March 1995

Carlisle frowned as he watched seven-year-old Edward eagerly tearing open the large, elaborately wrapped present that his grandfather had strategically placed in the foyer. Carlisle and his family were visiting Carlisle's parents in Wharton Bay.

Though impeccable as ever, the house was a war zone. The air was thickened with the tension of a stalemate. Victoria looked impeccable in a pink pant-suit and a thick pearl necklace, but her eyes were red-rimmed and the fine wrinkles and eyes had grown more pronounced with a recent cry. Carlisle felt a surge of protectiveness over his mother, and he kissed her cheek with affection. A soft peck. Victoria looked at him gratefully and pecked him back.

The three of them – William, Victoria, and Carlisle – had been caught in a cycle only Carlisle had escaped.

Victoria mother had all the classic markers of a woman driven to distraction by her husband's behavior. William cheated: Victoria discovered it. Victoria raged, pleaded, and wept. William offered up a firm resolution to be faithful – pleading, genuine, romantic. Victoria glowed. William cheated again. Victoria turned a blind eye, until some evidence became too blatant. The cycle repeated over and over again, immune to ultimatums or firm resolutions.

Mother and son were closest during the mother's troughs of emotional despair.

"Wow, a new bike! Thanks, Grandpa!" Edward exclaimed, his green eyes shining with excitement as he beheld the shiny red bicycle, complete with training wheels and streamers on the handlebars. Carlisle had to admit it was an impressive gift, top of the line-as usual. His father never spared any expense when it came to his only grandson.

"Anything for my boy," William Cullen IV said, laughing and beaming proudly. It was a point of pride for the eldest Cullen that his only grandson favored him. Even at nearly 70, William was still strikingly handsome, his silver hair and distinguished features lending him an air of refinement. "Only the best for you. We'll have you riding like a pro in no time."

"What's the occasion, William?" Elizabeth interjected hesitantly, fighting against the Masen urge to be polite. She rushed forward to stand between her son and the bike, making Edward frown.

"I don't need an occasion to dote on this wonderful young man," William Cullen IV chuckled jovially, self-important and proud.

"Edward already has a bike, Pop," Elizabeth said, somewhat nervously, and Edward eyed the bike frame with a beady hunger in his eyes.

"But, Mo – oh –oh -Mm!"

"Quiet, Edward," Lizzie scolded, and Edward cowered under Her Look.

"Edward got a different bike last year, Lizzie, dear," Victoria explained, growing stiff, as if that was a self-evident explanation. "This one is much cooler."

Carlisle pinched the bridge of his nose. Every time they came to Maine, they had to fight to undo tremendous damage. He spoke to his father. "The bike at home is in really good condition, sir."

The glow was doused from William's face, and tension settled thickly between them.

"There's more gifts for my sweet boy hidden upstairs," Victoria said playfully, with genuine sweetness. She glowed at Edward lovingly, and her famed beauty shone through her smile. She ruffled his hair affectionately. "Somebody wanted a Game Boy."

The young Edward whooped and yelped in excitement, knowing that once he got his little hands on his presents, his grandmother would defend them.

"It's too much, sir," Carlisle said, and for a second, he feared his stammer would return.

William waved off his concerns. "Nonsense, Carlisle. Nothing's too good for the boy."

As a child, Carlisle fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew this excessive gift-giving was his father's way of showing affection, but it still rankled sometimes. Carlisle had woken up dozens of times to discarded jewelry, and once to a diamond bracelet destroyed under a hammer in his mother's desperation. His father would plead, beg, kiss his mother senseless. William would convince Victoria, and she would glow, bejeweled and beautiful.

May 1998

Like he had been about most of Elizabeth's decisions – including her decision to marry Carlisle – Senator Masen had been displeased by Elizabeth's decision to take a position teaching music at Sullivan High School in 1990.

Colloquially, the Senator had shit a brick.

Carlisle had been – privately – nervous about his wife venturing daily into Rogers Park, and he had communicated gentle concerns. Elizabeth had kissed his cheek and told him to stop fussing.

In the intervening decade, Elizabeth had kept a fledgling music program alive single-handedly. Carlisle had donated the Grand Piano – a Bösendorfer – but had been barred from donating much else by his wife.

