When Carlisle leaves for the hospital that evening Esme finds herself in a strange kind of place. She moves to the porch that stretches around the back of the property and sits down on the bottom most step, letting the grass graze along her bare feet.
There's plants that need to be pruned in the gardens and an empty white wall on the new garden shed that needs a fresh coat of paint, but she can't seem to bring herself to focus on these little projects. Not for very long anyway.
She's in a contemplative mood tonight, which Edward must sense, because he keeps his distance, playing gently on the piano; he's close enough to watch her, but far enough away to give her his version of privacy which she appreciates because her thoughts seem to drift to Carlisle far more often than she thinks is appropriate.
But something's changed between them. It's been changing for a while now, she supposes; though, perhaps it is simply her that has changed.
For this reason, she's uncertain of these things she feels; there are butterflies that can surely no longer exist in this new, unmoving, unchanging body, that continue to beat in her belly as an anxious swarm of nerves whenever he is near. Perhaps they are more like moths now, pale and dusty, beating their leathery wings upon her hardened skin, but still very much alive whenever she thinks of him. Or when his fingertips linger against her skin, his touch so very gentle. Or when she finds herself lost in that soft, golden gaze. The sound of his voice, gravely and tender, as he reads to her in Italian. The way he rolls his sleeves to his forearms when he returns from the hospital, sitting across the chessboard from her with a teasing smile. It's the little things. It's everything. She shakes her head, pressing the tips of her fingers against her closed eyes.
Is it possible for a vampire to be overwhelmed? To feel so completely out of control?
It's true that she holds a certain fondness for the doctor. A kind of girlish fantasy has plagued her since the early days of her youth, since that fateful day in the tree, but there's an intensity that is quickly replacing these memories.
He is no longer simply Doctor Cullen, but Carlisle; no longer a dream but a very constant, very present reality. That's what it is, she thinks, the fact that he has become so very real to her. Before he existed only as a dream, something she wished for, but would never—could never—dare to have. And now she simply cannot find it inside herself to sort through the barrage of emotions.
It's pure and utter elation that she feels when he's near, and a kind of dragging loneliness that exists when he's away from her. But what this means she does not know, because she was certain she loved him, as a girl, as that child in the hospital bed; but, many years have passed now and she has lived through the trials of many terrible things. Things that have tested and tormented her love and the utter unrepentant ease with which she lends out her heart. After all this time she can see that the things she was meant to love both began and ended in tragedy. First with her parents and Charles. Then her son.
Surely Carlisle cannot become one of these things that turns her love against her. She sighs then, pulling her arms around herself, standing from the step and venturing into the yard as the sky becomes the darkest kind of black.
She walks for a long time, skirting the edge of the treeline. She can smell a herd of deer, not far into the trees, but she's not thirsty. Not really.
When the sky turns from black to blue and then green on the edge of the horizon where the sun will soon rise, she returns to the house, climbing up the porch steps. She moves inside and closes the door softly behind her. Maybe a kind of fondness for Carlisle is all she is meant to have in this life. In the end, maybe it is better that way. Because if she's learned anything, it's that loving someone is giving them the ability to destroy you and it has destroyed her, time and time again.
Edward looks up from his piano, a stricken kind of frown creating a deep canyon between his eyes.
She apologizes with a soft smile and kind words in her head. He's far too young to look so serious. Far too handsome to be so worried.
When his frown lifts a little, she knows he is listening and she works harder to move these heavy thoughts to the back of her mind. Instead she returns her focus to her plans for the flower garden she's been considering for the south side of the house. The sun touches the land just right there and the space seems so sparse without one. Perhaps a garden would be just the right thing to liven the area. She wonders if Carlisle would mind?
Edward's piano playing picks up to something quite joyful and she takes this as a go ahead.
For the rest of the early morning hours she plans, spread out at the kitchen table. The one that is used for just about everything other than eating. Right now it is her studio. She sketches on thin scraps of paper, organizing and arranging and drawing all assortments of flowers.
"These are lovely," Carlisle says of her work and she looks up, not having heard him come in. She was so absorbed in her work she did not even register him put his briefcase down in the hallway. Subconsciously she must have known. Some part of this new body knew he was there and yet, here he stands, making her momentarily speechless.
She blinks once. Twice. A warmth spreads through her chest. She's missed him terribly and despite the flurry of butterflies that she tries to stamp down, she can't help but feel a sense of wholeness having him near.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he says with a soft smile, laying her papers back down. He sits down next to her. "Though I believe you are the only vampire in history who I have been able to sneak up on."
