es.' Carlisle murmurs and it's a way of him begging me to not fidget so much.

'Whatever you'd like…'

'Edward!'

'What?' He says, laughing.

'Tell me! What's happening?'

'Well if you're both up to it, I was hoping for dinner? You are the best chef I know.'

I feel like the slight smirk on Carlisle's face is a warning for me to not be easily swayed but I don't want to bother him too much when he's not feeling his best either. His hand hasn't moved from my back.

'But what's going on!' I insist, suddenly finding the effort I'd been needing all day. 'Is this a thing? Are you guys a thing?!'

'Are you?'

'Okay.' Carlisle announces, groaning. He carefully slips his arm from around me, frowns and climbs the stairs in two. The bathroom door slams shut and I have a two minute show-down with the kid in question.

'I hope that wasn't him answering?'

'Shut up, Edward.'

It's not that late but we're no help to each other downstairs and though I've been lucky enough to stop vomiting, I'm still feeling awful. Edward doesn't say anything else but he keeps raising his eyebrows at me like I'm a child and because I don't want to think about the answer, let alone Carlisle's (hopefully coincidental response), I bid him goodnight.

My hand knocks on the bathroom door, expecting to find what he did this morning but he surprises me in pulling the door open, brushing his teeth, his hair flicking up in crazy angles.

'I'm sorry.'

'What for?' He asks, drying his mouth with a fresh towel and washing his hands thoroughly.

'Making you ill.'

'I'm okay.' He sighs. 'I'm just going to go to bed.'

'Me too.' I whisper. He nods in response, his eyes purple and his features weak with their usual character. 'Well I suppose… I'll see you tomorrow?'

'Goodnight…' He agrees, stepping forwards. He presses his lips to the top of my head, his hand slipping over my shoulder. 'If you need me…?'

'Vice versa, Hon.'

He doesn't shut his door properly but neither do I. I just lay in my foreign bed, cold, uncomfortable, bored and unable to sleep. After forty minutes he knocks on my open door.

'Are you okay?' I ask, sitting up.

'Lonely.' He admits, mouth turned down.

'I can help with that?' I offer, a weak smile returning. 'Besides, it makes no sense to stay apart when we're both ill.'

'You're right.' He agrees and he waits for me to grant him space before climbing in next to me and tugging the sheet over himself, tired eyes watching me.

He's hot, a little more than usual, his skin burning up as he lays next to me, his face buried in his arm, his hair busy and damp with the sweat from his neck.

'Carlisle?'

His eyes are closed, his breath hot on my spine despite the open window, his hand buried as he curls towards me.

'Mmm?'

'You look warm.'

'I feel warm.' He whispers, a smile light on his face.

'Take your clothes off then?'

He knows I'm joking because he smirks, his frown playing a sweet tune on his face. Or rather, I'm not joking but the heat is unbearable and I can't send him away. The bed shifts and with a loud thump, I throw my t-shirt in a ball to the nearest chair followed by my shorts… and then my underwear.

'Esme….'

'What?' I ask, semi-innocently. I know what I've done but I actually don't care, I'm just tired. I want sleep, I'm less likely to burn now.

He's quiet for the moment, his breaths slipping down my bare back but when I turn to him, I see his eyes are still closed. So I keep my eyes closed too and use the blanket as the only cover I need as I settle down to sleep. Besides, the clothes were constricting my stomach which is the least of what I want right now.

With another delicate groan, the mattress moves again and not only does a shirt come flying towards the wall I'm facing but the boxers also. This is going to be the greatest thing in the world tomorrow… The greatest.

'Are you…?' I start to ask.

'Yes I'm naked. But please don't turn me on, my stomach can't take it…'

'Me turn you on?!'

His chuckle is sweet and he curls an arm over the blanket to rest at his leg. Despite what he's said… we're both too ill to care. No one gives a shit. No one cares. We both need rest. So I lean behind me to pull his arm across my stomach.

'Es…' He warns. 'I can't get any closer.'

I'm assuming that the smirk on his face is because of his supposed danger-factor. Little does he know I'm using this as perfect ammunition for a good night in once I'm feeling better. I'm rather grateful he's comfortable enough to get naked, too.

'I know.' I accidently sigh but bury my head a little more into the pillow. 'Sleep well, Carlisle.'

'And you, Hon.'

I suspect it makes me a bad person but I don't wake once throughout the whole night. Not even though I know he's got his dick out. Not even when I hear him chucking up and not even when he shivers beside me. My hands just unconsciously seeks and holds him at a distance while we both try to fight for a little bit of peace.

