An Array of Reasons

by ForeverUnknownOooooh

'Sex. Great. Now I've got your attention, I can go on.' Liberal college student Esme Platt is only just coming to terms with the instabilities of life. Along with her flatmates Saintly Carlisle Cullen, 25, and young Edward Masen, she offers an entertaining perspective on her life and how the unexpected is usually best.AH/AU RatedM for later chapters. Dark themes. Canon-couples

67. Reasons why the Lovers are Cynics

Thank you for your patience and understanding! Lots of deadlines coming up so deadlines may be slow.

And Lots of question coming up that'll need answers too.

---

Faint, meagre gasps are fighting the electrical twinkles of the machinery.

I don't understand what it is at first, excuse distracting, though they seem to be thinning out in a way that isn't particularly comforting to the ear.

I knead my temple into the hard sponge, thinking to whatever was previously on mind. Our backyard. Or rather, not our backyard but their backyard. The backyard of my parent's. Where the gate borders the edges of my grandparent's land. Where the red farmhouse joins the back of the neighbouring stables.

Where the animals snort and huff and rain displeasure at your disturbance.

This horse seems to be particularly flustered.

I consider calming him by stroking his nose, whether brown, black or white, I can't see, but this horse is wistfully out of reach and the huffing, the coughing, the choking- He tugs tightly on the reins, burning my palms on the leather as I try foolishly hard to hold him, and he tries harder to escape-

Tearing my eyes open I wake into the secluded light in the box room. The unrecognisable man in the bed is splintering. As though trying to break his spine in two. He's coughing and wheezing, gasping for breath until a fretful red leaking to his jaw starts to accompany the tie-dye bruising of his skin beneath.

Unnerved hands find the panic button before they find the railing of his bed.

'Carlisle?!'

My tone sounds reprimanding.

Maybe it is. He didn't even try to wake me.

I grab his shoulder, wince when he groans in pain and try to relax him backward though he keeps struggling forward to cough.

'You-y-you've,' my limbs are beginning to shake in alliance with my voice. I reach over his cage, over the burning skin beneath a fabric dress. 'Remember, you've got to keep calm? Because of the cycle?'

I swallow difficulty as he continues to fight for breath through gasps and grunts.

'That coughing cycle?' I beg, trying not to touch him in case he doesn't wish for it, trying to wrangle his hacking into even swallowing.

The urge to cry is seizing me.

'Please,' I demand wetly.

He gasps, holds his lungs still, squeezing his eyes shut till he pulls himself straight like an exclamation point.

'Slowly, remember? Slowly.'

The army of nurses march in then. He coughs one last time, missing the capture of liquid at his chin.

It's strikingly familiar in an awful lot of ways. Mostly because I expect he's been in my current position one too many times over the years. Watching uselessly from the side lines. And even more frequently these last few months.

The nurses rush towards him, he startles himself upright and in a move Alice would hail as defensive, I block them from getting closer by grabbing a box of tissues from the side. My arm now acting as the of line of police tape.

'Are you okay?' I whisper.

My shoulders are still shaking, my hands jumbling a little. But his exhausted expression stuns me in silent apologies. I tilt his chin up a little, drag a crumpled tissue across his drying lips and catch the stubble on his chin.

His jaw is achingly tense.

'D'ya need to spit?' I presume, assessing his uncomfortable expression.

'Mm.'

'Are you okay, Doctor Cullen?'

One of the nurses approaches him now and while I can't stop it, not least because I pressed the shitting button, I can't refute it either. Another eager assistant comes running forward with a tray, another reading the monitors in a way I can't do.

I filter a cup under his nose, trying pathetically to grant the minimal privacy as he spits his mouth clear till fluid is swimming. Guiltily, I press my hand to my nose and mouth. The sickness is there. The dizzying nausea nearly knocking me flat.

While he is fussed over, I can let my guard slip. Stumbling backwards towards the bathroom door, I wash my hands in the sink. Then my arms. Then the tears on my face. And then guzzle it till I am a fountain feature and the need to vomit is replaced with faucet impersonations.

Cullen, as ever, is the centre of the women's attention. He is surrounded by a number of eager women. Though, thankfully, he doesn't seem to be paying much attention-.

...Thankfully, huh?

Even at his lowest, I can still afford to be jealous.

I doubt that would ever leave me...

With my head bowed, I return toward the bottom of the bed by his scraped calves. I hang there like a lost Med student as I watch them fight to clean him up. It seems that he is unusually impatient this Morning. On the exhaustion and the soreness of limbs, he denotes every move unnecessary, and a hard glare comes out to his shins. Like a sulking boy, he reluctantly lets his arms be handled.

Until eventually, the unfamiliar temper seeks in and he fusses around trying to push the wires out from under him. Muttering wicked complaints while they fiddle with the valve in his hand. I shudder weakly and turn my attention to him.

'Better out than in?' I murmur to the Stranger in the suit of my housemate.

The vomit I mean.

He raises a cut eyebrow. Winces. Forces his spine upright.

'I'm fine now,' he tells them.

The chorus of witches do not relent their hands. They take pieces of him. They take touches of fabric. The take grasps of his arms and his wrists and I think, for a while, I'm going to let them do it.

'Ladies?' he asks toughly, insinuating they leave.

Their new authority over him is doing wonders for their ego. 'Lie back now, Doctor Cullen. Time for some rest?'

'He said he's fine,' I say aloud.

They cannot ignore me. They can dispute my commands. They can even ask me to leave. But luckily, they cannot ignore me.

Cullen looks tiredly grateful.

The smell of their latex gloves still attacking my nose, the whisk of someone's flowering perfume and made-up red cheeks on an early Morning does little to grant the Man's attention. And dare it grant mine, with it comes my judgment.

'Rate your pain from-'

'It's fine,' he repeats. 'Just some homesick seawater.'

What a time for the new Poseidon to throw a joke. Unamused I fiddle with my hair again, stretch my aching back, watch as his washed out navy blues flit around the room and straight-up avoid me.

'Can I-?' Another starts to ask.

'No,' he sighs. And finally he looks at me and swallows painfully, his voice like a broken part in a washing machine. 'We're fine.'

Ha.

We are far from fine. As I suspect he knows judging by the cautious lowering of his shoulders.

'Very well. Seeing as you're awake, would you mind if I-'

'Julianne,' he complains. It startles us all back awake again. How over familiar. How tart of him… Was he taking a personal route? Did he just not remember her surname? Was he that irritated? Was he capable of being that irritated once more? 'Return in an hour if you must, yes?'

Irritated.

Definitely irritated.

It'd been such a long time he'd allowed himself to look angry in front of me… such a long time…

I had forgotten what it had felt like to meet it.

The lead nurse rolls her tongue in her mouth and gives him a hard smile.

'See you in an hour, then.' And leading her Mafia gang outside, she nods quickly and flicks her made-up eyes to me.

I almost say something. Something cutting.

And then I remember it's Carlisle who ought to be punished. After all he is being rude to those trying to help him.

Story of his life at this given moment.

Story of mine.

Hesitating I flick my eyes up to him and then back to my hands. He waits until the door has closed to answer.

'I know it was rude,' he admits.

'If you know it then you know it should've been avoided.'

The sound of his throat clearing sounds like tumbling shards of glass.

'Yes,' he touches his head, strokes the headache with a blank look. While he thinks, or at least gathers his breath, I squint to the rain on the window, breathing in time to the splatter on the panes.

Then I realise he is grimacing to himself.

'Would you like to sit up?'

'Mm,' he whispers. 'Please.'

I pull my focus from the weather, come to the bed and start to fiddle around for some kind of lever or something. He's bent himself forward now, breathing roughly, hands clawing his shin.

'It's on the-' he starts to wheeze.

'Hm?'

He coughs again, and as he coughs, his torso shoots up as if I had struck a dagger into his ribs. I startle, grasp the block of buttons on the wall.

'Don't!' He gasps.

'Are you okay?'

Weakly, he nods. And then nods quickly as if to shut me up. Blindly I jab a button on the bed and hear the mechanical whirring pull the top of the mattress up.

'B-better?'

'Hm,' he sighs and exhausted, he leans his neck back.

Before I even instruct them, my hands find the pillows. I fluff them, rearrange them, move them under his spine.

'Thanks.'

'Does your dress need changing?' I ask.

Even with his eyes closed and his neck tilted, I can read the hesitation cross his features. He might want to smile. But he won't do so knowing it could split his face apart.

'Carlisle?'

'Mm,' he sighs, guiltily. 'Most likely.'

'Where can I find the-'

'I'd rather you didn't…'

The room seems even more noiseless now. I pull my eyes from watching as he drags the stupid remaining moisture from his mouth and now look to the window again.

'I understand, Carlisle.'

'No,' he whispers. A light smile crosses painfully. 'No, not because of that…'

Joint embarrassment? Humiliation? Exposure? The dire danger of his broken limbs? I swallow hard and nod.

'Esme,' he insists and hearing my name on his lips coated in their sugary delicate hold has more hot tears on my lashes. 'Es, not because of that-'

'You don't have to explain.'

'You won't forgive me if you see it.'

My hands claw against the railing, tighten.

'That and I am indecent…'

I let a wet smile slip out.

'Now you are flirting.'

'And…' Noisily he rattles the handcuff on his wrist. 'I don't know how to get this off.'

I nod towards the shelf on his left. The one out of reach.

'I suspect that key there might help,' I murmur, spotting the silver thing amongst various gifts from Alice. Flowers from Rose. A book of poetry from Edward.

