To those who left reviews on chapter 1 (chellekathrynnn, Tyricle, Ruiniel, leelee202, Guest, and Guest), thank you! And thanks to all who took the time to read the first chapter of my story. I really appreciate it.

CHAPTER 2

WAITING

With a flick of the switch, light flooded the bathroom, the halogens leeching much of the gold from his pale hair. Shutting the door that separated the tiny room from his office, Carlisle set his duffle bag aside, and gripped the edge of the sink.

What a morning.

Alone with his tumultuous thoughts, he hung his head, and was about to heave a sigh when he thought better of it. Given how Bella's scent still clung to his hands and clothing, it was best not to breathe just yet.

Out of all the people in all the world… Here of all places. This tiny blip of a town in the Pacific Northwest. As far as coincidences went, it was astronomical. With a staggered shake of his head, Carlisle sent his thoughts to the woman who was currently undergoing life-saving surgery, less than three corridors away.

My singer.

God sure had a strange sense of humor.

Considering how these types of encounters usually played out, Carlisle had managed rather well. But though he had maintained a firm hold over his bloodlust, his inner struggle was very real, the memory of her scent making his head swim even now.

Though fainter than at the accident scene, the mouth-watering smell permeated the small hospital, bothering him wherever he went. It was the reason he had stopped breathing fifteen minutes ago, the reason he had cloistered himself in his private bathroom.

Knowing he was awfully close to crushing the sink, Carlisle released the porcelain edges, and contemplated his reflection. The image staring back at him was a far cry from his usual polished exterior. His wavy hair was damp and dishevelled, his eyes at least three shades darker than their usual honey-gold. Alright so golden brown was better than coal black, but the hue was still dark enough for the change to be noticeable. And for a vampire living amongst humans, noticeable was never a good thing. Especially when it was in a weird and seemingly unexplainable way.

Indeed, the eyes of a vampire were unique in the sense that the irises changed color depending on one's state of being. For "vegetarians" such as Carlisle, the normal color was gold, whereas those who drank human blood possessed dark red irises. Regardless of one's eating habits, however, one thing was constant: if a vampire was thirsty or in a state of arousal, their eyes turned dark, like his were now.

Hoping to lessen the effect, Carlisle set himself to purpose by removing his damp jacket and scarf, hanging them on the hook on the door. Then, shifting his focus to the blood that had transferred onto his skin, he proceeded to wash his hands and forearms, lathering and scrubbing as hard as he could.

The tap was running at full strength, spouting hot water over his marble-like skin. As the last of the suds fell and disappeared in the drain, his gaze returned to his reflection. His mind, however, had vaulted him back to the 1600s, to that potato cellar in the heart of London, where he had first experienced the bloodlust he had felt today.

The change had been long and excruciating, the burning so horrendous, he would never forget it—not that vampiric memory would allow such a thing. While his life as a human was somewhat faded now, his existence as a vampire was chiseled with perfect clarity in his mind, each and every minute of it, down to the last detail, from the moment he had been bitten, all the way to now.

For three hundred and fifty years he had "lived" as a vampire, much of it spent in relative solitude. In fact, immediately after the change, he had found himself completely and utterly alone.

Unlike the majority of newborn vampires, Carlisle had been abandoned by his sire. To this very day, he did not know if it had been a man or a woman. In all likelihood, his change had been accidental. A single bite, delivered in those chaotic moments when Carlisle and select members of his father's congregation had descended into the sewers of London, in search of a suspected coven of vampires.

Such ignorant fools we were.

While he had been clever enough to discover the vampires' whereabouts, Carlisle had not fully realised what they'd been up against. If I had… In truth, they'd never stood a chance. Armed with torches and pitchforks and other such things, they had descended into the damp tunnels thinking they would help rid the world of evil.

In the end, all they had achieved was their own slaughter, for none of them had walked out afterwards. All except Carlisle that is, and the word "crawled" was a much better description.