It's difficult. I'm feeling better, weak and tired still with a drum for a head but I'm not nauseas when I awake. Unfortunately Carlisle is suffering and he's being stubborn about it. I try to make him a drink, to intervene, to offer to phone his place of work to let them know but he just denies the option and climbs back into bed. Unlike me, he literally does sleep a lot of it off and though I try to offer what I can of my company, my attention is soon acquired elsewhere.

By afternoon, Edward and I are sat opposite each other in the living room. The TV is playing old fifties music that we both keep commenting on as we play a game of cards between us. He's been better dressed than he is today but he promises he's not ill with a food-stained shirt. He hasn't put his phone down since I saw him with it and his eyes move to the screen after every flash of a notification.

'Weren't you supposed to start work today?' He asks, handing me the Jack of hearts that I asked for and refusing to look up.

'Carlisle phoned them. He's written a note, too.' I found it earlier this morning on the side in the kitchen. I guess it was just another way to avoid trouble but it still felt like he was somewhat bitter about having to write it. For some unknown reason, I feel like Edward agrees.

'That's good.'

'Yep.' I reply.

'Got any sevens?' He asks quickly, replacing the original words from his mouth. I pass them over. 'When do you go back?'

'Tomorrow.' I say bluntly. Though in reality, I'm not even sure I'll have a shift.

'Definitely returning then?'

'Yes.'

'You're sure about this?'

'Edward…'

'What? Your boss was looking down your shirt.'

'I know.' I say hastily and then a tired mutter falls off my tongue. 'I know, okay? I just haven't got a choice.'

'You've always got a choice.'

'Yes, poverty or prostitution. Which one shall I choose?'

'Personally I'd favour poverty.' Announces a voice from behind my head and though he's smiling, he sounds stern. 'Poverty, any day.'

My damp hair sways as I turn and my lips shift up into their delusional smile. 'I didn't realise you were awake? How are you feeling?'

He snorts. Bad question.

'Would you like anything to eat?' I offer, standing up too quickly and letting my remaining hand of cards drop into Edward's lap.

He tries the smallest bit of bread but like me yesterday, struggles to stomach it. I try to advise on bed again, Edward does too before he leaves for class, and pretty soon we get him as close to the sofa. We should know just looking at him he's not well. He's exceptionally pale, his shirt loose on his hot skin and his joggers hanging low on his hips where he can't be bothered to tighten the strings properly. How selfish of me to enjoy such a blissful sight of his torso.

'Thank you for your note.' I say softly when he eventually settles his ass down. Likewise, his back is hurting, I can recognise it in the state of his posture but I'd reckon his head is about ten times worse than mine. He's struggling to keep from squinting. Even when I turn all the lights out for him.

'You're welcome.'

'Did you deliberately make it unreadable?' I ask, handing him a glass of water and tablets. He didn't ask for them but he looks relieved by my assumption and swallows them down quickly.

'Yes.'

'I appreciate it.'

As he nods, he positions his neck on the back of the sofa, hair falling upwards and throat on display. I stay standing above him for a little while longer.

'I should have next Tuesday off if you'd like me to drop it in with you?'

'No thanks.' I defuse quickly but I move on almost immediately because this isn't a great subject and my mind is made up. I'm going in tomorrow. I have to go in tomorrow. What's one week? One horribly exhaustive week? Maybe I'll take a knife with me? Oh Jesus, this dark humour as just taken a turn for the worst.

'Can you do me a favour?' He asks, closed eyes crinkling a little more with his frown.

'Of course, Hon?' At this, he smiles.

'Could you sit down? You're making me dizzy.'

'Oh. I'm sorry.'

What a strange request? I settle next to him on the sofa and pull my legs up, eyes captured of his complexion because I want to help but I don't really know what to do either. Still without opening his eyes, he moves his left hand towards me, asking for my hand. It's sweaty in mine and unable to pose an actual hold but still sweet.

'How much do you love me?'

'Pardon?' Curse this fucking illness making my head spin.

'Do you think you could read through my notes for me? I'd do it myself but I'm seeing double at the moment?'

'You want me to write up your notes?' I repeat confused and I'm glad I'm more distasteful in tone than I'd expected. Alright, so I'm feeling better. Doesn't mean I have the energy to write a proper sentence though.

He shakes his head, breathing heavily. 'No. Read them to me?'

'Oh.'

'You can say no?'

Suddenly his eyes are on me, the eyebrow raised, the shadow of a smirk hidden on his pale mouth.