For that end-of-year concert, Elizabeth had transformed the school gymnasium into something almost magical, despite its scuffed floors and the faint smell of rubber balls and adolescent sweat that seemed permanently embedded in the walls. Elizabeth had somehow convinced the custodial staff to let her hang streams of white fairy lights from the ceiling, their glow softening the harsh fluorescent lighting above.

Carlisle remembered how she'd looked that evening, her red hair escaping from its pins as she dashed between the rows of teenagers, adjusting their positions with gentle touches and murmured encouragements. She wore a simple black dress that made her seem to float as she moved, and when she turned to smile at him – her husband - her green eyes sparkled with an enthusiasm that still made his heart stutter, even after all these years of marriage.

The audience filled the metal folding chairs – parents who'd rushed from work still in their often custodial uniforms or administrative attire, younger siblings squirming, grandparents in their Sunday best, clutching programs printed on bright yellow paper. They were a far cry from the well-heeled patrons Elizabeth had once performed for in concert halls, but she treated this performance with the same level of professionalism and reverence.

Edward sat next to Carlisle, unusually still in his pressed khakis and blue oxford shirt, his copper hair refusing to lie flat despite Elizabeth's earlier attempts with a comb and copious globs of hair gel. At ten, he was just beginning to understand the magnitude of his mother's talent, though he still rolled his eyes when she made him practice scales at home.

Though Carlisle had never been introduced to the boy, Carlisle recognized Jamal – a large boy, with skin the color of ground coffee, who Elizabeth claimed had the most "raw talent as a tenor" she had ever encountered. Carlisle tried to identify other kids that she described with particular vexation or fondness. Like the rest of the staff, Elizabeth had been challenged by an influx of refugees from Somalia and El Salvador – flummoxed by the challenge of mainstreaming kids who spoke Arabic and Spanish as their first language.

When Elizabeth stepped onto the makeshift stage – a cleared space at the front of the gym bleachers – the chattering crowd fell silent. She didn't need to demand attention; she simply commanded it naturally, the way she always had. She lifted her hands, and forty teenagers began to sing an acapella rendition of Stand by Me, followed by a rendition of Blue by Eiffel 65. In 1998, it was a stroke of genius – and it lead to hooting and cheering from friends.

The sound wasn't perfect. Some voices were too sharp, others too flat, and one boy in the back row was clearly just mouthing the words. But there was something pure and transcendent in the way Elizabeth had pulled music from these children, many of whom had never read a note before she arrived at their school. She conducted with her whole body, her movements fluid and graceful, drawing forth dynamics and emotion that transformed the simple school concert into something approaching art.

Carlisle found himself holding his breath, touched not just by the music but by the expressions on the kids' faces – the fierce concentration, the pride, the joy of creation. This was why Elizabeth had turned down the conservatory's offers, why she'd chosen to teach instead of perform. "I can make music anywhere," she'd told him.

Next to him, Edward leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on his mother. Carlisle saw Elizabeth's mannerisms reflected in their son's unconscious movements – the slight sway, the fingers twitching in time with the music. Edward might complain about his piano lessons, but his mother's gift lived in him too.

The finale was Handel's "Hallelujah," arranged by Elizabeth herself for teenage learners. As the last notes faded into the gymnasium's rafters, Carlisle saw tears gleaming in several parents' eyes. Elizabeth stood still for a moment, hands raised, holding the silence before it broke into enthusiastic applause.

Later, after the punch and papusas had been consumed and the last proud parent had departed, Elizabeth kicked off her heels and sat at the piano. Her forehead and hair was dampened with sweat, and she was a little breathless, like she had run a long marathon. Her hair had completely escaped its pins by then, falling in waves around her face. Edward had fallen asleep on a bleacher in the corner, under Carlisle's suit jacket in the corner. Carlisle simply watched his wife, marveling.

"I think," she'd said, turning to him with that brilliant smile that had first captured his heart, "this was better than Carnegie Hall. It was much harder, even."

And Carlisle, who had watched her perform in some of the world's greatest venues during their courtship, knew she meant it. Elizabeth had never been more beautiful to him than in these moments when she was purely herself – barefoot, slightly sweaty, bright-eyed and picking up discarded programs. Elizabeth, who had found ways of communicating with an elderly Somali woman that had finally been reunited with her grandchildren. Not the prodigy, not the society wife people she could play to perfection, but the woman that found fulfillment in teaching children to sing in English before they could speak it. The love of his life, exactly like that.

Elizabeth was the person Carlisle loved more than almost anything in the world, except for their child.