How he had managed to keep from screaming was still beyond him. His entire body burning and seizing, Carlisle had dragged himself onto the cobble stone street, his fingers clawing at the rain-soaked ground as one who searches for divine intervention or a helping hand.

Finding neither of those things—not that anyone could have helped him at that point—Carlisle had spotted an open cellar nearby. Slowly, and with much effort, he had crawled through the opening, somehow shutting the heavy door behind him before his strength had given out and he had tumbled down the wooden stairs.

For two days and nights he had burned, writhing in quiet agony while the venom took over, altering his cells and irrevocably changing him into what he was now.

When his heart had finally stopped beating, the unbearable pain lifting at nearly the same time, Carlisle had stared at the dirty ceiling for a good long while, and would have cried if he had been able to. But vampires could not weep, and venom tears did not fall. Truth be told, aside from the gift of sleep, it was one of the things he missed most—to be able to weep in joy or sadness. Oh, he still felt those emotions, keenly at that. But the human ability to cry was now lost to him, and forever would be.

Without a sire to guide him, Carlisle had left the cellar in the dead of night, only to be met by the overwhelming scent of humans. So many of them. As if that wasn't bad enough, his keen sense of hearing had picked up a most alarming sound. A beating chorus of varying strength and speed. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. All those hearts pumping iron-rich blood into soft veins.

With a fierce burning in his throat, Carlisle had looked about him with abject horror. So many houses, with so many innocent people tucked away inside. And all he had wanted to do was drink them dry.

Horrified by what he had become, he had fled the city that night, and stayed away from humans for a long time afterward.

Returning to the present, he shut the water off. Steam now coated the mirror. A crystalline drop fell from the faucet, the tiny plop almost deafening to his ears.

Bella.

A lovely name, he thought. Short for Isabella perhaps—and he liked that name, too.

Shoving the errant thought away, Carlisle angled his ear toward the surgical suite.

"There it is. There's the bleed." he heard Dr. Coleman say, the steady beep of the monitors telling him that Bella was stable. "It's a small tear," the middle-aged man said. Carlisle was heartened to hear it. "I gotta say, this lady was lucky in her bad luck."

He had to agree with that. If her injuries had been more severe, she could have bled out sometime during the night. And if Carlisle hadn't gone hunting this morning, odds are she would still be out there, dead or very close to dying.

Though reassured by what he had just heard, Carlisle wished he could be in there with her, working to mend her injuries with his own hands. For bloodlust or no, his desire to practice medicine was undiminished. Honestly, it bothered him that he couldn't partake in Bella's surgery.

It wasn't that Dr. Coleman wasn't a good doctor. He was. But his human senses had limitations his did not.

With the patient's life at stake, Carlisle would have set his personal discomfort aside, and done everything in his power to repair her injuries. As it was, he could only hang back and wait, just like Charlie was doing now.

Knowing he should get back out there, Carlisle dried himself with three squares of paper towel. Once these were in the trash can, he pulled his t-shirt up and over his head, swapping it for the clean dress shirt he kept in his duffel bag.

As he fastened the buttons, his gaze went to the crescent shaped scar on the slope where his neck met his shoulder. This being the only mark on his flawless skin, he would bear it for the rest of his immortal life. Foregoing a tie, he donned a blue cardigan over his white shirt, and fastened the three lowermost buttons. Alright, so it wasn't the edgiest of styles. But he liked wearing cardigans. And scarves. And sweater-vests, too. To him, these were timeless pieces, comfortable and appropriate for a man in his profession.

His focus shifting to the lower half of his body, Carlisle traded his jeans for a pair of slacks. Because he hadn't thought to keep an extra pair of shoes in his office, he would have to wear his hiking boots for the time being. Adjusting the hem of his slacks so they covered most of the laces, Carlisle smoothed the front of his pant legs, and straightened.

Reaching for his duffel bag, he opened a side pocket and produced a comb. With a series of fluid movements, he ran the plastic teeth through his hair, combing the strands back into a wavy yet professional style. The Ken doll look, he mused with a small smile, remembering a little girl he had treated in the mid 1980s.