Perhaps the reason for such an odd need is in his desperation to feel better. It comes at my expense. Everything I read out for him is awkward and I struggle at the Latin medicines to the point where I naturally misread a few Basic English phrases, too. His handwriting is beautiful, the layout pristine it's just the words which are causing me grief. I wonder if he's laughing at me but rather, he looks like he's taking everything in, even though he shouldn't be. He should be sleeping.

'Practitioners commonly believe that chronic bronchitis and… emphysema… are further manifestations of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.' It's difficult to get out especially when he doesn't look like he's listening but I manage sure enough.

'Are you okay?'

'Emphysema? Isn't that another disease though?'

He nods. 'It's where the air sacks in the lungs damage and die leaving holes in its place. It's not very nice but certain antibiotics and steroids will help.'

'I forget that medicine is this miserable…'

He opens his eyes, softening his smile a little and squeezing my hand. 'It's not always? Think about how many people we're able to make better because of everything we learn?'

I smile, unsure of what to answer just yet.

'One of the officers that Charlie works with has COPD. He was smoking in the staff area and collapsed when I was on my way to work a few months ago. It's how I know Charlie. I knew him before, obviously. But he stayed in the waiting room for about three days before his family came in. Very honourable of him.'

'You're not allowed to tell me that, are you?'

He shakes his head.

'Charlie seems to like you?'

'I hope so.' He says softly.

'More so than Edward…' I tell him, hiding the roll of my eyes. I still had yet to discover if this is an anti-Edward thing or just an anti-boy thing on Officer Swan's part. Sure, Edward's impression wasn't fantastic but he's good to Bella. I've seen the flower receipts to prove it.

'They've met?' He asks.

'Yeah… When the whole bottle incident happened…' I remind him. He remembers suddenly, casting his eyes down as though guilty. The left hand of his drops mine though, reaching towards me with the palm up.

'May I?' He has his hands close to my knotted hair, looking around for the dreaded stitches. Another tired sigh leaves my mouth but he asked and I have no reason to say no.

'If you so dearly wish…' I say gently as a warning but he can't help himself. He angles his face to get a better look, gently brushes my hair out of the way and breathes sharply when he sees it. 'Satisfied?'

'Don't be mad?' He begs, stroking my cheek. 'You'd want do to the same?'

'Which is?' I ask.

'Critique your co-workers. I want to ensure their work is satisfactory.' He smiles, tiredly and I'm tempted to curl up into him before I remember it wasn't an hour ago, he was vomiting, too. 'It could've been worse. You're quite lucky.'

'I know.' I tell him, running my hands up his side. He neither flinches nor shivers which isn't necessarily a bad thing. 'I'm exceptionally lucky, in fact.'

He frowns down at me, squinting but still smiling. I've angled my chin up again, begging for the addiction of his mouth with just a pout and nothing more. For today at least, he has to refuse me and though I don't blame him, I miss the feeling so deeply that I'd sell my soul to be well again. His hand returns to my colder hand, playing with my fingers and smirking.

'Forgive me?'

'There's nothing to forgive, I'm being very cruel...' I admit, watching him.

'The moment we're better…' He promises, drifting off deliberately.

'You don't have to tie yourself to false promises, Sweet. I'll get over it.'

'Esme…' He murmurs with a frown. 'You underestimate how much I want you.'

I shake my hair, brushing it away from my neck to give myself a bit of air. 'No. I just often force you into a corner. I need to stop it…'

'There's no forcing.' He corrects. It makes me feel even guiltier, how easily I managed to manipulate each situation till he couldn't do anything but give in to me.

'When you were to marry Chelsea…' I begin, shyly. At least I think that's what her name is? His silence assures me I'm correct. 'You said you were close. Did you mean attraction wise or-'

'She was my friend.' He interrupts gently, watching me bow my head to my knees and squeezing my hand.

'I know I kinda stole your first kiss off you but did you… ever want to kiss her?'

'You didn't steal it.' He argues, pathetically. 'But no, I didn't.'

He tilts his head back again, thinking before unexpectedly bringing his legs over my lap. They're heavy and warm beneath the thick cotton. I let my attention pry on them for a few minutes before realising he wants me to lay with him. It's unfair of me but I happily oblige, bringing my knee up to his thigh and wedging myself between his warm side and the material of the sofa. He's still unbearably hot against me but the open window is allowing a slight air to breeze over our hot faces and I deliberately avoid leaning against his abdomen.

'Not even slightly?'

He makes a sound in the negative and stays still under me.

'Is that because of the sex before marriage thing?'

