Author's note: A very BIG thank you to everyone who read, and reviewed, this story. I really enjoyed writing it. So thank you very much.

"So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;

And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

Now proud as an enjoyer and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,

Now counting best to be with you alone…"

He dances with her in the shards of moonlight that make pale ribbons across the floor. They dance to the music of silence. Edward had played for them earlier but now he is gone, and the echoes of The Wedding Dance and Vision of Salome are all that is left of his beautiful playing. His hand hold hers reverently and his fingers trace over the tips of hers. He will not peel his eyes from her face, as if he is frightened she may melt into smoke. The silk of her wedding dress rustles as they dance and to her ears it seems indecent. This is as close as they have ever been and it is enough for now. She feels everything at this moment; the hard planes that are hidden just under his shirt as they press into her, the gentle gusting of his breath across her face, the tension that is thrumming through his body.

"Is this real?"

His voice is tentative and full of awe. This journey has not been untroubled for them both and to find themselves here, wedding rings wrapped around respective fingers, is as unbelievable as it is wonderful for a variety of reasons. Her mind returns, just for a moment, to the bathroom upstairs, to the pink-hued water and cries of agony. Then she supresses the thought and forces herself to look forward to her beautiful reality.

"Yes, absolutely Carlisle," she whispers against his ear.

"Are you mine, truly mine?"

He presses his cheek to hers, his fingers ghosting along the curve of her neck. He has been touching her like this all evening; pressing his fingers against hers as they stood before the altar, holding her hand as they drove home, touching her lips as he deposited her on the other side of the threshold. It's as if he is checking she is real and that she is not simply a figment of his lonely imagination. To him she imagines she is a delicate flower, petals too tender to be touched but too tempting to resist. It makes her feel embarrassed.

"Yes," they stop in the middle of the moonlight and it floods over their skin, "I am real and I am yours."

She traces the shape of his jaw and rests her hand against his cheek. He exhales a shuddering breath and she watches as his eyes fall on to their outstretched hands. He experiments with their fingers; how they fit together, how they hold each other. The experiment seems preliminary. Will they fit, she wonders? She knows he wonders too.

The awe on his face is almost indecent to behold then suddenly it hardens. His eyes grow dark in the moonlight. She thinks for an instant that it might be desire but then she sees his fear. It makes her grown uneasy for him.

"I have never –," his voice fails and his mouth shapes words that cannot come, as if he is confiding something he has never told her before.

Shame floods his features and he shakes his head. Now the balance is shifted. Where he has been her creator and her tutor, she knows he is hoping that she will guide them in this. Her nerves match his but she is determined to be falsely confident for the sake of this man whom she loves so much.

"I know," she leans forward slightly and presses her forehead to his, "It will be…okay."

She will not say perfect. She won't put that pressure on him. Indeed she will not enforce it on them. They stall for a moment, their heads pressed together. She traces her fingers along the collar of his shirt and he literally shivers. So much so she can see it.

"Will you tell me about it?"

There are secrets, she knows, that he keeps pressed to his soul. Secrets which only lonely men can know. The agony of solitude that he thought would never end, finished abruptly by her, must seem like an attractive option when faced with the night ahead, she imagines. She knows he is frightened of the prospect. Married before God, he stands on a precipice that she knows he dreads, and it makes her feel the shift in power so acutely that she is dumbfounded by it. And for her it is something she so desperately wants yet is frightened to have.

Never once has she wielded such power.

In some ways she is so much more experienced than him. He has been brutally honest, despite his embarrassment, on this front. She admires him for his candid admission and, in fact, sees the sanctity of it where he is humiliated by it. She wishes, with agony sometimes, that she could be the same for him.

"I was so lonely," he whispers darkly, "So alone. I never thought I would see my own wedding night…It seems so unfitting a blessing."

He shakes his head and his disbelief is evident.

"Not anymore," she assures, "Not ever. You will never be alone."

He kisses her then. It is a hard, suggestive kiss but she believes it is unintentional. Until now their kisses have been chaste and light and that has been at Carlisle's behest. There is nothing of this now; only darkness. And his grateful disbelief. She feels his disbelief as his tongue presses against her lips in the type of kiss that has never been shared between them before. She gasps and falls fully into it, marvelling rather guiltily at his natural ability.

Then suddenly he withdraws from her and tugs at her hand to beckon her to take a step. She wants to pull him back to her mouth, where her skin had only grown accustomed to such pleasure, but she is too frightened to ask this of him.

"Might I take you to our bed?"

She almost laughs at the absurdity of his manners but he is too fragile, too sensitive, for that. She will laugh with him in the morning, over such a formal request, but right now she simply nods. He steps forward and scoops her up into his arm.