The goofy haired blonde looks relieved at me and falls into the pillows again. Shuffling quietly to the other side, I fit the key in the lock, twist it and grasp his wrist. It's neither professionally cold nor Cullenly warm. Just something uncomfortably between the two.

'Promise to not run away this time?'

He winces and nods.

So I unshackle his hand.

'Where's the gown?'

'Es- you don't need to.'

'Clothes, Carlisle? Unless you want to give the nurses an excuse for a sponge bath?'

'Not those blasted sponge baths again…'

I don't really remember the joke but he doesn't seem to wish to embarrass himself by explaining. He nods to a dodgy looking cupboard in the corner of the room and miraculously, there's a number of hospital gowns in there.

'Would you like Gucci or Dior?' I ask, waving both articles towards him. He presses his lips together.

'No Valentino?'

'No Armani, either. Should I consult the manager?'

'Please,' he murmurs. 'Be sure to sign my name. That should give us leverage.'

I think we ought to be smiling with each other but instead we seem to just be building this tight fantasy in delusion. He keeps the blanket pulled close to him when I untie his gown at the neck.

And I suppose his predictions were always going to be right.

It's lucky I don't see him from the front because at just the exposure of a bandage spreading over his right rib and up, the sheen of black on his shoulders, the scrapes, the purple paint splatters, the red….

'Are you okay?' he whispers.

'Mm,' And I swallow my stupid excessive tears again. There's an interwoven frown pulling his features down. I take a dark breath.

'You're looking worse than Jasper did than when he came home from that ACDC concert…'

'I am?' he asks weakly.

He's not an idiot. He can feel how bad it is, he knows he won't look much better.

'You remember when Emmett coached for the Senior Football Association? When half of them were on steroids and horse tranquilisers?'

'I'm pretty sure he dislocated a leg that day…'

'You look worse than he did.'

Carlisle shrinks, gratefully pulling the new gown on so speedily, he has to be stretching stitches in his urgency. I keep the tie loose.

'Are you in pain?' I ask from behind.

He considers lying and then thinks better of it by sighing.

'Can we talk?'

I look tiredly to the clock on the wall and then peer round at his sallow cheeks. He can't turn his head to see me but at least he knows I'm investigating.

'That depends,' I murmur.

'It can't wait.'

'You're hardly healed, Carlisle. It's not a good time to-'

'Es,' he whispers, harshly. 'If I am going to put myself through agony, I would prefer to do it all at once. Are we agreed?'

It's a costly time to be short with me but I can appreciate the bitter colour of soreness.

'Funny that,' I murmur sourly. 'Don't tell me- you want to break up?'

His tight expression flickers again and then it wallows. He presses his lips together tightly till the heavy padding turns white and I realise with a dark brutalisation that he is trying not to cry.

'Oh Carlisle-'

'Don't apologise,' he mutters, his head bowed sullenly.

A streak runs under his chin, gathers there with another tear and then another. I put my hip against the cold metal, my hand frantically searching for his on the blanket. With a weak smirk, he holds it out towards me and swallows when I put my hand over his coloured knuckles.

'Will you sit with me?'

'I would,' I tease quietly. 'But your cot is a little inhabitable… and your supervisors-'

'It's the lever near the left,' he interrupts.

Clearly not in a mood to mess around then.

With a sigh, I fiddle underneath till I locate the handle and with a click, the railing groans and I carefully fold it away. It wasn't a joke regarding the cot. But now it's opened up and I can crawl on, I realise just how lanky his figure has become.

How stretched he is. How breakable.

'Don't let me squish you,' I warn him, particularly on account of my incessant weight gain. I take a nervous seat on the edge, hanging half off it with my hands in my lap. I'm against his legs, facing him awkwardly.

'You don't look comfortable.'

'Likewise,' I say softly.

'Es?'

And with a roll of my eyes, I kick off my shoes and shuffle my entire body on the bed. He exhales with relief, passes me a pillow and draws his legs up a little.

'Comfortable?'

'No,' I admit. 'Not when I can't read your mind.'

'Please, I'm boring unpredictable-'

'You were,' I correct him. 'You were robotically predictable and I didn't hate a thing about it.'

'You used to say otherwise.'

'Yeah,' I admit. 'Yeah, I did.'

'I didn't try to kill myself…'

The brutal whip of the sentence makes me gag on tears I didn't even think I had stored. The untimely manner he commands it, the slap of his lies punishing me in a way that didn't seem at all to be related to Carlisle. And suddenly the dam breaks and the apologies pour.

'Es, please, you've got to believe me- I didn't try to kill myself- I didn't- didn't think. I didn't even consider that I would actually-'

'Your Will and Testament was just a joke then?!' I spit. 'Well timed prank, huh?' I sniffle a little, rub the tears from my nose.

'I hurt you,' he whispers.

No shit, Sherlock. I blink at him.

'I know,' he swallows loudly but lowers his voice. 'I know I hurt you-'

'Cullen, you don't know Shit.' I fiddle with the loops of my tracksuits, loop them and knot them till they resemble my nauseated insides. 'Carlisle, you could've hurt me in a way that I didn't even imagine capable.'

He did try to hurt me. That's what I'm ignoring. That it is my own same-stubborn ass that is saving him.

Me. Not Cullen. Me saving his ass. And his head. And mine. All because I could never give up on him in a way that he did to me. Because if I had let myself believe as he tried to insinuate. Had I for a moment genuinely believed he was dead-. My head spins dizzily.

'I know-'

'You don't know,' I hiss. 'Stop doing that. Stop shutting yourself off to pain. Stop accepting it on your terms.'

He nods, as encouragement I think. I press my socks together.

'I can't even say what is worse, the idea you intended to hurt me with what you did or that you thought it wouldn't cause irrevocable damage.'

Another set of tears, silent, escape his swollen eyes, and again, like a kid, he brushes them off his nose without meeting my eyes. An excuse bubbles to his lip. He sucks it in with a wad of saliva.

'What were you thinking?'

'That you'd be safer,' he whispers. 'That if I was dea-…If people believed I was dead-'

'You mean your father?' I interrupt, admittedly sounding far less than impressed and almost verging on bored. He winces. 'You mean Eustace.'

'…And… King.'

What is in a name?

'He found you, Carlisle.'

The blonde man in front shudders into the twelve-year-old kid I could easily go on to have nightmares about. It is a brutal way for me to share the news. Particularly following his obvious three-day disorientation ... but I need the words out there.

'Maddison didn't tell me that. Masen did.'

'Masen?' he asks in confusion.

'Mm hmm.' I know the guilt might sting. Unfortunately, it's a necessary punishment. 'He found out in the cafeteria earlier yesterday evening. One of the nurses got talking and-'

He breathes in a way that I know must be shattering. I force myself to be gentle, to quit the whipping and remember that even though he half looks like Carlisle, there may be a lot about the man that had changed even more from this weekend...

Oh God if it's changed-

'Your... Apparently your father called an ambulance, apparently tried to resuscitate you himself-'

'You don't believe that,' he guffaws. 'Es, it's bullshit-'

'It's not, Carlisle. Eustace called the hospital-.'

He scoffs, throws his head backwards.

'It's not true, Esme. He's lying to you. He's making you think he's this great big fucking Saint-'

Before he works himself to an anxiety attack, I softly touch his ankle. He vaults, groans and I draw my arm back.

'Where is he, then? Where is my saviour-'

'Stop it,' I hiss.

'Stop fucking defending him!'

I pull myself up toward him as if I plan to slam that great big broken torso of his into the damn bed.

'I'm not. It's not black and white. They say he left town, I don't know-'

'And how do you know this?!' he mutters. 'How can you possibly-'

'Carlisle,' and now my tears do fall through. He had no idea just how many hours he'd been sleeping, how many hours Masen had had spare to gather some understanding now that we had him locked in a room on painkillers-. 'It's been two nights since we found you.'

His face relaxes into disorientated disbelief.

'W-what?'

Deliberately, I drag my eyes up from his feet to his greased hair, his pale and dark bruising, his, frankly, rotten personal hygiene. The pine smell had soured significantly. Made worse by the salt water that had crinkled his skin.

'You've lost three days.'

'No,' he murmurs. Finally, an air of confusion is starting to take him. He looks at my clothes, glares, rather oddly, at my chest.

'You're wearing the same clothes.'

Did the prick really think I'd lie to him?

'I haven't left, Carlisle.'

He snorts. Then his lip shakes and he has to bite it into submission again.

'Honey, I haven't left in three days and to be honest, I'm repulsing myself so that fact you can't smell it-.'

'You haven't... left?'

I gesture towards the bathroom that he is unable to access.

'Not even to urinate.'

Perhaps the wrong time for it but the smartass comment is deserved. I sigh tiredly.

'You've been quiet mostly.. but you did talk a little in your sleep,' I enlighten him, trying hard to let a smile breathe. His features remain like a painted exhibit. 'Masen had to translate most times.'

'Yeah?' He asks, eyes sleepily on his shins.

'Mm. Edward reckons that you talked about the baseball at least twice.'

Those blue eyes roll, his shoulders slumping again as he takes drawn breaths.

'He's been in?'

'Yes.' I answer. 'Frequently.'

He puts his thumbs together, stretching his bruised hands till they must ache and shake and then he closes them again.

'I didn't doubt you'd be angry,' he whispers guiltily.

'Did you doubt I'd be broken-hearted?'

He shrugs then nods a little. 'I just thought you'd be safer-'

'You decided that after I was-'

He starts to tremble; I drop the accusation, try a different path.