"Come here," she whispered, patting the piano bench beside her. Her fingers still danced lightly over the keys, playing something soft and dreamy that Carlisle didn't recognize. He glanced at Edward, still sound asleep on his makeshift bed of music books, before sliding onto the bench beside his wife.

"Lizzie," he murmured, watching her fingers move across the ivory keys. She bumped his shoulder playfully with hers, never missing a note.

"Did you see Mrs. Rodriguez crying during 'Amazing Grace'?" she asked, her voice warm with satisfaction. "And she told me at the beginning of the year that her Tommy was tone-deaf."

Carlisle reached out and tucked a wayward strand of dark red hair behind her ear. "You're amazing, you know that?"

She turned to him then, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Dr. Cullen, are you flirting with me?"

"Maybe." He leaned closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with paper and chalk dust. "Is it working?"

Elizabeth's fingers stumbled on the keys for the first time that evening, and she let out a quiet laugh. "After all these years, you still make me nervous when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked innocently, though he knew exactly what she meant. He had been looking at her that way since the first time he saw her at his parents' dinner party – a little impulsive, evidently driven by a mix of passion and talent. Bursting with beauty when she'd made his breath catch in his throat by playing Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu as if she'd written it herself.

"Like I'm still that girl in the blue dress who spilled wine all over your father's Persian rug."

"You were wearing green," he corrected, smiling at the memory. "And it was my mother's rug. And you looked so mortified that I had to fall in love with you right then and there."

Her fingers had stopped moving on the keys now, and she turned to face him fully. "Liar," she whispered, though her eyes were soft with affection. "You didn't fall in love with me until that night we did it on the stage at Carnegie after they locked down the building."

"Lizzie," he said, choking back laughter, casting an anxious look at Edward. "That was the most rebellious thing I'd done in my life," he whispered, pulling her closer to nibble at her clavicles.

"But it wasn't the day I fell in love with you," he explained, whispering in her ear. "It was when you played Waltz of the Flowers for Mrs. Baker, off the top of your head, without any sheet music. Just from memory."

"Now who's the prodigy?" She leaned into touch, her smile tender. "Perfect memory."

"Only when it comes to you, Lizzie."

She kissed him then, soft and sweet, tasting of the punch from the reception and something uniquely Elizabeth. Behind them, Edward stirred slightly in his sleep, and they broke apart with quiet laughter.

"Take us home?" she asked, standing and smoothing her dress. "You'll have to carry our sleeping virtuoso."

Carlisle stood, pulling her close for one more kiss. "Anything for you, Mrs. Cullen."

"Careful," she teased, gathering her sheet music. "Keep being this charming and you might just get a private concert when we get home."

"Is that a promise?"

Her answering laugh was musical, echoing softly in the empty gym.

September 2011

The phone's ring pierced through Carlisle's sleep like a drill. He fumbled for it in the dark, squinting at the caller ID. Edward. At 5 AM.

Something was wrong.

"Hello?" he answered, voice thick with sleep.

"Dad?" The crack in Edward's voice made Carlisle sit up straight. "I need... I fucked up."

Carlisle swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling refreshed by the onset of an adrenaline rush coupled with age-old frustration. How many times had he heard that in the last decade? I fucked up. "What happened?"

Edward made a groan-like sound, and his words were both frightened and defensive with an adolescent-like twinge. It was the tone he used to admit to fist fights, to smoking pot joints in darkened alleys, and to reckless sex before anybody else alerted Carlisle.

"Jane's pregnant."

The words hit Carlisle, and he groaned. Carlisle sank into his desk chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course. Of course. His son - his brilliant, reckless, self-destructive son - had managed this.

Carlisle counted to ten before speaking, medical training like an instinct after all this time. "How far along?"

"Fourteen weeks." Edward's voice was barely audible. "She just told me yesterday. She... she wants to keep it."

"And you don't." Carlisle didn't phrase it as a question. He knew his son too well.

"I can't be a father right now! I'm barely through my second year. I can't... Dad, I fucking can't."

A fresh wave of irritated disappointment washed over Carlisle. Edward always did this - acted like his choices happened to him, like he was a victim of circumstance rather than the architect of his own disasters.

"Were you stupid enough to cheat on Isabella?" Carlisle's voice went deadly quiet. "I need you to be honest with me right now, Edward."

"No!" The response came quickly, almost desperately. "God, no. This was... it happened before. With Jane. Before Bella and I..."