"Mister, is your name Ken, too?" the young cancer patient had asked him then.

"No, my name is Carlisle," had been his answer, delivered as he had checked her IV line.

The girl, whose name was Maddison, had narrowed her bright blue eyes at him. "Are you sure? Because you sure look like him," she had said, and held up a doll—a surfer with yellow plastic hair.

Seeing a slight resemblance, Carlisle had found himself laughing, shaking his head as he'd checked the IV bag. It was a heartwarming memory, made even more special by the fact that the girl had later gone into remission. Stories like hers were among the many reasons he loved being a doctor. Helping people, making a difference. Those were the things that made him happy.

Presentable at last, Carlisle exited the bathroom, dropped his duffle bag by his desk, and made for the door. Moments later, he was striding down a window-lined corridor, toward the waiting room outside the surgical department, where Charlie and a few other officers were now waiting for news.

As he walked, he thought he might chance a breath, just to see. So he did.

Bella's scent still reached him from afar, but now that he had washed his hands and left his damp clothing in his office, it wasn't so potent or distracting anymore.

Glad for the relief, Carlisle stopped by the break room, where he proceeded to brew a fresh pot of coffee—not for himself, but for Charlie. As the coffee maker sputtered to life, he couldn't help but overhear the police chief.

"She's still in surgery," he was saying to someone over the phone. "Might be a while."

"I'm sorry I missed your call, Charlie, but I'm driving up now," a man replied. "I should be there in a few hours. God, if only I'd been there. But I had to work and…" He gave a shaky breath. "Anyway, if I'm not there by the time you hear anything, please keep me posted."

There was a pause and then, "Sure thing." Despite how worried and tired he was, there was a slight edge to Charlie's voice. Annoyance perhaps. Or blame.

"Do you need me to call Audrey?"

"Would you? My buddies looked for Bella's phone, but they couldn't find it,"—Charlie sounded like a man who hadn't slept in ages—"Either she left it at home, or else it was ejected from the car. I would have called Audrey myself, but I don't have her number."

"Don't worry about it, Charlie. I'll call her."

"Oh, hi." Carlisle glanced up at the words, spoken by a nurse who had just entered the break room. Fresh out of university, Leanne was a recent hire here at the hospital. "Aren't you supposed to be off today?" she asked with a smitten expression Carlisle had come to know well.

In fact, no matter which hospital he worked at, it was always the same thing, nurses making pretty eyes at him, competing to see who would net his attention. Whenever schedules were posted, he would often hear the women gloat or grumble amongst themselves. It seemed they all wanted to work with him—though all he seemed to do was distract them.

Some males might see it as a blessing, but for Carlisle, the unwanted attention was nothing short of a curse. As a vampire, his voice, his scent, his very appearance, was made to draw people in. For the nomadic vampires who preyed on humans, vampiric allure was a most useful tool to have. But Carlisle was not a typical vampire. He preyed only on animals: deer, mountain lions, moose, and bears for example.

As it was, the attention annoyed him more than anything. But since the women could not be blamed for their instinctual reactions, he was always careful in how he responded to them. Patience and courtesy went a long way in such situations, and having gone through this many times over, he knew that his coworkers' fixations would dissipate over time. Then all would run smoothly—or should—until his lack of aging forced him to relocate once again, starting a new life in a new town where he would have to repeat the process all over again.

Ten years per town or city, that was the average. Any longer than that, and the people would know there was something wrong with him. Rosalie as well.

Him being fairly new to Forks—or newly returned rather—Carlisle knew that it'd be another year or two before the nurses got over their infatuation. From that point on, he should have seven or eight years of professional peace. In the meantime, all he could do was wait, smile, and ride it out.

The coffee-pot being nearly full, Carlisle turned away from the doe-eyed woman, and reached for a disposable cup and lid. While coffee was considered a necessity by most of the staff here at the hospital, especially during night shifts, Carlisle disliked the smell himself. The taste was even worse.