'I thought things might be better between us? Getting better and-. And then you ran. You left. Not just me but Edward, too…'

'I'm sorry-,'

'Carlisle, you tried to make us believe you were dead. Can you not feel the magnitude of grief of that? Can you not consider what that could've done to us?'

He lets the words cut into him, lips tied so tightly together, they may fuse to one.

'I thought... I thought you were hearing me.'

'I did hear you,' he swears. 'I heard you. I heard you every night and every hour and every minute and… and the risk. The risk of it all-. I had to do what was right by you-'

'You did what was right by you,' I correct snappily. 'I had to wake up to not just losing my home and stability- and before you even mention Washington, don't .- I had to wake up thinking that I had disgusted you to the point of revulsion, only for you to go and lay a Last Testament into my fucking hands. Think about that-'

'I am,' he whispers

'You're not,' I insist. 'Carlisle when… when what happened… happened… you emptied the cabinets. You took the razors from the bathroom. Knives. You wouldn't even let me cook. And you're somehow expecting me to believe what happened was an accident? That you didn't mean to attempt to-'

I reckon he's not far from pleading on his knees for forgiveness. For now, I strike a distance and keep it there. He doesn't move.

'How could you do that to people who care about you, Carlisle?'

He keeps his head hung in misery.

I sharpen the blade.

'To people who love you.'

He wrestles his hands together, nudges tears from his nose, clears his throat and hoarsely mutters to me.

'How was I meant to know?'

How could he doubt it?!

'Huh?'

'As far as I was concerned I,' he shakes a difficult breath. 'As far as I believed you had every right to hold me as responsible as I did-'

'I told you,' I growl. 'Carlisle I told you that there was no harm from you.'

'From the physicality of sex,' he insists.

I could cry even more now. He could've said a lot meaner things and they would cut less deep. Sex. He didn't even call it sex then. He called it Making Love.

And Now?

'How could I ever presume that anyone could ever love me following-'

'Give me your wallet,' I demand, bitterly.

His blue eyes widen. He can't imagine what I must be asking judging by the tense expression on his features but it doesn't settle the crushing wave of determination.

'Dammit, Cullen. Your wallet. Where is your wallet-?!'

'T-the cupboard,' he stammers. 'If not my car, Staff protocol is to put it with anything from the incident... Likely in a cupboard with my personal belongings.'

He points worriedly to the bedside cabinet and watches in alarm as I tear through a plastic bag of his stuff. A phone, waterlogged but somehow still in use. Clothes, shoes, a watch I recognise. I grab the leather casing of the thing and throw it his way.

It lumps to the mattress by his leg and he seems surprised to see it. Forgetful to its existence. I hesitate with returning to my seat and decide that if this does go badly, if he does do the unpredictable and lose his shit, it's best I be nearby to restrain him from hurting himself.

'What's so important about my wallet?' He asks, quietly.

He couldn't even bear to face the gratitude that he hadn't drowned it at sea.

I take it from his hand, open it up to the card slots. It looks much the same. He has a picture of a painting on the inside. The kind you might cut up from a postcard. I turn it upside down, spread the pocket wide and shake the contents till the money falls out.

I brush the snot away with the arm of my sleeve, rifle through the scrap paper till I locate a smaller yellow sticky note.

I read it. My Three Words, not the Italian ones, and hand it to him.

'You'd never have believed me if I told you. And you read so much that I thought if I wrote it, maybe you'd consider it more binding.'

'More binding?' he asks thickly.

'Than the bullshit lies we tell each other.'

He raises his eyebrows but carefully takes the note from me. And as soon as he reads the second word, his eyes well up and as if he might let his stomach spew, he shoves my hand, and note, back towards me.

'When did you-.'

I smooth out the edges, the crinkled lines aged and discoloured, the pen now smudged over the cursive 'you'.

'April.'

He sways nauseously.

'The night after the meeting… when you tucked me into bed? And slept outside my room?'

'I don't deserve it.' He mutters, hand pressed tight against his mouth. 'You shouldn't have given it-'

'You don't get to tell me what I shouldn't do. More importantly if I choose-' I scoff at myself. Let out a shrill laugh. Choose. As if it were a choice. If it were a choice, I wasn't have chosen it.

'You're confused,' he pleads, difficulty. 'You're… Es… you didn't know what you were-'

'Carlisle!' I growl. He folds his lip under again. 'You think because of what happened to me that I am incapable of loving you-?

'N-no,' he stammers, wrenching the blanket to him. His mouth remains parted in disgrace.

'Or anyone for that matter? Because of what happened? Or I it that I am not worthy of loving-?'

'I don't deserve it,' he blunders in. 'Me. I don't deserve-'

'It doesn't matter what you deserve. What you deserve is irrelevant to what is.'

Another set of tears continue to slip over his freckles, he winces as he leans back, covering his lips with his hand in thought.

For once in my life I am patient. I let the silence ease the wounds of our vocal nicks and cuts. I watch the rain slow and gather. I watch it fade under different shading of the light. I watch that window as though it's a painting and we are just two people in a submarine watching water on glass.

The only sounds in the room are my hazy exhales, his blooming incessant machines… and his deep heavy breathing.

'I don't know how on Earth you could forgive me enough to love me.'

'I don't forgive you, Carlisle.'

His Adam's apple bobs low into his throat.

'Of Course.' He agrees, difficulty. I shake my hair a little, wrap it around my ear as the blood rushes to my hands.

'You swore an oath to be honest with me. And the lies you told… what they could have done-,' I break off shakily. 'No more.'

He nods.

'Cullen, look at me.'

He slowly lifts his eyes.

'You may not always feel capable of being honest with me but you cannot ever lie to me again. Not for a surprise, not for a joke. Not for anything. If you ever knowingly deceive me again-'

'I won't.'

'That's not good enough.'

'I know,' he whispers guiltily. 'I know It's not. But the proclamations I made to you in good faith, I broke. Not easily, mind. But still, I broke them.'

'I don't need you to swear yourself to me for the rest of our days,' I mutter. 'I just need you to...'

'Yes?'

'Carlisle, I just need you to choose me?'

'I do choose you-'

'I don't mean that,' I interrupt dizzily. 'Edward was right, you led me into all of these falsities-. We had all these assumptions inbuilt of what we could and could not be to each other. I'm not even sure I do know who you are-'

He exhales shakily, concealing the grunt as the ache indulges him.

'You're the only one that can tell me that because you're the only one who knows-' he whispers.

Typical he'd put this on me. Typical he'd want the building blocks of him to be rooted outside of himself.

'Take some responsibility,' I demand him. 'Answer me, Carlisle. Tell me who you are. Tell me what you want.'

'I don't know, Esme-'

'Stop it! Stop fighting ethics and tradition and manners. Stop hiding in the dark all the time- stop lying to me. Tell me what you want from me.'

'I can't tell you!' He swears viscerally. 'I can't tell you what I am because I don't know. I don't know where I'm from. I don't know my blood line. I don't know my mother, I don't know why my father is-. I don't even know my own date of birth-.'

It is not the time to remind him that those were things he could've known. That both Masen and I tried to show him. When he favoured the dark.

'You're not giving me any answers,' I groan, wringing his bedsheet in my arms and now leaning, upon my knees to his waist. He cannot share the manoeuvre. But that doesn't stop him from painfully attempting it.

'I don't have them; I'm never going to have them.'

'You're not your goddamn history. You're not a source to be verified, Carlisle. You're a man who wants. Why can't you give me that?'

He gulps, tries to reel back but can only come to the pillow.

'Why won't you ask anything from me?!' I demand him. 'Why don't you want anything from me-?'

From a moment it is as though I have rebroken both sides of his ribs. He chokes as though loosing breath.

'How can you think-?' he whispers.

'You'd rather let me believe you are dead than ask me for-.'

'How can you say I don't want you?!' He hisses. His chest contracts as he speaks but no matter how tightly the pain grip his voice, no matter if I am trying to calm it, his eyes clog red as though he is drowning all over again.

'I want you more than I can bear, Esme. And I don't just want to have you-' it comes out as a cuss, a sharp, cursing swear that has somehow knocked me for silence. And as if he had been silenced for life, four, nearing five years of secrets come rushing out from his tongue.

'I want to take you. For dinner, to art exhibits, to South America, weekends away, weekends at home. I want to live with you. In one bed. In one house. I want to meet your family. I want to impress your Father-'

I swallow difficultly.

'I want to walk your hometown with him. I want to witness him paint. I want to know where you learnt it from. I want to embarrass myself with awful Yiddish to your grandmother. I want to meet your nieces, your nephews, your other brothers, your sister. Your neighbours. Your school teachers. Your mom. I want you to meet my mom. I want her to curse me out when she hears that I live under one roof with you. In sin. And that we have no need to change it. I want her to talk culture with you. To adore you as I do. I want my father to be a good man. A man worthy of following. A man who would love you as dearly as your own father does-'

Does.

Not did.

Does.

And the landslide continues in a sickening cry.

'I want to marry you Esme. In November. With spring colours. Under a flower archway we hand built. In whatever ceremony you could wish for. I want to dance with you. Every night. I want to watch you dance and sing and bake and paint and build. I want to make love to you as though I am incapable of hurting you. I want to take your pain away. Any and all pain. I want to soothe it so that it doesn't hurt anymore. I want to make you happy. I want to give you the things you want. The things, I want. Children. I want to give you children, Esme. My children. I want to prove in my everyday, in every way that I can protect you. That I can make you happy. That I can love you and worship you in a way that will never hurt. That will never cause harm.