The room is welcoming and warm. The foresight to light a fire had blessed him earlier, it seems, and now she understands where he disappeared to when she was removing her shoes. Of course there is no need for a fire but it is a familiar comfort to them both - to Carlisle in particular. She knows that they don't actually need fire or warmth but somehow he needs it. It dances in his study every night, throwing his face into relief as he rests over his journals. He lights one after he returns from every hunt, then sits before it for hours at a time in contemplative silence which she fears she will never understand. She watches as he does this, his brown creasing as he stares into the flames, and she marvels at his clever mind and how she will never know all that he knows.

He hesitates beside the fire place and then steps forward towards the door and for a moment her soul grows frightened. He has changed his mind, it seems. Too much, too soon. She accepts defeat right there and then. To be his wife is enough and in time she will be his lover. She feels slightly relieved too. She might have experience but not any she can call pleasant. She did not want to spend tonight alone though, the first night as his wife, but she will accept it. Perhaps he shall retire to his study to write his journals, or read his books, as he always does of an evening. Maybe he has to hunt or to work.

"I have to change," he murmurs, "I did not bring anything in here for…bed. I will return in a moment."

She almost laughs with relief, then nods, "Of course."

For a second she loathes that she doubted him. She has tried, and on the whole succeeded, to put her trust fully in him. At times though she cannot help but be the woman she once was; a woman who could not trust the men that she was bound to, who doubted them very fully. The fact that she allows even a shadow of doubt to cloud her mind about Carlisle or Edward leaves her feeling bereft with guilt every time it happens. In time and as her memories fade it will stop but at this moment her fear is, at intervals, crippling. She shakes her head and, refusing to allow her own worries to cloud their night, tugs at the ribbon resting over her hips until it loosens.

It is then she suddenly realises her predicament. Her dress is closed at her spine, a row of beautifully fine pearl buttons pulling the ivory silk together, which she cannot manage on her own. Edward helped her this morning but, to ensure his own mental preservation she imagines, he has absconded for a few nights. He has assumed the reality of this night should be theirs alone and excused himself to visit Chicago. So she will stand until her husband returns to their room, helplessly toying with the lace on her sleeve and feeling hugely inadequate.

When he returns, after only a few minutes, she is surprised by what he wears. He is wearing lounging bottoms and slung over his shoulders is the velvet dressing gown that he often puts on after work, to retire to his study. She has always admired how it sits on him, revealing the work shirt he has worn all day but making him look a little more at home. It is his exposed chest though which surprises her. She has only ever witnessed him fully dressed in three-piece suits and fine shirts or trussed up in coats and hats so to see him so undressed is odd to her. It is, she must admit, exciting too. She realises she is staring and averts her eyes.

"I did not know what one wears to bed," he says by way of an explanation, wringing his hands as he closes the door with his foot, "I very rarely lie down."

They laugh then at his statement and the tension dissipates a little. He gives her a curious look.

"You are still dressed?"

She realises it is her turn to explain her current state of dress.

"I can't take it off on my own," she offers simply, "Too many intricate buttons."

His gulp is audible but he steps forward, the edges of his coat flying out on either side.

"I can-"

"Would you mind?"

She turns her back to him, facing the mirror as she does so. One by one he pulls the buttons and she realises the quiet confidence that is so prominent in him in other situations is with him now; even if it's false. He never once takes his eyes from her reflection as he does it and their golden eyes stay locked together. He unbuttons it slowly, painfully, and she realises that this is the first time her husband is disrobing her. It is not seedy or embarrassing like it once had been for her. This time it is pure. Each time he frees a button the pads of his fingers brush against the silk of her chemise, and only one layer of fine material separates his skin from hers. She shivers with every fleeting touch.

"There," he dips his face and kissed the nape of her neck, "Finished."

Then he averts his eyes and turns his gaze towards the fire. She puzzles for a moment and then reaches out to touch his hand when she finally understands that he is giving her privacy to undress. A brazen confidence grips her as it has never gripped her before.

"Don't turn away," she demands, wiggling her shoulders so the dress quickly pools around her feet, "Look at me, my Carlisle."

Obeying her command he turns to gaze at her. His smile, his face, is so painfully shy that she pities and adores him in equal amounts at that precise moment.

Once shy with the body that had been so easily ruined she is now proud. Her new life has not quite rendered her vain but it has afforded her a confidence she has not previously known. He is the real reason for her confidence though, she knows. She stares at him and is pleased by the reaction. He drinks her in slowly, shyness being disposed by agony and agony being chased by excitement across his face. He cannot tear his eyes away for a long minute and she does not want him to.

"You are so beautiful," he says, reaching out his pale fingers to touch her shoulder, "So beautiful. Your beauty is unparalleled. I have never looked upon such beautiful a sight. I have known, visited, committed all the wonders of the world to memory and yet not once has there been such beauty before my eyes as there is now."

His words are so honest that they fall from his mouth as if they are prayers.

His admiration is embarrassing.

"If I could blush," she says lightly as she unpins her hair and it tumbles around her face, "I would."

"I think I may be blushing…for the first time in years," he laughs though his voice is gritty with lust as he withdraws his hand.