Carlisle exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. At least there was that small mercy. "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you got another woman pregnant," he said, so furiously he felt his blood warming and his heart pounding.

Edward's voice cracked again. "Dad, what do I do? Jane keeps talking about the baby, like it's a fucking person... it's just a fetus right now. We could... there are clinics..."

"Edward." Carlisle's voice turned to steel. His son's casual suggestion made his stomach turn.

"Are you suggesting you pressure her into an abortion she doesn't want?"

"She doesn't want to be a mother either! She just thinks we should have it because... I don't know, because it exists?"

"That's still her choice to make." The words came out clipped, each syllable sharp with disapproval.

"But what about my choice?" Edward was nearly shouting now. "Don't I get a say in whether I become a father?"

Carlisle gripped the edge of his bed, fighting to keep his composure. "You made your choice when you had unprotected sex."

"We used protection," Edward muttered. "I remember what you taught me – I can put on a condom blind without ripping. I was always so fucking careful…"

"Christ, Edward." The words escaped in a weary sigh. Elizabeth would have known how to handle this. She always knew how to reach their son. "I thought I raised you better than this."

"I know," Edward said quietly. "I know I fucked up."

"Do you?" Carlisle sneered sardonically.

To Edward, the crux of the matter came out with the way his voice broke, like it was scraped raw. "Dad... I love Bella. I've always loved Bella. I can't lose her over this."

Carlisle felt his jaw clench. "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you got another woman pregnant."

Carlisle forced himself to soften his tone slightly. "Look, son. I know you're scared. But whatever happens, you need to handle this like a man. That means being honest with both Jane and Isabella, and accepting the consequences of your actions – which to me is deferring heavily to Jane Voltaire's choices."

As he spoke, Carlisle felt himself a sharp pang of grief crash over him, heavy and leaden and painful. Christ. The very idea felt suffocating: Edward, forced into a lifelong relationship of co-parenting with a girl that he had so evidently used for casual sex. Edward's medical career threatened, by the complications of parenting. Carlisle could afford to support this – possibility of a grandchild – while Edward stayed in medical school.

But Carlisle, who had known the joy of building a family with the woman he loved, did not want Edward to bring a child into the world with a woman he did not.

"I have an appointment scheduled. At Planned Parenthood. For next week."

Carlisle's blood ran cold. "Does Jane know about this appointment?"

"Yes." Edward's voice was small. "I... convinced her it was the best option."

For a moment, Carlisle couldn't speak through his anger. When he finally found his voice, it came out glacial. "Edward. If you pressure that girl into doing something she doesn't want to do with her own body, I swear to God..."

"I'm not pressuring her! I just... made my position clear."

Carlisle felt suddenly exhausted, the weight of his son's choices pressing down on him. "You come from a family with things that she values." Money, power, prestige: In Carlisle's eyes, a dwindling fortune, properties that sucked from that fortune like black holes, and a problematic lineage full of actions that were abhorrent if criminal by modern-day standards. Carlisle winced, filled again with disgust and dislike for the girl.

"She's twenty-two years old and probably terrified. Just by stating your preference, you're exerting pressure."

Carlisle glanced at his watch. It was almost time for rounds, and he couldn't deal with this anymore. Not right now. "I need to go. I have rounds in an hour. Whatever happens with this pregnancy - that's between you and Jane. But you need to tell Isabella. Today. She deserves to know."

Carlisle hung up before Edward could respond, letting his head fall into his hands. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the full weight of his disappointment - in Edward, in himself as a father, in this whole mess.

Wondering where the fuck he had gone wrong. Dozens of regrets weighed down on him, the way he imagined chains weighed down souls in penance in A Christmas Carol. Dozens of things he wished he had done differently with his son.

The first was this: Carlisle had abandoned Edward.

After hanging up with Edward, Carlisle showered, the pre-dawn light barely filtering through the windows. His thoughts drifted back to his first year of medical school. Carlisle had started at Rutgers Medical School in 1974, a year after Roe. It had been that year that he had witnessed the gruesome aftermath of back-alley abortions, before they dropped. Stigma was heavy, access was slow, and insurance coverage was unlikely in 1979.

The memory emerged unbidden, vivid and sharp despite the decades that had passed. The woman had been young - younger than he was – and the most vulnerable of the vulnerable. She'd used a disposable razor.