And at the end of it all. When it's done. When I can give you all the answers and provide you with all you need, I want to be able to say that I loved you in the way you deserved-'

And at the crescendo of his speech, he whispers as though making promises in my ear.

'And I can't.'

'Can't love me?'

'Can't give you what you want. What you deserve to have-'

Deserve. Deserve. Always fucking deserve.

'I don't care what I deserve.' Likely because if we came down to it, I couldn't honestly say what we deserved. Or by whose standard. But I know what I want. What I need to have.

'I care about you being happy. I care about being happy with you.'

'And your safety-?!' He pleads. 'If I can't guarantee I can make you happy, how can I even make you safe-.'

'To hell with safe, Carlisle. I'm not safe. I have never been safe. I will never be safe. I am stupid, I am reckless, I am foolish-' He closes his eyes, breathing in tight stints again. 'Why is that not good enough for you?' I ask him. 'Why do your successes mean more than your possibilities. Why won't you try to love me the way you did before?'

He shifts his focus around the room. Looking up to the walls and down again before tumbling over rocks and putting his headache to rest against the bed.

'I don't need to try to love you, Esme...'

I shift my eye tiredly and scrub my headache. He still has his chin pointed low.

'You can't ever lie to me.' His eyes sparkle again, the rain peering in them through my mirror gaze. 'I'm not giving you the right to hurt me again. And if you want forgiveness, you'll accept that you'll be held accountable...'

He gingerly lifts a hand and pulls it back shyly.

So I graze his fingers with mine. The tepid, worn fingers. The hooks in the back of his hands. The greying pale pink.

'I'm not giving you the power to shatter me, Carlisle Cullen. Not again. Because if you hurt me. If you ever foolishly try to do something as stupid as you did-'

'I won't,' and this time, he commands it, he moves forward, restricted by fabric and wires and he seizes his hands on my shirt arms, chin tilted in desperation, begging-

Begging to kiss me.

And guiltily I pull back.

His Adam Apple lowers. His tensed legs shuddering as he holds in panic.

'I-' I excuse guiltily.

'Don't apologise-'

Oh God, I want to. I want to kiss him. I want to feel him against me and the need... the need to have him... to still want him.

'Sweetheart, please don't cry.' he murmurs calmly. 'My darling, please don't cry- I'm sorry, Shh, it's okay, it's okay...'

In spite of the flow, I smirk and then the tears really do break and as if he is an apparition, I lock a hand onto the back of his neck, where his hair has grown long and shaggy, and I cry, fiercely into his bandaged shoulder. And I don't stop until he whimpers in pain.

He puts his nose to my shoulder, holds me closely, fingertips weaving around me until the stench of the hospital is making my stomach swing.

Then he pulls my chin up, wipes the tears off my cheeks with cut thumbs as if to rub them into my skin.

So I jut my chin forward.

He intakes sharply and then frowns.

'Wait till you're ready,' he warns me.

My fingers turn to a fierce clutch on his neck, my eyes wide and my lips noticeably parting. He swallows again. As though he is being presented with a test. It's not a test. It's a failure. It's a need. It's a way for me to gauge whether or not he's telling me the truth.

'You swear not to lie to me?'

He crosses his heart with a slow thumb, never once relenting his sore eyes on me. Not those swollen, tired ocean blues, not the split lip of red and pink. Not by his nose or on the stubble.

So I come to capture his lips.

And he pushes me away.

'When you're ready-'

'One won't hurt,' I promise him. He looks like he wishes to argue so I beat him to the punch. 'Besides, it's customary to seal a promise with a kiss.'

He nods in cautious agreement, tilts his face and kisses me, sweepingly. First on one cheek and then on the other.

My stomach flutters back into a bright hot need again. And the weight of it. Of wanting him again, has the fear bubbling up.

How wrong of me to want him.

How intimately wrong of me to want him. In that way.

To want not just him.

But that.

I rock slightly backwards, tighten my eyes closed and wait in purgatory for his decision to come.

'Esme?'

When I part my eyes, I'm alarmed to find him so close and jump a little.

He smiles, or tries to, and without breaking contact, nods his assent.

'I swear.'

And then he kisses me.

It's not a long kiss. Not a passionate open mouth smooch. It's not endearing, it's not heavy, it's not R rated and it's not even sexy.

But it is soft. It is tender and it is gentle and though I crave hauling myself to him, either to cry or to come-on to him, I don't know, it's distant enough that it's interruption doesn't leave us in startled fear.

In all, it is the medicine I need to miss him again.

'Are you happy for your checks to be run, Doctor Cullen?' Asks his nurse and instructing me from the bed, from his arms and from his lap, she sentences me awkwardly to the other side of the room.

The pull of his chin towards the ceiling is enough and before she has even commenced with the run of the mill matters, he has exhausted himself into not just silence but feigned sleep too. Perhaps it's just to avoid the conversation but for once, his play does well and other than the ticking off on charts and an awkward Goodnight, he doesn't say much to her.

He barely says much to me.

Until I finish brushing my teeth in the little bathroom and come to settle on the chair by him.

'Esme?'

'Mm?'

'Will you sleep with me?'

I don't even find the energy to express a playful wink. I just look at the space beside him. The squashed lack of space. And the railing that the nurse has returned.

'It's not good for you,' I answer thinking of course to his shoulder.

'Please?'

I don't even hesitate. I take another look at the Picasso painting of him. Of my Flatmate. My roommate. My... Cullen.

And clicking the bar down, I clamber on the bed to be next to him.

He continues to shiver up until I wrap my arms around his pain, groaning ever so slightly.

'Are you okay?'

'Mm,' he grunts, squinting. Then shuffles difficultly, teeth gritting in discomfort.

'Carlisle please-'

'There,' he reassures. He draws a long breath between my arms. His chest expanding as he starts to cough repeatedly. Then I rub his back in which case he settles. Leaning a trusting, broken spine into my grip and with the pillow shared between us, my arm balanced on his inner injuries and holding the space of his stomach... he laces his fingertips to mine and sleeps.

---

When the nurses return about three hours later, Carlisle is too exhausted to host their entry.

He sleeps as though he has never done so before. With his lips parted. With a frown laid precariously straight into me in a way that's almost impossible to untangle him from me.

The nurse and I, one of the many, make eye contact. She parts her lips for a criticism, perhaps watches me come to accept it and decides... decides not to go through with it.

'Do you need any more pillows?' She asks. Coming up to check his systematic breathing.

I nod gratefully and she returns, blankets and cushions abundled and lets me built a fort around us.

Though we are in a private ward, by seven that morning, he starts to shiver so violently that I press the panic button again.

Doctor Maddison has taken this Morning's watch. He has a coffee in his hand and when he sees me on the bed, containing the Blonde's shivers, he kinks an eyebrow as though expecting foul play.

Then holding out a hand, he helps me jump down off the bed and pulls up the railing again.

'I'm sorry,' I say, hoping to gather a smile from him. The beard shifts, white and silver chewing on something that isn't there to chew on.

'Just be careful of the stitches,' he instructs, warningly. He draws a line down the man's spine, flat fingers indicating the bandaged shoulder blade.

'This shoulder-'

'Dislocated, right?' I guess.

Doctor Maddison shakes his head.

'He wasn't that lucky. It fractured in three places. These ribs-'

We watch the figure inflate stiltedly.

'These are cracked and these two, broken,' he points to the left up into the middle of his spine, 'punctured his lung.'

'Okay,' the nausea is starting to hit my stomach.

'His collar bone is fractured.'

'Mm.'

'You can see the bruises. His limbs. His face. His thigh-,'

My hands start to shake.

'That's going to bother him for a while.'

'Yes,' I beg distractedly. 'I get it.'

'We're going to have to get physio in. He lost six minutes of life. The lasting damage-'

I'm going to be sick.

'Miss Platt,'

'He woke up,' I diffuse hopefully.

'The nurses mentioned.' He says slowly. 'Speech okay?'

'The fat lip didn't help,' I admit. 'But his memory was fine.'

'His short term memory,' Maddison corrects. 'To be a doctor—'

His tone has turned short now and I realise just how angry Maddison must be with him. I rub the heel of my hand along my nose, patting the tears there.

'We don't even know if he can walk-'

'Well then we'll reteach him.'

He looks hard at me and then pinches his nose tightly.

'You Kids,' he mutters baselessly. 'Have you spoken with Mr Masen yet?'

'Not since yesterday.'

'Has he told you the story they're going to run?'

I peer up, swallow the excess saliva and press my hand against my chest.

'An accident?'

'Some kind of father-bonding accident.'

'That'll never go down,'

'No,' he agrees in a sigh. 'But it's worth a chance.'

'He'll go apeshit-,' I warn his boss. 'He'll go apeshit and he'll be back in here-'

He frowns.

'What?' I ask slowly.

The older man swallows.

'Miss Platt... Esme...'

'What?' I ask, worriedly.

'He's not leaving for a while…I thought you knew?'

I am not sure on what basis I could have ever expected otherwise.

'What?'

And now I start to sway. He notices and puts a hand on my shoulder as if to lock me still.

'But- but you said three weeks off. You said-'

'I said I was signing him off for three weeks. Rather than firing him. We don't know yet if he's even capable-'

'It's Carlisle,' I hiss. 'Of course he's capable!'

'He failed his exams, Esme. He did fine in the practical's but some of the assessments-' he sucks a breath in through his teeth. 'Do you need a seat?'