By the time he started for the door, nodding his goodbye as he went, the nurse was still staring at him, her teeth clamped over her bottom lip.

"See you around!" she called as he stepped out into the corridor.

As he walked toward the waiting room, coffee cup in hand, Carlisle smiled at those who crossed his path. Some were patients, like Gladis Clark, a jovial, bingo-loving woman with curly silver hair and the most endearing smile. At seventy-six, she was fiercely independent, with a zest for life one had to admire. Having seen her just last week, Carlisle knew she was here for routine blood tests.

"Hello, Mrs. Clark. How are you today?"

Her smile broadened when she saw him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, I'm not worm food, and I drove my own car. I couldn't be better. Besides…" Waving so he'd come closer, she giggled and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a hot date tonight. Mr. Foster who lives by the post office. Do you know him?"

Carlisle joined in her laugher. "I do know him, yes." He was a patient as well, widowed for the past three years. "A good man, and a lucky one at that."

Her answering laugh was delightfully cheerful.

After wishing her well, Carlisle continued on his way, his smile fading to a look of compassion when he crossed paths with a frail-looking man who was being wheeled on a gurney. His face being unfamiliar, the patient was either new to Forks, or else he had been passing through when he had been brought here. From the sound of his heart and that of his lungs, Carlisle could tell that he was in congestive heart failure.

The male nurse who was pushing the gurney nodded to him as he passed by. "Dr. Cullen."

Carlisle nodded in turn. "Hi, Steve." And on he went.

Hospitals. There was life here. But there was also death. And sadly, a whole lot of suffering in between. Here, he saw the very best and the very worst in humanity. Every day, he saw people who were worried, people who were frightened, people in pain, both physical and emotional. He saw kind people. Smart people. People who lacked judgment. People who lashed out in grief or rage. People who were in so much pain, they hated and wanted out of this life.

He saw tears of sorrow, tears of joy. He saw the fear and hope in the eyes of new mothers and fathers. He saw the innocent wonder in children's gazes. In short, he saw it all. And he treated everyone the same, regardless of who they were and how they acted. In his eyes, every life was worth saving.

"Hey, Charlie," Carlisle said quietly and held out the coffee cup. "I thought you might need this."

The man looked up, his fretful expression morphing into a dim smile. "Thanks, Dr. Cullen."

"I'm not working today," he said and sat next to the police chief. "Please call me Carlisle."

Charlie nodded at that. Then he sat forward, his elbows coming to rest above his knees. His partner, Sean Reed, was presently on his cell phone, giving an update to someone. "She's still in surgery," he was saying. "We're not sure how long it's gonna be."

Two other officers were seated in the neighboring chairs, both of them in uniform. Gladdened by the fact that Charlie's coworkers were there to support him, Carlisle wondered why there weren't more people here—friends and family, and Bella's mother for that matter. Charlie was a bachelor; that much he knew. Maybe the woman now lived in another state or town. Maybe they were all estranged, or maybe she had passed away. Or then maybe he was wrong, and she was going to walk through the hospital doors any minute now.

"I wonder what's taking so long. Waiting around like this… not knowing what's going on in there…" Charlie heaved a heavy breath, and dragged a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "It's enough to drive a man crazy."

Carlisle wished he could share what he knew—that Bella was stable; that Dr. Coleman had found the bleed and was repairing it now—but he couldn't. "She's in good hands, Charlie." Good hands, not the best, he mused and glanced toward the double doors at the far end of the corridor. Honestly, it still irked him that he couldn't be in there.

Seconds turned to a minute. One minute turned into five.

Charlie spoke. "Bella was supposed to get in around ten last night. When she didn't show, I waited and tried not to worry. I must have called her cell a dozen times. By midnight, I knew. I called her apartment, various hospitals…" Though his words were for Carlisle, he threw a brief glance at his partner, who was texting someone on his phone. "Sean and I drove up and down that highway for half the night. We'd just pulled in to the station when I finally got the call. No matter what happens..." A pause ensued. Charlie sought his eyes. "I owe you my thanks."

