Okay, so I never read past New Moon and never will, so not only do I not know if Bella and Edward get married, I don't know how Ms. Meyer would have it look. Fortunately for you, I don't care, and so I present to you a new chapter:
This could possibly be the most painful experience of his life. It might even top the divorce with Bella's mother. Especially because Bella had invited aforementioned parental unit to her premature wedding.
Yes, Charlie knew he should feel proud of his daughter, as well as some sort of congratulatory joy, but she was marrying Edward. Her first boyfriend. (This he had learned from his ex-wife after she'd indulged in a tad too much champagne.) So instead of the use paternal feelings on such a momentous occasion, Charlie felt horrified and wanted to crawl away to some dark corner and drink himself into a coma.
However, his dear daughter had chosen a brightly-lit place for the reception win which there were no dark corners, and so Charlie had to sit at the bridal table, listening to everyone chatter with the merriness dial on as high as it would go.
And then something poked him under the table. It was hard and cold and felt like dry ice encased in a potato sack, and it tickled the bridge of his shoeless foot with a mysterious pleasantness. He tried not to look to startled, to look like he was listening to whatever the Hell Carlisle was saying, but as the thing caressed his Achilles' tendon, he shivered in delight. It inched slowly, slowly higher, nudging his calf now, creeping up under his trouser leg and, unfortunately, considering the circumstances, very much turning Charlie on.
When the thing returned, he poked it back, and his foot and it briefly tangled under the table, giving Charlie a better idea of its shape. Another foot. He glance around at the faces at the table trying to determine whose it was. It was slender, but not enough to be that of a woman, which left Edward, Jasper, Emmett, his ex-wife's new husband, or Carlisle. Who, at that moment, glanced at him as he neared the end of his story that had everyone laughing. Carlisle?
He poked the other foot as trying as best he could to convey a questioning manner, which was hard to do with a foot alone. The other foot went from prodding to stroking, this time in a much northerly region from his foot. And a much more erogenous one, he thought, right as he had lifted his champagne glass to his mouth, causing his to jar it and splash it down his shirt and into his windpipe. As he choked on the bubbly, Bella smacking him on the back as hard as she could (which was actually pretty hard, Charlie mused, thinking that he might just have bruises the next day), he caught Carlisle's full-on stare. Getting up suddenly, without his shoes, he excused himself and went out back to the garden. The table resumed conversation and drinking, the latter of which possibly exceeded the former, except for Carlisle, who still stared after him.
Charlie, on his way out, snagged a bottle of champagne, which, though he detested, was alcohol nonetheless. Grateful to finally be on his own, he ignored the portentous charcoal-gray clouds that threatened to split open and pour on him, and ventured deeply into the garden, out to the centre where sat a fountain. He sat down on the edge of the basin and popped the cork, toasting the statue of Helen of Troy poised where the slate path met the fountain.
"'Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?'" Carlisle emerged from the path, which was partly hidden by large hydrangea bushes that effectively cloaked pedestrians.
"So they say," said Charlie, exercising his very small amount of knowledge of the classics. "She's not actually that beautiful," he continued, more to himself.
"Oh, I was talking about you." Carlisle smiled like he was kidding, but his voice had sounded as serious as the weather was turning.
"Couldn't find anyone else to play footsie with?" Charlie asked as Carlisle joined him on the fountain. He offered the champagne, but Carlisle declined.
"Everyone else was busy getting inebriated. They were just starting to make toasts when I left."
"To what?" Charlie asked after helping himself to a very generous swig of drink.
"Oh, anything. The chandelier maker, Esme's new shoes, great aunt Maude, lunar expeditions…"
"We got away just in time." Carlisle nodded, suddenly looking at him very intensely again.
"What?" Charlie demanded uneasily, thinking to remedy his uneasiness with more delicious ethanol.
"You've been staring at me weirdly," he complained, drinking even more. Carlisle now eyed the bottle with some worry and extended his hand half-heartedly to take the stuff away from Charlie, who resisted by hugging it closely. Oh, to be a champagne bottle, Carlisle thought wistfully.
"I can't help it," Carlisle finally said. "I just find you…" he searched for the right word while Charlie drank some more. "Intoxicating."
This got Charlie to lower the bottle, and now he looked at Carlisle with intense interest.
"Really?"
"Yes," he confessed, and edged a little closer on the fountain edge.
"Is that why you were playing a particularly erotic game of footsie with me?"
"Is that what you thought of it? I'm flattered."
"That couldn't have been innocently meant," Charlie protested.
"No. You are absolutely right." The other man's cool breath rushed across Charlie's cheek and neck. He had gotten very close without Charlie noticing somehow. And the champagne bottle… where had that got? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something green in a sea of clear. Turning his head, he saw the bottle bobbing away in the fountain. This motion brought his face in line with Carlisle's perfectly.
The world swam like the champagne bottle, bobbing and drifting this way and that, the only steady thing being Carlisle's face and the bronze eyes that were focused most intently in his lips. The golden lashes were nearly brushing Carlisle's cheekbones, casting faint webbed shadows across his skin in the dim sunlight.
And Carlisle's lips were so tantalisingly close to his own, parted in so inviting a matter, with a tongue peeking out to demurely moisten them, that if he leaned forward just a little…
He aimed and missed spectacularly, joining the champagne bottle with a great splash.
Charlie's face launching a thousand ships. Pfffft. Anyone know where that quote's from?