'No.'

'You look faint.'

'No,' I repeat.

'Maybe,' he sighs. 'Maybe he can redo them. Maybe he'll want to. But as much as I want him out the hospital-'

'He'll be safer at home.'

He looks hard at me. I try not to falter.

'You have stairs, yes?' No room for persuasion there then. And without warning, the tears start to come again. He sighs thickly. 'My Dear- I'm sorry.'

'Ever?'

He sighs, takes the clipboard from the bed and flicks through the chart accordingly.

'It's too soon to tell,'

'He was talking. We were conversating. Not just about short term memory. Long term too.'

He doesn't answer. He leaves me to tick over till I'm drowning.

'And so after these three weeks, what happens then?' I ask.

He is looking at the paper with wary eyes when he responds.

'I got the impression that at least at one point, he wanted to move?'

Would he do it? Had his mind not changed on that? Had mine?

Could I be with him? In one bed? In one home? What about the whole wanting to leave thing? Had his father's abandonment suddenly changed his mind?

Did he have a mind to change?

'Esme?'

And the waves are crashing at my shoulders.

'Esme? My Dear, take a seat... Miss Platt-'

And he grabs me before I slip to a heap on the floor.

'What have you eaten?' He asks, looking unimpressed as he pulls me back to unsteady feet.

'Huh?'

'What have you eaten?'

Nothing.

'Small bits,' I say.

'Today or yesterday?'

'Yesterday.'

He curts his head.

'I have enough on my hands with him and the masses outside.' He briefly looks toward the wet window and without acknowledging the sea below, moves on. 'Eat something. Before I send you home.'

'Yes, Sir.'

He rubs his beard uncomfortably.

'And get a good night's sleep, yes?'

'Mm.'

---

Toward midday, when Carlisle is still sleeping, on his front, cheek pushed into the numerous pillows with a baby blue nursing blanket covering his ass, the family of the Masens turn up.

Mr Masen can never stay for long. Every time he looks at Carlisle, he startles as though he has turned to stone and finds excuses to leave.

Which leaves it to Edward to direct his mom outside.

'He shouldn't be on his front,' he tells me. I'd been sleeping at that point but given the Kid's hesitations at my ear, I vault and grip the seat.

And then he smiles crookedly, a new aftershave now burning my nose.

'Huh?'

Edward kisses my cheek, scratches me with his stubble- everybody's growing stubble recently- and nods behind him.

'C'mon, we should move him.'

'He's been awake, Edward...'

The Kid's eyes flicker with something that is indecipherable between panic and relief.

'Good. That'll make it easier to move him.'

'Should we not get a Porter-?'

Edward is already up and by the bed... He pushes his shirt sleeves, another strange choice, up to his elbows and stretches his neck.

He's looking a lot more like Carlisle recently. The colouring is all wrong. And where Carlisle's hair flops down, Edward's flick up. But the mannerisms. The resting frown on a lower lip...

It's worse when Bella is with him.

Because the tenderness, the kind that would burn me with jealousy, actually just makes me hurt. It swells me in agony.

He is so gentle now.

'Es?'

I shake my head, jump up to come to the other side.

He sighs lowly.

'This is probably gunna hurt-'

'Then really shouldn't we wait till-'

He hovers one hand over Carlisle's good shoulder and the other by the inside of a blanketed hip.

'Please be gentle,' I beg him.

'Help me?'

With a grimace, Edward moves towards Carlisle's knee and looks sorely at me.

I shadow his previous grip and together, we move him in a way that is not crushing to his injuries.

Yet the cry that comes from his lip is nothing short of agony. His frowning features break open, a groan deep from his whimpering gut .

And carefully we try hoist him on his back.

He groans, bites his teeth together.

'I'm sorry,' I whisper. And then clearing my throat, I apologise again. 'I'm sorry but we had to move you-'

'Your ass was on show.' Edward teases.

'Better than yours,' he mumbles sleepily. And then with a grimace he touches the back of his shoulder.

'Do you need me to call someone?'

He keeps his eyes closed as he shakes his fringe from his eyes, his headache too heavy to hold on his neck.

'No.'

'Should we leave you to sleep?'

'No,' he whispers.

Edward leans on the bed bar, his eyes more on me than on the trampled saint.

'You're looking worse than-'

'Es beat you to it,' he says with a lagging smile. He rubs his eyes with a curled fist, flinches and struggles to open them.

'Do I not even get a try out?'

'Go on then,' he murmurs. He pulls his sight open, clearly stung by the light in the room as he scowls.

'You look worse than Emmett after that football-'

'I've done that one,' I tell the Kid. Edward huffs.

'Okay, you look worse than Jasper in that mosh pit-'

'Taken,' Carlisle whispers slowly.

'Alright, you look worse than-'

'Can't we go with a compliment instead?' I complain. After all, I'd grilled him enough, hissed and cussed him out enough that I don't really want to hear how bad he must look.

Considering I have got eyes.

'Es, c'mon, don't ruin my fun.'

'You were complimenting my ass a second ago,' Carlisle murmurs. 'You can start there if you'd like?'

I keep my smile cautious.

'I wasn't complimenting; I was calling it out. Trust you to flash the Nurses.'

He goes to roll his eyes but hurts himself in the move and grunts. Immediately I come to slap the red button again before he knocks me back with another grunt.

'Don't-'

'You're in pain.'

'I'm not,' Carlisle sighs. 'Not much, anyway.'

I roll my eyes now. As if showing off.

'Not much is too much-'

'Sweetheart, please. I'm okay...'

Edward snorts and seemingly to warm the conflict, throws his head back in direction to my clothes.

'Your bag is back there, Es.'

'Thanks, Sweet.'

'Bag?' Carlisle asks. 'You moving in?'

'Mm,' I agree. 'Should I put the bed here or-?'

'Next to the Gucci wardrobe. Of course.'

Edward lifts his eyebrows, looking between us eagerly.

'I take it... that means you guys are...back on?'

Carlisle cringes, groans in response.

'Shh, Edward.' I say.

'Well... are you?'

I can't tell what the tone is, whether it's concerned, angry, excited, nervous. But it's not exactly straight either.

'Edward,' Carlisle mutters now. 'For the love of Christ, shut up.'

'Shoulda known from your displayed ass.'

Carlisle comes to moan again but instead turns his head.

I mean, in Edward's defence it is a good ass. It's a hot, biteable, enjoyable ass. A handful. Two handfuls. Particularly if it's between my knees-.

A strike of lightening jolts from crotch to innards and as it does so, sways my stomach nervously.

I gasp.

'You alright?'

'Mm' I bite my tongue, lift my chin toward the bag behind. 'Sweet, can you pass my-'

'Es?' Carlisle asks,

Shit.

Before Edward can even stop me, I can feel the hurtling sickness coursing through me. I throw myself to the bathroom, twist hurriedly and luckily, just make it to the toilet in time.

'Es-?'

'Esme?!' Carlisle asks and then it's quickly followed by another groan. 'Kid- can you check-'

'Es?' Edward asks, knocking on the door.

'No changes?' I hear Carlisle whisper.

'She hasn't been home,' he responds. 'Carlisle- Carlisle sit down. Sit down- Jesus Christ-'

'I'm fine,' I call. 'Honestly, I'm fine.'

There's another set of groaning and then I hear Edward's panic as he full-on shouts at the blonde.

'Carlisle- chill. Don't make me call your boss in here.'

I run the tap nosily, wipes the sweat and bile from my expression.

'Edward can you-?'

He knocks against the door.

'You're okay, yeah?'

'Yes, I'm fine.' I rub around my face again. Take the heat of the box room as though it's an airing cupboard

'Clothes are outside.'

'Thanks,'

And then, lowly, Edward mutters at him.

'Don't look like that.'

'You're giving me a headache-' Carlisle mutters.

'The cliff-diving gave you a headache.'

And I deliberately bang on the door.

'Bitch free zone,' I growl.

I imagine Edward must be rolling his eyes. Or doing his stupid mimicking thing because a sore second later both boys snort.

'Are you comfy?'

'Mm, it's like sleeping in the heavens...'

'And that's why you're butt-ass naked-'

'Kid, when you have a-' and then he lowers his voice to what I presume is mumbles. 'Coming out of your- you'll understand why certain clothing items are not at the forefront of mind.'

'Warm huh?'

'Mm. In fact, would you mind-'

I hear Edward's trainers sweep over to the far end of the room. Knuckles on the glass.

'It's best not to.'

'Edward, please-'

I pause in the change of my shirt, pull my hair up and try to contain the mass when the band snaps.

'I'd rather not-'

Shit. That's my Last one.

'Edward, if I have to do it myself-?'

I pull the door back open. The Kid is leaning against the window, arms bent over, the rain still pulling down in patterns.

Carlisle sighs, looking strangely at me, lifting a bandaged hand before hissing and letting it drop.

'Meds?'

'Toothpaste,' he begs exhaustedly, his breaths slowing as if from a run.

With a smile I find his toothbrush in the washbag and lace it with paste.

'Here?'

Edward smirks and looks to his shoes.

'No, Honey. You've got-' Carlisle puts his thumb under his lip and looks slowly down to mine. I flick out a tongue taste the bite of mint.

Honey.

So much for slowing.

Honey.

And I could crumble into myself again.

I wipe my lip on sleeve, touching the sides, rubbing it underneath and pass his toothbrush toward him.

He groans when he reaches.