Her skin aches in its absence and she wants to tell him this but she cannot.

An awkward silence imposes itself on them and then they laugh again. Her husband pushes his hair back from his forehead and sighs, twisting the loose belt of his robe in his hand.

"Is it like this for humans?"

"Worse," she answers flippantly, taking a step towards him.

When he stiffens she realises what is crossing his mind and she feels nauseous with understanding. She has remained vague about her life before but he is not stupid or naïve. He knows her experiences were far from romantic. She wishes she had said nothing and she can see he wishes he did not ask. He opens his mouth to say something, an apology no doubt, but she presses her fingers against his lips to silence him.

"It won't be like that," she assures him softly, "I promise. Come here, kiss me."

She opens her hands up and he steps closer to her. Right now she does not want him to speak, to voice those concerns, so she covers his mouth with hers. She does not want him to worry or panic or reserve himself in front of her.

She kisses him as she has always wanted to – freely and almost greedily. She combs her fingers through his hair, moans against his mouth as she feels him embroiling himself. She lifts her leg to wrap around his waist and when he hesitates to hold her, she takes his hand gently and places it there.

That is all they need.

His hands find the rhythm that he wants and his lips follow suit. He lifts her, echoing the way he once carried her from the forest. This time her desire is for him, only him, and it is mutual in its return.

"We are a perfect fit," he says emphatically, laying her down on the silk sheets, looking for her reassurance to continue. His hand traces the outline of her chemise delicately, his eyes taking in every contour. His fingers shake against her thigh as they trail along the lace.

She nods, "Yes, we are."

She slides his robe down his arms in one swift motion, throwing it aside. The arms which have always carried her are pale and solid as they are revealed. He hides, under his clothing, a body that belongs to a god. She cannot believe his shyness. He reverently strips her of her underwear, at pains to be gentle with her as he does so but at the last moment he lets go a little and throws them aggressively to the floor. She sees the tension in his skin, in the line of his neck, as he fights with all that is good in him to keep his control under check. A little growl rumbles from the back of his throat, comes from between pressed lips.

She will not ask him to break his control now but she vows to do so in the future.

"The love I bare you," he murmurs frantically against her skin, resting his head on her pale abdomen as he grows evidently overwhelmed, "The love I bare you is more than I can ever show you. Let me try. Esme, how I must try…"

And of course they fit. They were always supposed to fit.

They are the most perfect of puzzles. She likes to think of them as long-lost wonders, suddenly reunited in this, the bed he has carried her to.

At his hands she is at his mercy and the mercy she is afforded is beautiful.

Later, they lie on the bed, wrapped in each other and discarding the sheets to a pile at their feet. The fire is dying, its embers aglow in a last show of valour. She stares at the embers and then looks to his face. Closed eyes, tranquillity dressing his brow, he smiles because he knows she is admiring him. This sort of open admiration embarrasses him and he shakes his head.

"I have never known such…" she knows he is searching for the right words as he breaks the silence, his eyes remaining closed, "Such pleasure."

He sounds ridiculously innocent and incredulous in his observation.

"Nor have I."

Her words are genuine and honest and all her truth is bared to him. Finally he opens his eyes and they are sporting a new hue. They are the colour of coals, his irises speckled with embers that are aglow. He lowers his head and presses his lips to hers. There is a new confidence in his movement as he pulls her nearer, enveloping her in his arms, wrapping her fully so she is trapped. The kiss is long and languorous and into it he is pouring all of his pleasure at their union.

There is a balance now; they have explored their fit.

"I need not compliment you," she says softly, coyly.

"No," he shakes his head again, "Please do not. I do not think I could withstand such unwholesome praise."

"It may be unwholesome but it is certainly deserved," she laughs as his lips turn up in an unwilling smile and his eyes flutter closed again.

He shakes his head in embarrassment. She is overwhelmed by the impact this moment has had on him. It is profound. Then he swallows and shakes his head again.

"I have eternity to practise…to improve," he says in a jocular rush, eliciting from her a girlish giggle.

He smiles rather roguishly. His mouth cocks up on one side, making prominent his dimples, and she realises it is a smile she has never witnessed from him before and he shakes his head again to dispel his embarrassment. She loves him so much in this silly, beautiful moment.

And in this moment they are the ages they are supposed to be, discovering marriage as it is supposed to be discovered. They fit perfectly.

"Yes we do have eternity to practise," she whispers, attempting to be sultry despite her shyness.

He opens his eyes and they are on fire. His face suddenly takes on that hard mask of concentration and that unnameable darkness that she has grown so fond of tonight returns too.

"Good," he flips her suddenly so she is under him, "Would it be inconvenient for me to begin my studies directly?"

That giggle, so absent from her life since she was young, bubbles from her again.

"No, not inconvenient at-" but her words are swallowed as his lips claim hers.

Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight

And by and by clean starved for a look;

Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or gluttoning on all, or all away."

Sonnet 75

William Shakespeare

Thank you for reading this. Please R&R.