The details remained sharp: the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the metallic smell of blood mixing with antiseptic, the attending physician's face growing grave as they prepped for emergency surgery. The clinic did not have ultrasounds then, no way to see the full extent of the damage. Just X-rays that showed the damage.

Carlisle had watched as they extracted the artifact piece by piece. Each blade they removed could have nicked an artery, punctured through to her abdominal cavity. The surgeon had worked with agonizing slowness, his hands steady even as sweat beaded on his forehead. The girl had survived - barely - but the infection that followed nearly killed her.

Later, the attending had taken Carlisle aside. "Remember this," he'd said quietly. "Remember what desperation looks like. This was what it was like in '72."

That case wasn't the last. Each time, they'd worked without modern imaging – without the clarity that arose today, without knowing the full extent of the damage until they opened the patient up. Each time, they'd held their breath, hoping they could repair what desperation had wrought.

Carlisle pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to banish the memories. He wasn't sure what troubled him more - those long-ago cases, or the fact that his own son could be so cavalier about pressuring a woman into a medical procedure she didn't want. Even if it was safe now, even if it was legal - the choice had to be hers.

Medicine had taught him humility. Taught him that even after decades of practice, some questions didn't have easy answers.

Carlisle had seen life at its earliest stages. He had watched hearts flutter on ultrasounds at six weeks, and marvelled at seeing tiny fingers form. He'd held premature babies who fit in the palm of his hand and somehow survived. Most poignantly, as an oncologist: patients still in their infancy, or pregnant mothers struggling with an oncology treatment. The miracle of it never ceased to amaze him. But Carlisle had also seen the other side - the desperately ill mothers whose pregnancies were killing them. The fetuses with conditions incompatible with life. Medicine wasn't black and white; it existed in shades of gray.

His hands trembled slightly as he poured himself a glass of water. Jane's situation was not medical necessity - it was his son trying to erase a mistake. The thought made his stomach turn uneasily.

A memory surfaced of a patient from his rotations, shortly after Roe. She had had four children already and was living in poverty. When she'd come to the hospital seeking an abortion, Carlisle had struggled with his role in it.

That was what bothered him most about Edward's reaction - the callousness of it. The way he spoke of it like a simple solution. Whatever his personal feelings about when life began, Carlisle knew one thing with certainty: no one had the right to pressure a woman into an abortion she didn't want. Not even his son.

He glanced at his watch. Almost time for rounds. He'd seen too much in his career to judge women for their choices. But he'd also seen too much to stand by while his son strong-armed a young woman into a decision she might regret for the rest of her life.

Rising from his desk, Carlisle felt every one of his fifty-nine years. He'd need to call Edward back later.

December 2013

Carlisle stood in the doorway of Edward and Bella's Boston apartment, observing the scene before him with quiet contentment. The small space was cluttered but cozy - medical textbooks stacked on the coffee table, a well-worn copy of Grapes of Wrath propped on the windowsill, Bella's wheelchair positioned neatly by the couch. Pancake, their orange tabby, was curled up in a patch of winter sunlight.

Something had settled in Edward over the past year. The raw anger that had defined his teenage years had mellowed into a focused intensity. Carlisle watched as his son moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, reaching for mugs in the cabinet while keeping one eye on Bella's movements. The way Edward anticipated her needs without hovering - it was the kind of unconscious grace that came from genuine love.

Carlisle watched as laughter crinkled the corners of Edward's eyes - the same eyes as William Cullen IV, but warmed by something his grandfather's never held. In profile especially, Edward was his grandfather's mirror image: that aristocratic nose, the sharp jaw, those features that had opened so many doors for the Cullen men across generations.

"Coffee, Dad?" Edward called over his shoulder.

"Please." Carlisle settled into the armchair, smiling as Pancake immediately abandoned his sunspot to hop into his lap. The cat had grown plump and affectionate in the months since they'd rescued him.

From the kitchen came the sounds of domestic life - mugs clinking, the coffee maker gurgling, Bella humming softly as she moved between counter and fridge. Carlisle felt the familiar ache in his chest that came with thoughts of Elizabeth, but today it was gentler. She would have loved this - their son happy, building a life with someone who brought out his kindness.

Carlisle's hand brushed against the small velvet box in his pocket. Edward had asked him to bring it weeks ago, his voice tight with nervous excitement over the phone. Elizabeth's ring. The thought of it adorning Bella's finger felt right in a way that made Carlisle's throat tight.