'Sorry,' I murmur and coming toward him I put the toothbrush in his left hand. He smiles sleepily, lifts it his teeth and brushes vigorously for all of five seconds. In which case he drops his hand to his lap and pants tiredly.

'Need some help?'

'Nr,' the foam builds around his teeth and leaning forwards he bites the bristles between his teeth and takes several slow breaths.

I fight the smile.

'Come here?'

'Nrr,' he insists, shaking his head.

'Chin up,' I instruct. With a sigh, he lifts it up, leans back into the cushions as if to sleep.

He giggles once or twice when I brush his teeth. Silly giggles, short and blissful and exhausted and just as soon as they start, they finish.

'Spit now?'

'Mm,' he agrees. I hunt around a few times. Take an aged cup of coffee from Edward and let him drop the white into the cup.

'Attractive,' the kid jokes.

I glare at him. Carlisle glares at him and then given it's used up all of his energy, he shifts backwards into the bed and frowns as though fighting sleep.

'Mom is downstairs,' Edward says, fingers rattling against the window again. I gently shh him with a pout while Carlisle fights with himself to stay alert.

'Mm?'

'Do you want me to send them back?' Edward starts to swing his foot now. Thumbs fiddling in his pockets watching the end of the bed cautiously.

'No,' he sighs.

I lock eyes with Edward, grimace and nod my head.

'I mean, they've probably only turned up for Es anyway-'

At this point, the blonde is basically snoozing.

'Well,' Edward whispers. 'That bodes well.'

'What was it like?' I ask gently, referring of course to the mass of maniacs downstairs. He swallows and then tries to shovel it into a grin.

'Could be worse. And him?'

I shrug.

'He hasn't eaten...'

Edward starts to laugh pointedly.

'Yes, alright-'

'Mom is going to bring you up some food.'

I thank him and run my hands through my fringe.

'How are they?' Meaning the Guys. The Gals… Bella…

'Mm, fine,' he nods. 'I've text them.'

'I over exhausted him,' I admit tiredly.

'Yep. And yourself. Just like normal.'

'He's big on the 'it was an accident' excuse,' I say, mouthing the words precariously. He tightens his arms over his front. Snorts.

'And you believe it?'

I shrug carefully. 'Do you think I should? Do you?'

'No... not yet at least...'

With a groan I rub my features, stretch out my back and come to fiddle through my bag.

'Feel sick again?' He presumes.

'Mm.'

'Do you wanna take off?'

I shake my head.

'Es, really, go see Mom. I've got it covered.'

'You're sure?'

'Look at him? We could go full on concerto and the guy is not waking up. Go. You need to get some air from here.'

'Thanks, Kid.'

He smiles, comes to throw his weigh into the chair and wriggles till his feet are up on the bed. I give him another questioning look.

'Man's asleep.'

'If you wake him up, I'll be mad.'

He smiles, reaches round to the book on the side as opens it lazily.

As promised, Elizabeth is downstairs in the cafeteria and the moment she sees me, she hurries over, plants a painted pink lip on my cheek and hails me into her arms.

'How are you, Lovely?'

She doesn't release my arm justify yet. She lets it lie there waiting for me to brush it off.

Perhaps it's her constancy at the moment. Or the fact she has been sleeping at the house since the moment she got here but the moment her resting hands touch my cheek, I am watering them beyond pause.

'Oh Baby,' and before I can embarrass myself she folds me tightly into her neck and keeps me there until I exhaust myself tenfold.

She grips me. And then really grips me. Folding me so tightly into it is like she is squirrelling me away. Which in all honesty she might be doing given her husband's warnings.

'Whatever has happened, you know he'll come out stronger-'

'No,' I interrupt wetly, running my eyes, my nose, throwing my hair back. 'No, he's okay.'

She gasps in relief.

'He's awake?' Her grip gets tighter

'Sort of,' I answer.

She drags me, quite like Carlisle once did, towards the line of food. She indicates towards the hot dishes. The lunch menus and frowns when I pick up a sandwich. The frown doesn't last too long because she's already packing other food on the tray.

'I'm not going to eat all that-'

'Yes you are,' she orders. I guess there's no room to answer.

'Where's Mr Masen?'

She pouts, looks to the tray and pays before I get chance. Her movements are an almost perfect mix between Alice and Edward. Unnecessarily patronising but thoughtful and sweet.

'You know him, off with the Boys.'

And in this case, that means Carlisle's boss.

'Is he-?'

'Sleeping,' I explain with a sardonic smile. She pushes the food towards me and pointedly nods to it. 'Edward's on watch.'

'Are they behaving?'

'Mm.' I lift the sandwich to my mouth, chew quickly to get it over with and as the wave moves my mouth, the scent of the congealed food wrestling with my tongue, I slow significantly.

'Unless your youngest is now beating him to pulp, of course.' Not that there's much left to beat. 'Maddison wants to check his memory. He's sceptical-'

I feel the rush of fuss wear on me again and have to abruptly stop.

'Is he...?' She starts to whisper. Accepting visitors, I presume she will ask. 'Do you think he'd want-?'

I bow my head guiltily and feel her nod.

'Don't be sorry,' she reassures.

'It's not that he wouldn't want you there-'

'Esme, Sweetie, you don't need to explain.'

'He brushed his teeth and fell asleep...' I say with a sigh and Elizabeth shines her perfect teeth in a grin.

'Now he's done that before...'

'Yeah?' I ask. She smiles again, nods eagerly.

'That's when we could fit them in one bed. He couldn't have been older than five-,'

The image startles through me. A blonde little boy crashed out against a big bathroom sink, a plastic toothbrush hanging from his mouth. Pyjamas that are too big for him. Freckles that look too dark from the Italian sun. Shy, sleeping nervously next to the baby because at least he won't get forgotten there.

'They shared a bed?' I ask. Elizabeth smiles.

'One would usually crawl in after the other,' she cites from memory. She takes the drink of coffee from the tray and twitches her nose dejectedly at it.

'What else was he like?'

'Mischievous,' she chuckles. 'But well behaved. Always well behaved.'

'I think you ought to tell him that sometime.'

She smiles.

'He's got a bit of a blank slate over it at the moment…'

'You didn't talk about that?' She asks, her jaw slipping. 'Surely-'

'Not exactly,' I admit. 'But-?'

'The poor boy will never heal if his focus is on Eustace.' As she starts to snarl, I rush in to quickly settle the issue.

'It's not,' I defend. 'Really, it's just on… well it's on everything. And Maddison reckons he won't leave till-,' I swallow again, roll my jaw miserably. 'Till a while at least.'

'It's not a prison, Sweetheart.'

Yes, it is. I noticeably throw a glare over my shoulder to the various strangers at tables.

'They're not allowed on his floor.'

'For now,' I murmur.

'Sweet, don't be a cynic, it doesn't suit you.'

I peer up from whatever food I had started to chew on now, some kind of meatball thing and I realise that Elizabeth has said the words so trustingly, so convincingly that the very image had seemed to escape her notice.

'It doesn't?' I ask, smiling crookedly.

She shakes her head, long fingers tailed round the cardboard cup, leg poised over the other, sweet perfumes billowing.

'Well, of course not. You're too loving. Lovers aren't cynics.'

On the contrary, lovers make very good cynics.

'No?'

'No.' She says firmly and the robustness of her answer settles the joke in my stomach. 'I've planted you some new geraniums...'

My eyes had been on a table nearby, one just to the left with two women chatting speedily over two sodas. I pull my attention back to the elegant mother and pretend for a moment, that I'm meant to be under her wing.

I don't much look like Edward. Particularly not now he is embodying Carlisle's very wardrobe. My nose is flatter. My eyes rounder, my eyebrows higher, though just as thick, my lips fuller, my jaw squarer and my dimples deeper.

Elizabeth and I wouldn't even look like friends let alone relatives.

'Thank you, Liz.'

'It's no bother. I found a spotted herbore and planted that too. And... several others.'

'Of course we'll reimburse you,' I say over my chewing. She narrows her eyes. 'For your hourly rate as well as the goods.'

'It's a mother's job to encourage things to grow.'

'Hm.'

She lowers her green eyes to the tray of food and pushes it toward me.

'Take it up with you, yeah?'

'The whole tray?' I ask sceptically. She gives one of those no-bullshit nods again. And when I grimace, she narrows her eyes like Edward.

So she walks me up back to the floor. With the tray outstretched, her legs and her heels clacking and on rounding the corner toward his room, my heart falls out of my stomach.

Because they're laughing. Carlisle is a little more reserved but Edward is shrieking with cackles. Liz hesitates by my ankles, clearly wanting oh-so desperately to be led in and though I am cautious, I go in.

'You're awake,' I murmur in greeting.

He jumps a little, relaxes, smiles a difficult smile and comes to put a hand through his hair. Until the movement pains him of course and then he grits his teeth and drops his arm immediately.

Edward is flushed with laughter, still on a come down as he rolls them to silence, his hand over the bed and his posture bent out. I put the tray on the table nearby, come to pick up an orange and start to peel it automatically, the sting of the fruit hanging loftily between us all.

'What's so funny?'

Edward sighs, flaps his head.

'Nothin','

Carlisle smirks.

I pass him an orange segment from under my arm. He thanks me, passes it around in his fingers a few times before regretfully chewing on the edge. He has his nose scrunched up for a while. As if I'd offered him powdered eggs and flour.

And then the expression relaxes and though his throat is obviously sore, he sighs to the taste of it and swallows painfully.

I pass him another.