Before Carlisle could summon a reply, the chief cleared his throat, emotions hindering his voice when he looked to his feet and said, "If you hadn't found her when you did, my baby girl would still be out there. She'd…" He shuddered and said no more. There was no need to.

"Dispatch to Forks police."

As the dispatcher spoke over the police radios, saying they had received a call about a drag race over by the Thriftway, Charlie sat up, while two of the other officers gained their feet.

"We've got this, chief," one of them said, a woman with short reddish hair. She and her partner were gone just as soon.

Minutes later, when the dispatcher spoke through the radio once more, stating the need for additional backup, Officer Reed stood up. "I'll go," he told Charlie. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Hang in there, buddy." Sean hurried out of the waiting room.

And now they were two.

"Are you hungry?" Carlisle inquired after a while. "I can get something from the cafeteria if you like."

"Thanks, but no. I can't eat right now."

It was just past two in the afternoon. The other officers had been gone for nearly half an hour.

"Is there anybody you want me to call?" Carlisle asked after another fifteen minutes had passed. No one else had shown up. "Friends or family perhaps."

Charlie shook his head, an air of regret upon his face. "There's no family to speak of. Bella's mother, she…" His brows furrowed into an expression of pain or grief. "She died several years back. She and her husband were living in Jacksonville at the time. There was a fire at their house one night and… yeah…"

As a blanket of silence descended upon the waiting room, Carlisle regarded the police chief. Quietly, he said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

At first, he expected that Charlie would lapse into silence once more, but the man surprised him by opening up and saying, "I have a few buddies up in La Push. One of them called earlier to ask how Bella was doing, but they won't come here." Charlie frowned again, harshly this time. For the next few seconds, he stared hard at the opposing wall. Clearly, his friends' absence was a sore spot, and rightly so.

Given where his buddies lived, however, Carlisle had a fairly good idea why they stayed away. For La Push was a Native American reservation just outside of Forks. The Quileute tribe called it home, and unlike other humans, the tribe knew about vampires. In fact, some of the tribe's members had a supernatural side themselves. Shape-shifters they were, who could phase into wolf form whenever vampires, their traditional enemies, were near.

In the fall of 1939, Carlisle and his small coven had been hunting on Quileute land when they had been discovered by Ephraim Black and two others. Chief of his tribe, Ephraim had been the Alpha of his pack.

Because Carlisle and his coven hadn't harmed anyone, and were different from other vampires, they had been able to negotiate a treaty. If they promised not to bite humans, and to stay off Quileute lands, the tribe would not attack or expose them for what they truly were.

But nowadays, a treaty did not mean friendship—at least not for the Quileutes. When Carlisle and Rosalie had returned to Forks, eleven months ago, a few members of the tribe had begun to phase, the phenomenon alerting them that vampires had returned to the area.

One rainy night, upon leaving the hospital after a sixteen hour shift, Carlisle had spotted the welcoming committee, waiting under a tree by his car. Three men: Sam Uley, Embry Call, and Jacob Black.

The coldness of their features had rivalled that of Carlisle's skin. The moment he had laid eyes on them, he had known they were shape-shifters. Their smell betrayed them.

All told, their exchange had been rather brief. After Carlisle had promised not to violate the peace treaty, the three men had left. The warning in their eyes, however, had been clear: break one rule and there will be hell to pay.

From that moment on, the members of the tribe had boycotted the hospital, hence the reason Charlie's buddies had failed to show today.

His dead heart going out to the police chief, Carlisle found it most unfortunate. If only things weren't so tense with the Quileutes. But such was the nature of things. The wolves hated vampires, even "vegetarians". The fact that he and Rosalie could live here at all was a miracle onto itself.

With his attention fixed onto the goings-on in the operating room, Carlisle knew the moment the procedure was over. Relieved that the chief's daughter was going to be okay, he waited in silence until Dr. Coleman stepped through the double doors, his surgical cap still on his head, his mask hanging around his neck.