'Most probably…' He admits. 'There would've been a thousand complications if we'd done something careless… We weren't as close as you're assuming though.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. Its nice talking to you. It takes my mind off my stomach.'

'So what about when you got older? Once you'd discovered your libido? Did you ever want to kiss anyone then?' I hate the naivety in my voice when I say kiss so I add to it. 'Or more?'

'Not really.' He confesses but I suppose he's being minimalist for the sake of my embarrassment. I don't necessarily think I'm ready to here the current thought he's having. 'I'd never put my faith at risk like that. Or even consider doing so. Masturbating was bad enough.'

'So you were still hard-core Christian?'

'Yes.'

'What's changed?' I ask softly. He wasn't expecting this as told in his reaction. He tightens his arm around me, confused according to his hesitation. 'You were so devoted on staying pure before marriage… and not anymore?'

'That's a loaded question.' He murmurs.

'You don't have to answer?'

'I will.' He promises. 'It's just hard to answer completely but I'll try my best…'

He inhales deeply, taking a while to think of his answer as he lets me cuddle in to him, warming myself on his temperature. To think only yesterday I was desperate for sex and here I am…satisfied by a freaking hug. I'm losing my hormones.

'Firstly, I don't think I'd like to think I'd ever strayed away from my faith. Even with my reluctance to claim it… I still want to believe I'm as thoroughly devoted to it all. Morally and ethically. It does sometimes become difficult to appreciate with the mass corruption surrounding it, including the likes of my father, but… I didn't choose it. It chose me?'

It doesn't go unnoticed that he doesn't like the end of this sentence because he grimaces and makes a sound as if he's going to go running off again. So I deliberately avoid leaning too hard into him.

'It took for you to remind me of that.' He amends, clearly. 'To move on… There's complications with marriage in our current world. Marriage is not as strict of a promise as it once was and…I think it's often subjected too immediately. People get married before they know each other. It's easily broken and not easily fixed. To make such an oath to God… I'm not saying I don't agree with marriage because I do, wholeheartedly. I just think it's improperly aspired to sometimes. Especially within the church. People use it as clarification on commitment when commitment should be a promised state anyway…'

He groans slightly, leaning his head away. 'I've overcomplicated that completely.'

'Would you ever get married?' I ask.

'Marriage has never been something I could see myself in. I respect it and would be honoured to be married but… well it's complicated and a very big commitment.'

'So it's not marriage you don't believe in. Just remarriage?'

'You're making me sound cynical…' He complains. 'It's not remarriage in itself. Marriage is a beautiful thing, and remarriage too. Personally I couldn't bring myself to marry again. Except maybe if I was widowed which is a horrible thought.'

'You are cynical if you think people use it temporarily….' I tease him but I realise the tease is harsh and I could be offending him.

'If marriage wasn't both a legal and a religious term. If you could be legally married without it involving the matters of the church then I would have no qualms about it. I dislike the fact that you have to apply to one for the other. They shouldn't be a singular term. We shouldn't expect people to oath something they don't believe in… that's almost blasphemous.'

'So you want there to be marriage and then Church marriage?'

'I'm digging myself in a hole, aren't I?'

'No.' I say. 'No, it's very enlightening. I'm surprised you've managed to answer yourself so well.'

'I do believe in marriage and weddings. I'm all for them. The loss of them, however... it's heartbreaking.'

'That must be hard though? To think you nearly promised your life to someone you didn't love?' I suppose, quietly.

He thinks deeply on this comment, his blue eyes seeming darker under the exhausted purple, his complexion statuesque and the feel of his skin running at an all time high. Yet despite all this, despite the fact he is repulsive, I am repulsive and I cannot have sex with him... I can't be worried. The fire beneath my organs still yearns for his comfort and though he's only speaking words at me, there has never been a better way to spend my day. Sex is both off the cards and irrelevant. My hands still tighten their grip on him ans with every breath he gives, I want to know more.

'At that point, I didn't know what love was. I would've probably considered I was in love in my naivety. So yeah, that thought is somewhat alarming. Hence my reluctance.'

'It's irritating that even when you're not feeling well, you make perfect sense.' I complain but his delicate chuckle is soft enough that I can smile without malice.

'Lastly, it's not that I don't believe in sex before marriage anymore. I understand it. I'm for it in some respects.'

'Have I changed that?'

'Not completely.' He answers difficultly. 'Purity is a stupid term for people who don't quite understand the basics of human interactions. Admittedly, four years ago I would never have deviated but… you're really sexy?'

'Carlisle.'