'Liz is outside,' I whisper, hoping that like a child, his focus would be hell bent on his fruit and therefore he wouldn't be bothered by the intrusion.

'Yeah?' He asks, weakly.

'Should I bring her in?'

He stretches a leg in his blanket, winces and tries to cover up an exposed white thigh.

'Mm.'

I look hard at him, pausing in the passing of another orange segment so that he is looking at me in wait. I wouldn't let myself consider this a lie. Just a need to support.

'Carlisle, do you want me to bring her in?'

His eyes sparkle lightly, his fat lip pushing into his other and with a tight sigh pointed at his chest, he slowly shakes his head.

'Please give my apologies?'

'Given you're looking like Frankenstein at the moment-'

I glare at Edward. He smiles. I drop the remaining fruit in Carlisle's hand.

I find Liz pacing outside the door. She's smiling unusually. Her hands wringing together and with a slow head shake, she startles and forces a wide smile on her mouth.

'He's sorry,'

'I understand,' she says quickly, rushing in again in an Edward way.

'He's just so sore at the moment. And...'

'Vulnerable?' She murmurs.

I swallow and agree.

'I understand, Honey. I get it. Give him my best, yeah?'

I kiss her cheek guiltily and once in the private suite, look longing at Edward. He sighs.

'Well, that's my cue.'

Carlisle, who had been fiddling difficultly with the orange in his lap, a sprinkle of sweat shining by his hairline lifts his chin tall.

'You're going?'

'Mm. Fish fry at the Swan's tonight...'

'You hate fish,' Carlisle mutters. I roll my eyes a little.

'It's not so bad. Besides, if I douse it in salt and pepper than I can only really taste that.'

'Edward,' I complain in disapproval. 'Really?'

He smiles, comes forward toward Carlisle and then pauses. He looks incredibly unsure, his hand raised awkwardly before letting it come down onto his bad shoulder.

Carlisle holds in the vault by tightening in his teeth.

'Behave yeah?'

'Mm,' he grunts, releasing a tense sigh from his lips.

'You too,' I murmur, hugging the lanky thing around his shoulders. He squeezes me, in a way that makes the nausea run. And then kisses my cheek.

His aftershave still smells vomit- worthy.

I wait till it's just the two of us before saying something. And even then I wait longer in worry for what he might say. He is holding the orange between both hands, rubbing his thumb gently along the edges to dispose of the flaking skin. When that's done, he grimaces and unfolding his arm, lifts the orange piece to his lips and chews slowly.

'Nice?' I ask.

It's another test. I look hard at him as he tries to hold his features still, all the while grimacing in displeasure.

He exhales slowly, still watching his hands try to fiddle.

'My throat is a little sore,' he admits, swallowing the segment down painfully.

I take a pot from the tray, pull the chair closer to the bed, as Edward did, and start to peel open the segments. The tiny vibrant bulbs of fruit squeeze onto my hand but when I slowly and delicately peel the flimsy skin away, the majority of the orange stays intact.

'Try now?'

He holds his palm out to me, careful not to squash the fruit between his pinching fingers as he very slowly puts that to his lip and chews.

I sink further into my seat in relief.

If he could hold that without squishing the fruit between his hands, he might be better than Maddison was willing to admit. He swallows a little easier, smiles at me.

'Better?'

'Thanks.'

So I repeat the action with another segment, discarding the skin in the little pot and passing the fruit his way. I continue to do it until all 11 segments are without the skin cementing it. Until the pulp is gone and the orange scent and taste is glistening on his palm.

'Where'd you learn to do that?' He asks, following me conveniently with his eyes up. I grin, wipe some kind of cloth down his hands until the stickiness is gone. He wiggles each finger before folding them together again. The image behind his eyes is not one I am privy too.

'Siblings,' I answer with a shrug.

'Ah,'

'And me, I was a fussy child.'

'You're a fussy adult,' he teases though, he frowns quickly after and tucks his chin in.

'You sound more alert?'

'Meds,' he answers thickly. I wait for him to elaborate. 'Half the reason Edward caught a laugh, they woke me not long before you returned.'

'Yeah?'

'Changed the dressings,' he explains softly.

'Did it hurt?'

His focus drops between his legs, staring in thought and then realising I'm watching him, starts to blush significantly.

'Hm? Oh er, well, somewhat uncomfortable...'

'Because of…?'

I deliberately don't look at his lap. I don't look because I know he's looking. I don't look because it's inappropriate to look... and to wonder... It's a sick curiosity but I can't deny wondering...

He fidgets, the blanket shuffling from his tummy till he doubles it with another blanket.

'Sorry,' I say, cringing a little in my seat

'No bother.'

'So you said they changed—' changed, I think. As in they changed those too? Oof. Ooof. The man was in pain. Understandable pain.

He just had a tube stuck down his-.

'Dressings,' he says for me. 'And the medication.'

'Still just morphine?' I ask, peering around to look at his expression.

'For now,' he agrees. 'Perhaps in a few days or so-'

'Don't give up a good thing too quick,' I tell him nosily. 'You'll regret it.'

He blinks, nods slowly before refilling his hands with the fabric and pulling it upwards. It spoke enough volumes. It questioned where on earth my head was as to reference... when... I let out a low groan and pull my hair away.

'Are you tired?' I ask, pulling my legs in tighter and hanging just slightly over the chair. He parts his lips and then reconsidering his answer, nods.

'Yeah, but... not enough to sleep.'

'I bet an hour,' I tease.

'I bet less,' he murmurs and as I chuckle, a clunk across the room makes me jump.

He really smiles now, looks up towards the cupboard door now swinging where a hinge has fallen off.

'What the heck was that?'

'Edward had an accident,' he says, eyes following as I pull myself up and come to investigate.

And scoff.

'How-?!' I mutter, pulling it up to see if I can do a handheld job.

'Es- Honey, leave it-'

The metal bracket is swinging, the weight of the door pulled forward, leveraging, precariously, towards its inevitable shattering. I lug it up again, nearly slip and have him whine out in concern.

'You got a tool box?'

'No,' he chuckles. 'Do you?'

'I might have one in my car-, wait here.'

'Har-har,'

I leave him for the moment, come running down to the parking lot where seedy journalists are pushing, slanted against the wall, still asking for news ... I fight to ignore it, come towards my car in the parking lot and flit around until I can find the box I had in mind.

I don't know why we called it a tool box. It was almost like an artist's wrap. The cloth is thick, leather with compartments for each flit knife, pencil, screwdriver with adjustable head. I unwrap it, check its contents and then locate the actual box of smaller tools.

Doctor Maddison greets me with a distracted nod on my way back.

I knock on the ward door.

'You called for a contractor?' I ask Cullen.

The crookedly pained smile folds itself into a smirk.

'Mm, that depends. What are your rates?'

'Expensive,' I answer tapping my wrap of treasures on a door and rifling through them accordingly. He watches curiously but remains seated far into his cushions. 'Doubt you'll get much for the hour?'

He chuckles and watches as I twirl the hammer about half a metre up in the air.

Then, with panic in his eyes, pushes himself forward as I catch the weight.

'Christ, Esme.'

'Sorry,' I murmur with a snort. 'Do you have a headache?'

'I will do if you continue to lug hardware through my work place.'

I grin, flit round and pull the pieces into place.

'That's perfect, right?'

'Little to the left,' he insists with a head tilt. I roll my eyes, push my leg out a little.

'Better?'

'Hmm, really I think these Picasso paintings should be above the fireplace-'

'No Picasso,' I groan, looking at him in his spirit of colours again. 'Please- no Picasso.'

'You were always more of a Monet Girl.'

I feel my cheeks warm as if he is just passed the greatest of compliments.

'Just because you're Delacroix's bitch.'

He snort giggles ridiculously, the meds playing gloriously with his brain and almost, almost giving him a light of home.

'You're way off,' he says playfully.

I smile warmly. 'Don't doubt it Cullen, I know Rubens' is your Guy.'

'I love Rubens,' he swears dreamily and for a second I forget we're talking about painters.

'I know you do,' I say with a smile.

He had briefly talked of Rubens with adoration in his eyes a few years back. I could get it. His paintings were busy with a devilish draw on humans as an assault. There was usually so much to decipher in Rubens' image upon image upon story ramming itself down your throat that you could barely critique before you could stop to think.

With is why Impressionism was so refreshing. So delicate in its subtleties. So suggestive and light and appetising.

'What are you thinking of?' He murmurs, trying to catch my fleeting daydream without much success.

'Monet,' I laugh and then in my best French accent, which admittedly is quite poor, I go on to explain, 'Ser Warter lillies on ser'pond'

'C'est Nymphaea,' he agrees, his tongue lapping easily over the pronunciation. I sigh wistfully.

And then remembering the task at hand I come to pull up the cupboard door, reposition the hinge and screw it in.

'Do you need any help?'

He's leaning forward again. And as he's done it, he's suppressed another threatening groan, forced it to shudder into his ribs as he painfully comes to lean against his knees.

'Are you even comfortable sitting like that?'

He is taking his promises to new levels.

'No,' he admits. 'But I don't want to get bedsores either.'

'Is that main focus for moving?' I ask sceptically.

I've had to hoist the cupboard up by a shoulder, focused more on where I should be screwing rather than... rather than Carlisle. But I can feel the heat of his eyes on me and particularly, with shyness, how often that gaze of his keeps coming to the back of my thigh.

I decide not to entertain it.

'No,' he confesses again. 'I don't want to see you hurt.'

I snort. He looks weakly to his hands.