"A fatal flaw?" she asks, with only a hint of teasing.
"On the contrary," Carlisle says with a smile that's almost to himself, like he's just realized a secret. "It's quite endearing."
She hums softly, disbelieving, but he catches her hand, his so much larger, eclipsing hers. Her breath catches as his hand travels up her wrist, caressing her forearm and when she looks up at him, he doesn't seem to notice, lost in the feel of her skin or an errant thought perhaps.
He runs his hand back down, thumb dragging against her wrist. The tips of his fingers curl up to meet hers, automatically and without thought, like two magnets pulled together.
His brow furrows in response.
"Carlisle," she whispers. "What is it?"
"Have I been so obvious?" he asks, a wry smile curling the side of his mouth.
"You think with your eyes," she says. "All manner of things can be read from your face, once you know what to look for."
He contemplates her for a moment, perhaps wondering what exactly she reads from him now. Then he stands without releasing her hand. "I wish to ask something of you, Esme, but I don't want to seem presumptuous or make you feel obligated or . . ." His fingers tighten around hers.
"Ask," she tells him, both worried and curious now. Perhaps something's happened. Perhaps she's been spotted veering too close to the sun by someone in town or maybe . . . or maybe . . . Charles—
"Stay."
Her thoughts crash up against a blockade as she refocuses her attention. Her mouth opens and all she can manage is a befuddled sounding, "Pardon me?"
Carlisle swallows hard, his eyes suddenly flicking up to find hers. "When I brought you here, Esme . . . when I made you a vampire, I had no intention of making you stay. I told you this when you woke. I had taken your human death from you, and I had no intention of forcing myself into your life any further. No more than what you wanted, at least once your blood-lust had been controlled."
He looks to the window, staring out at the patch of blue sky that's broken through the clouds, painting the room in a lovely pale pink. He sighs and his voice is desperately quiet. "But now that your newborn year is approaching, now that you've come to learn how to control your thirst, I find myself terrified that you might leave. That you might want to move on." He looks right at her then. "And the more I think of it, the more I realize that I don't think I can be without you anymore. You've become something to me . . . something I'm very afraid to lose. So, please, whatever your plans are, don't go. At least not without Edward and I. We both want you here so desperately. I want you here.
"Carlisle—" she begins, though she's unsure of how to continue; a little tremble of awe is all she manages.
"Please," he begs. "I want to give you everything, Esme. Gardens and houses and books to press flowers in. I want to show you all the things you never seen, but only dreamed of. Operas and paintings and great artworks. I want to take you places. Anywhere you wish." He pulls her hand to his chest, holding it near his heart. "I want to learn your new dreams, the ones born of this life. And know that I will do everything in my power to make them happen."
As his words wash over her, the warmth in her chest spreads across her body, until she can feel the heat in her toes. Maybe it isn't only her that's changed after all. Maybe . . . he just might feel the same way. She'd very much like to take the time to find out and her smile is brilliant when she answers him. "I'd really like to stay. For as long as you'll have me in your family, I'd like to be apart of it."
In a moment of pure desire and utter happiness, Carlisle surges forward, dropping her hand and kissing her, his hands cupping her jaw, his lips pressed gently but firmly against hers. She gasps in surprise, but her hands come up to wrap around his and her eyelids flutter as he pulls away.
There's a kind of spark that jumps between them and the desire to pull herself back to him is intense. She doesn't fight it, just does what feels right, what feels good, and opens her mouth against his, her tongue brushing his lower lip. He responds eagerly and she finds herself standing, drawing him to her, then towards the table, crawling into his lap once she's reversed their positions; one of his hands wrap around her waist as she moves to explore his mouth.
She pulls away suddenly, breathless and somewhat embarrassed because what is she doing? Climbing all over him?
He looks momentarily shell-shocked, his hair a mess from her fingers. Then he chuckles as she presses her fingertips to her lips; she joins in with his laughter. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," he says.
"Why didn't you?"
"Because . . . I was afraid you'd leave," he tells her honestly. "And it would have broken me."
The vulnerability in his gaze is enough to shatter her. She wants to wrap him up, to hold him close enough to keep him together, even if he should shatter in her arms. "I'm not going anywhere," she promises, "as I don't think I can be without you either."
"Good," he says, nuzzling her nose and pushing her hair behind her ears with a smile that dazzles her, "because I'd very much like to court you."
He looks to her then, waiting for an answer.
She smiles, wide and unwavering. "I'd like that very much."
From the other room the piano slows to a stop and Edward mutters, "Finally."