There was a rustling from the kitchen as Bella opened the fridge. Her voice carried clearly with genuine irritation, tinged with playful accusation: "God, Edward, did you eat my cheesecake?"

"I didn't know it was yours, babe," he lied. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, Carlisle could see his son fighting a guilty smile.

"It had my name on it!" Bella protested. The fridge door closed with a soft thud. "In Sharpie. With a heart around it." She wheeled forward and elbowed him on the ribs. "I was really looking forward to it."

"I'll buy you another one," Edward promised, crossing to where Bella stood. He bent to kiss her temple, but she ducked away with a playful huff.

"From Mike's Pastry?" she pressed, her doe eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. "The one all the way across town?"

Edward groaned, but his expression was tender. "Yes, from Mike's. I'll go right now if you want."

"You don't have to go now," Bella relented, her mock outrage dissolving into giggles. She reached for his hand, tugging him back when he pretended to head for the door. "Your dad just got here."

Carlisle accepted his coffee from Edward, watching as his son settled on the couch. Bella followed after him. She curled into him automatically, and Edward's arm came around her shoulders with the easy intimacy of long practice. The ring felt heavier in Carlisle's pocket.

"How's the internship search going?" he asked, partly to distract himself from the surge of emotion seeing them together always provoked.

Edward's expression darkened slightly. "I'm going for Mass General," he said, his thumb absently stroking Bella's shoulder. "It's not my first choice, but..."

"All hospitals have good opportunities," Carlisle offered carefully, recognizing the familiar tension in Edward's jaw. "The surgical program is solid."

"But there's nothing quite like the name to boost your career," Edward muttered, and Bella squeezed his hand.

"And if none of it works," she said playfully, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from Edward's career anxieties, "your son has become quite the physical therapist." Her voice was warm with affection. "He's very disciplined," she added. "Almost anal-retentive," she teased, poking Edward's side.

Edward rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his pleased smile. "Someone has to make sure you do your stretches properly."

"He times them with a stopwatch," Bella told Carlisle, rolling eyes that were bright with affection. "Thirty seconds exactly for each position. God forbid I try to skip one."

"The hamstring stretches are important," Edward said seriously, though his lips twitched. "And you always try to rush through them."

"Because they're uncomfortable,"

"Which is exactly why you need to hold them longer," Edward countered, dropping a kiss on her head. "Proper stretching -"

"'Prevents muscle contractures,'" Bella finished in a passable imitation of Edward's voice. "I know, I know."

Carlisle watched their exchange with a growing warmth in his chest, with something akin to pure relief.

"He's worse than Dr. Ramirez," Bella continued, but her tone was full of love. "Last night he actually brought out a protractor to check the angle of my knee."

"I did not!" Edward protested, then paused. "...It was a goniometer."

"A goniometer is basically a protractor," Bella insisted, curling closer into Edward's side. Her eyelids were growing heavy - the afternoon sun and coffee making her drowsy.

"It's a specialized medical instrument," Edward corrected, but his mock-serious tone was undermined by the tender way he kissed her knuckles. Carlisle had seen that same gesture thousands of times growing up - his father straightening his mother's jewelry before galas, a practiced motion empty of real affection.

But Edward's fingers in Bella's hair were reverent, unconsciously gentle. When she yawned, he immediately shifted to accommodate her weight against him. "Tired?" he murmured, all thoughts of defending his medical instruments forgotten.

"Mmm. A little," she admitted. "But I want to be here with your Dad."

"I think he'll forgive you a nap," Edward said softly, already moving to help her up. "Come on, Bell. Let's get you comfortable."

Carlisle watched as his son supported Bella's weight with practiced care, one hand steady at her waist while the other grabbed her crutches.

"I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes," Bella protested through another yawn, but she let Edward guide her toward their bedroom.

"Take as long as you need, darling," Carlisle called after them, hiding his smile as Edward fussed over her like a mother hen. Carlisle's father would have found such obvious devotion embarrassingly sentimental. Carlisle's son tuck a blanket around Bella's shoulders, press a kiss to her temple, and whisper something that made her smile sleepily.

"Sleep, love," Edward murmured, and in that moment he couldn't have looked less like his grandfather if he tried.

The December air was crisp, their breath visible in small clouds as they walked down Commonwealth Avenue. Bare tree branches stretched overhead, dark against the pale winter sky.