'What do you think?' I ask now done with my task. I swing the door open again, let it make the slightest of creeks and nod with satisfaction at it.

'Better than when you started,' he commends.

'Don't let Edward break it again? We've had enough fixtures to replace over the years, I really don't want to start forking out for hospital ware too.'

He smiles, watching with heavy eyes as I locate one of his bags- a bag packed by Liz of course, and carefully start to unpack it neatly into the cupboard.

'What are you doing?' He asks, a frown on his imperfectly perfect face. I'm ignoring the stubble when I turn round. And more importantly, his fat lip.

'Unpacking.'

'So you are moving in?' He guesses with an unusual smile on his face. Hesitantly I shake my head.

'It's your stuff, Sweet.'

'Mine?'

'Mm.'

'But I don't have any stuff,' he corrects quickly. 'Just what I came with.'

I'm careful with the arrangement of the next sentence in case he bites my head off.

'The Masen's packed for you,'

'What? Why?'

'So you can be more comfortable,' I say by way of gentle explanation. I pull a few T-shirt's apart to show him and store them as dictated into the cupboard. He breathes shallowly.

Worse when I pick up joggers and he looks longingly at them.

'They didn't have to do that,' he murmurs guiltily.

'We didn't have much choice,' I murmur. 'I would've done it myself but-.'

I cut myself off abruptly and shrug. He swallows his Adam's apple down.

'But?'

'But I didn't want to leave you,' I sigh. I feel him keep his eyes centred painfully on me. Focused. To a fault.

'You really didn't leave?'

'You know this, Sweet. I told you earlier.'

'Not once?'

Wrenching my hands from the cupboard, I walk around his iron bed and lean on the side. He's looking hard at my jaw again, sleepy, eyelashes slowly coming together.

'You're tired again,' I warn him, breathing deeply enough that my chest tightens against my shirt. He snorts delicately.

'I'm okay.'

'Drink?'

'Are you buying?' he asks, lolling around a little. I roll my eyes. 'No, I'm okay. I had one earlier.'

'Food?'

He watches me wander idly about before leaning back on the cool metal again, stretching my spine and desperately trying to hold the whine of discomfort.

'You look tired, too.'

'No,' I murmur with a headshake.

'I'll sit in the chair if you want?'

There's not an ounce of him that's joking. He should be. With that lazy, dreamy smile on his stubbled expression, smelling like foreign soap and blood. He would have me drag him from the bed, force him into a hard, cold sponge chair and he wouldn't make a murmur of complaint.

Even as it ripped his stitches.

'No,' I deny him softly, letting the word sit on my lower lip and hang there.

'Es, I don't mind?'

'Are you really going to try that?' I snort.

He shifts into the bedding, his expression tightening as it stretches.

'No.'

Damn right, no.

With my shoes squeaking on the linoleum, I make my way to the chair again, pull it closer and pull it closer still. He is trying to shuffle a pillow my way. So I snatch it from his hands and throw back to his shoulder. He's slow on the catch, smirks, dumps his head back.

'Carlisle?'

'Mm?'

I've nestled myself into the chair, curled my limbs up and put my head on the arm.

'I've missed you.'

He sighs, slides his hands beneath the gap in the railings… towards me. Lazily, I drop my hand in his. And smile.

Foolishly, I had believed that the sleepy arms, the heavy breaths and the morphine, dragging weight of pain and frustration would lead us til tomorrow. Tomorrow would lead us to the next day. The day would become days. The week would become weeks. There would be months, year, years and then we'd be here. Or rather, we'd be there. Healed, happy, safe. Cheeky, sneaky, silly...

The hours are not to be passed by but suffered through.

Which is why I believe we come to be woken so soon after falling asleep.

I am not sure if it is a nurse or a different healthcare assistant. Either way, she bustles in tray and all, wakes Cullen in such a start I am certain the gasp causes lost breath and demands he choose from a list of unpleasant dishes.

My hand had dropped from his in our sleep. Though his hadn't dropped from mine. His finger had wound itself around mine at some point, the creases of his hand flooded by the plumpness of mine. The cracks of my wrinkles softened by the now hardened skin of his. As though they fused together.

Regardless, in bustles the hasty nurse, slamming him awake, reading of menus and having him stumble with the inability to speak. I pass him the glass of water and she impatiently taps a leather clog. His eyes are tired, the eyelids almost spread to the corners of the whites. His eyelashes long and faint and his lip almost trembling,

'Hungry?' I prompt. He grimaces.

'No, not really.'

'But,' I whisper.

His sigh is low and internal.

'The mushroom soup will be fine. Thank you.'

'No problem... Doctor Cullen...'

He winces when the nurse leaves and tiredly moves his gaze to his not-so saline-bag, grimacing as he does it.

'What's up?' I ask softly.

'They've upped my dosage...' he murmurs, guilty. I reckon his focus is still on the turn of phrase because he's reading the numbers on the monitor now, his posture slackening ever so.

'So-?'

'I'm in quite a bit of-' he cuts himself off, runs a knuckle under his lip with the speed of a flour mill. He's as pale as a flour mill, too. 'I'm in-.'

'Pain?' I offer, quietly.

'Mm...'

'Should I call the nurse over? Or even-'

He sniffs, wincing again and let his neck come back as he weakly fights the closing of his eyelids.

'I suspect they would've only recently administered it. Is my chart at the end?'

I flick my eyebrow at him.

'Es-'

'To be truthful with you, Honey, I don't know if you're meant to be reading it...'

'Public property?' he invites weakly.

I sigh, taking in that organised smell of cleanliness and bleach and scrubbed veins, and pace over to his jail cell again. Leaning on it is the only way to soothe my spine. And help me pretend like my bladder isn't busting to explode.

'Can you handle it-'

'Yes.'

'Without getting mad with yourself?' I prompt. 'Without calling out and sending us away?'

He could almost be yawning when he sighs

'...No, probably not.'

'You still want to look at it?'

'Yes,' he murmurs. 'But I won't... if you'd rather...'

'The answers you have...' I find myself calculating. The thick Adams apple in his throat lowers thickly, reluctantly. 'There are somethings you need to know and others you won't open an eye too-'

'Because it hurts, My Love.' The whisper is grating and sore, his eyes more than sleepy, almost poured with strain as they fight difficultly to focus.

'Because I hurt you?' I ask. He takes another dark breath in, forcing the sting to make his paper cheeks hollow.

'Because I hurt you, too.'

'Tit for tat, huh?'

'There are somethings that I can.. can put the answer to. That I can answer with certainty and conviction and trust-'

'And you don't trust yourself?'

His fingers twitch slowly, the looming walls caving darkly in til they are the sheets binding him to the bed, wound like rope around his limb and having him strung to the stone in grief.

'You don't trust me either.'

'Yes but that's-' the squeak of wheels rumbles on the corridor floor followed by the flourishing pound of fist on the door. Carlisle flinches, and struggles to wind himself up and back. My hands come out, he flinches again and then guiltily, his body trembling, he drops his elbow into my grip.

'I just need you to escort me up and back-'

'Of course-'

'Don't mind my scream,' he pleads and though there's a wish for a joke present on that bruised lip, those sunken eyes, in them I can feel his fear.

'I'll be gentle.'.

With a fallen exhale, he lets himself roll forward into my arms, weaker than I thought he'd be, and lighter too. I heave him up alone, the way he can cope to it and even though he doesn't scream, the darkest howling cry slips from his tongue and were he not in dire pain, I would accuse him of being in the single most elicit pleasure of his life.

Until I see his face.

'Sry,' he pants, and even though I am hardly literate, I feel the beeps escalate noisily.

'Don't be.'

'Can you-,' he nods towards the door.

He needn't bother. The health care assistant enters soon after bearing a rich steaming tray of what smells like regurgitated catfood and as she bears it closer to the table at his legs- the tiny box room starts to stiffen with the ghastly taste of salty, soggy waste.

'Doctor Cullen, your dinner-'

'Thanks.'

'Much discomfort?' she asks, facing his screen again, I feel his chin move toward me. But I don't see it. All I see is the haze of the mushroom burn my nose from the inside.

'A little...'

'The Meds will kick in soon... You bearing up okay though? Sleeping? Toes wiggling?'

'Mmm- Es?'

'Huh?'

'You okay there, Dear? You need a seat? Perhaps some food yourself-?'

They're colours now. Just colours moving toward me and I clap a hand over my nose.

'Esme-'

'Really Honey, sit down-'

Oh God the wet mulching dirt of stretched, stainless steel vegetables. Over washed with wire sponges, till the rotting cave of cabbage is driving my feet back.

'Esme- Es you're gunna faint- Esme please-'

I'm going to be sick.

Worse than this Morning, worse than the nights before and the hours between the drool is out my mouth and the churning burn of acid rushing up my throat-.

The pair of them must flinch when I slam the door shut, because I shove it. Hard. Let the wood fracture and splinter from the weight and throw myself to the bathroom, locking the door with a bolt and purging until my haggard insides resembles the Saints.

'Are you okay-?' he asks, his volume somehow reaching through the door.

'Mm.'

'Sure?'

'Be out in a minute-' I cough, spilling my lunch into the bowl until the exhaustion hates on me.

'Just let me know you're okay?'

It comes out in a cry. In a plead.

'Tell me what to do-' he adds panickily.

'I'm okay,' I promise, weakly, resting my head against the wall and breathing slowly.

'Please, Es. I don't know the answers? I don't know how to make you feel better.'

Give him the answers. The answers...

I don't have the answers.