He laughs softly, rubbing his forehead where he's in pain but I don't move just yet. I wait for him to ask me to move which he doesn't want to do.

'There's a song that I can't think of the words which I feel like would explain myself. But I can't think of the tune, either…'

'What about the lyrics?' I push, hand gently resting on his chest.

'I'll find it sometime. Maybe it'll come back to me?'

The delicate frown appears as he tries to reconsider what song it could possibly be but it's vanished so he has to continue without it.

'It's not necessarily you that's changed my mind, Esme. It's how I am when I'm with you. It's sort of about living for the moment and appreciating the nearest things you have that grant that elysium...' He stops himself, cringing at me. 'I know this is a bad time to say it and when I say 'bad-time', I mean horrific because not only do I feel nauseas but also it's only been a two weeks of this… Nevertheless, I'm not asking anything of you?'

'You're not asking anything of me?' I ask, coming up to look at him properly. He's still sweating and rearranges his shirt, a hand sliding down his face as he shakes it. 'Nothing?' I repeat.

'Am I missing something here?'

Why am I feeling like I want to cry?!

'What about if I wanted you to ask?' The words come out hastily from my mouth my heartbeat making my head spin and not in the way I want. He sits up too so that we're close to each other, one shivering and the other sweating.

'I'm confused?'

'What could you possibly be confused about? You'd never ask anything of me? You'd never want to?'

He's looking uncomfortable but struggles through to try and understand my point of viw but there's no way I can explain in. Especially at a time when I'm so overexhausted myself that I just need to curl up into his side and hear him promise that everything's going to be fine. That there are things he wants to ask me.

'I don't know what you'd like me to say?' He confeses, troubled with a sweat appearing on his brow as he takes unusual breaths.

'It's like what Edward said. Are we a thing? I want to know where I stand, Carlisle! I want you to want to know, too!'

He's standing up now, looking frightfully pale and perhaps even incredibly guilty.

'Hold that thought?' He begs and then he quickly climbs the stairs, encouraging me to wait as he grasps time for himself in the bathroom. I give it a while before following after him. He looks even worse when the door opens, weaker than usual, his right foot leading his stance.

'Sorry,' he mutters, wiping the toothpaste from his mouth. 'I thought I was going to pass out.'

'Are you okay?' But he doesn't quite answer me, he just does as I did and slides to the floor to gather a minty breath. I move past him to soak a flannel and with a great amount of effort, help him to stand again. 'I've exhausted you, I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.'

'You need to go back to bed. You need rest.'

'Esme?'

'No arguments, Carlisle. Go.'

It's easier looking after someone than it is being looked after. I fetch the bucket and wash it out with fresh disinfectant before sternly tucking him into my bed. I open my bedroom window wider, close the curtains and turn off the light, offering a pint glass of water for him to drink.

'Esme?' He asks gently and in a matter of an hour he's drifted from normality back to being completely ill again. His cheeks are drawn in, his chest rising in dramatic breaths as he struggles even to sit up again.

'Rest Carlisle.'

'Can you help me get my shirt off?' And though he's tired, he's brave enough to smile shyly at me. I'm tempted to frown or at my worst, tell him off but instead I reach by his hips to wrench the shirt up over his head. The back is almost see through with his sweat and though he's finding it incredibly funny, he's too tired to laugh as hard as he wants to.

'Thanks.'

'Please rest?' I plead, encouraging him to lie down as I drape a damp cloth temporarily on his forehead. His hands are shifting beneath the duvet, awkwardly trying to tug off his bottoms but he's struggling and gives up easily.

'Fuck it.' He groans, laughing gently as lays through the middle of the pillows, lying on the side of his cheek. I roll my eyes again but move the duvet to help pull off his tracksuits until they're around his ankles and I'm tempted to laugh again.

'Little different from a few days ago, huh?'

'And the other week.' He replies, gratefully, his smile delicate.

'Sleep.' I urge him, a hand on his jaw as I push his fringe out of the way but he leans towards me, opening one blue eye.

'Stay?'

'I'm not making you feel better.' I argue though this is a point of discussion in his mind. Unusually, I find myself happy to settle close to him again and though I'm not always great around sick people, he's easy to fend for. I spend an hour or so pressing the cloth to his head and his neck before sliding it to his back and listening to the gentle snoozing of his breathing.

I don't want to think about how many responsibilities I've ignored today, there's too many of them to count but I know I'll get back to them tomorrow just as sure as he will. We sleep so soundlessly that once more, I forget the world around us, living instead for our time together.