"Mr. Swan?" he announced and Carlisle excused himself, leaving so the surgeon could speak to Charlie in private.

"How is she?" the chief asked at once.

"Your daughter was very lucky. There was a tear in her liver, but we managed to repair the damage."

Charlie's relief was palpable, even from afar.

"She's going to need a lot of rest," Dr. Coleman went on to say, "but I expect she will make a full recovery."

Later that day, when Charlie was finally allowed to see her, Carlisle found himself hovering just outside the doorway. Having swung by the cafeteria, he had brought a sandwich for the police chief.

"Hey, Bells," Charlie said as he grasped her limp hand. "It's your dad. You gave me quite a fright, do you know that?"

But Bella was asleep, lost in a haze of pain meds and exhaustion. As he watched her from the corridor—mindful not to breathe her mouth-watering scent—Carlisle was struck by the sight she presented. Now that the crisis was over, and her face was no longer streaked with blood, it was as if he was truly seeing her for the first time.

Even with a cannula delivering extra oxygen to her nose, the loveliness of her features could not be missed.

Ivory-skinned, she had a light, almost imperceptible smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Her chocolate brown eyes were hidden by long, sweeping lashes. And her lips, though still somewhat pale, looked soft and full. As she slept, Carlisle couldn't help but wonder what her smile looked like. A true smile, the kind that reaches the eyes.

Suddenly conscious of the fact that he was openly staring, he glanced at the time. It was just after four. Because he was expected to "rest" before his next shift, he would have to get going soon.

With a gentle knock on the doorframe, Carlisle entered the room, and spoke in a quiet murmur. "It's not much, but I brought you a sandwich. I hope turkey's okay." Now that he had taken a breath to speak, his thirst returned with a vengeance. Hand rising to loosen his collar, Carlisle swallowed against the sensation.

"Turkey's fine, yeah," Charlie replied with a genuine, albeit tired, smile. "Thanks."

Reaching over the bed, Carlisle extended the sandwich. "Don't mention it."

Making easy work of the plastic packaging, it wasn't long before Charlie had wolfed down a bite.

"If you're alright, I think I'm going to head home."

"Of course." Before Carlisle could make his exit, the police chief straightened and called after him.

"Thank you. For everything you did today."

"No need to thank me. I'm just glad she's okay." With a small smile and a nod, Carlisle tucked his hands into his pockets, and started to leave. He had barely taken two steps when a man barreled into the room.

"Sorry I took so long," he said, breathing hard.

Around Bella's age, he had light brown hair. Five ten at the most, he wore a nice leather jacket over a shirt and tie, his slacks and leather shoes hinting at a white-collar job.

Ignoring Carlisle altogether, the man crossed the room and spoke to Charlie. "There was an accident just outside of Seattle. Traffic was backed up for miles. How is she?"

"Pretty banged up," was Charlie's dry response. Whoever this guy was—whether he was a relative, or Bella's husband or boyfriend—the Chief of Police seemed to have little love for him. Seemingly mindful of where he was, Charlie drew a breath, his voice and features softening somewhat when he said, "They want to keep her here for a few days. She needs to heal and rest, but she should be okay."

The guy hung his head. "Thank god," he breathed, and reached for Bella's hand, raising it to his lips. "Hey, sweetie. It's me, Evan. I'm here."

The affectionate display narrowed the choices down to two: boyfriend or husband.

Knowing it was time to make a discreet exit, Carlisle ignored the sudden and irrational pang in his chest. With hunting on his mind, he threw one last look at Bella, passed through the doorframe, and finally stepped out.

So here was chapter 2. I realise there wasn't much going on in this part, but I felt it was important that I set the scene. In the next part, I will shed more light on Carlisle's home life and the current state of his coven. Oh and we'll finally get a scene with him and Bella.

To all who took the time to read this, thank you. I wish you all a very good week.

CygnusRift