Carlisle waited until they'd walked half a block before speaking. "Why did you ask for Jason Jenks's number?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual despite the unease that had been growing since Edward's call.

"I wanted to run some due diligence," Edward replied, hands in his pockets. "I made a good investment in an MIT startup, and I think I want to double the amount."

Something in Edward's careful tone made Carlisle slow his pace. "Which startup?"

"It's called Corvus. The founder's brilliant - he's developing surveillance technology using drones." Edward's voice took on an eager edge that reminded Carlisle uncomfortably of William Cullen IV discussing business ventures. "The returns have been incredible. I put in 100k initially, but Felix - that's the founder - thinks we could triple our money if we go in deeper now."

"Felix who?" Carlisle asked, his physician's instincts picking up warning signs in his son's slightly too-rehearsed explanation.

"Felix Musgrave. He's working with Demetri Vanderboss."

Carlisle stopped walking entirely. "Vanderboss," he repeated. The name carried weight in certain circles - none of them particularly savory. "Edward, how much are you planning to invest?"

"Two million," Edward said. His jaw set in that stubborn way that was pure Elizabeth. "Dad, I know what I'm doing. The technology has serious potential-"

"For what?" Carlisle interrupted sharply. "What exactly does this surveillance technology do?"

Edward's silence was answer enough. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped. He took a breath to repeat a well-rehearsed elevator pitch. "Felix invented new efficiencies in aerospace engineering so that the little engine is just as potent as in a vehicle several times as large. They can cover a wider range of mileage and gather more granular data than a satellite."

"Does Bella know about this investment?" Carlisle asked quietly.

The way Edward's shoulders stiffened told him everything he needed to know.

Carlisle pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture Edward had inherited. "Son, if you feel you need to hide this from her-"

"I'm not hiding it," Edward cut in, defensive. "I just haven't found the right time to tell her. She's been stressed about her mother's diagnosis, and..." He trailed off, hands clenching in his pockets. "Look, it's just business. It has nothing to do with us."

"Everything you do has something to do with your relationship," Carlisle said quietly. "Especially financial decisions of this magnitude. Especially if you want to get married."

"Christ, you sound just like Emmett," Edward snapped. His pace quickened, forcing Carlisle to lengthen his stride. "I'm trying to secure our future. The trust fund interest isn't enough-"

"Enough for what?" Carlisle interrupted. "Do you need money? Son, if it's about that, I can send you whatever you need.

"We're OK. We're just OK. We don't need anything else."

"The apartment you have is lovely. Bella's never cared about-"

"This isn't about what Bella cares about," Edward said, his voice taking on that cold edge that reminded Carlisle too much of William. "It's about what she deserves. What our children will deserve. I need to be able to provide-"

"By investing in military surveillance technology?" Carlisle's tone was gentle but firm. "Son, I've seen where this road leads. Your grandfather-"

"Don't." Edward's face hardened. "This is different. Felix is developing technology that could save lives in disaster zones, help with search and rescue-"

"Then why haven't you told Bella?" Carlisle watched his son flinch. "You know exactly what she'd say about this."

"Because she doesn't understand how the world works!" Edward burst out, then immediately looked stricken. "I didn't mean- She's just... she's idealistic. She sees everything in black and white."

"And you're seeing everything in dollar signs," Carlisle said softly. "Edward, you don't need to become William Cullen to be worthy of her."

"Not worthy," Edward said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "I don't think I'm unworthy, Dad. That's bad psychoanalysis crap. I just want to protect her."

Carlisle sighed, heart cracking as it suddenly became clear. "Protect her from what, sweetheart?"

He shifted closer to his son. "From what?" he repeated, putting a hand on his boy's shoulders.

Edward shrugged his shoulders, and waved his hands, at a loss. "I don't know, Dad. Life. She's … she's, Dad, she's so fragile – and when I fucking say that people think I mean physically, and yeah, that too, but she's…She's the kindest person I know, and the most sensitive one, and I'm not saying that because I'm in love with her. I just want to have all the – I guess, the ability, the power to protect her. And in the world we live in, money is power."

"All the money in the world couldn't have saved Mom. All the money in the world couldn't bring her back, couldn't undo what happened."

"Cut the psychoanalysis crap. This is completely different."

"Is it?" Carlisle asked hesitantly, twisting the velvet box in his fingers. "Son, maybe you should talk to someone – "

"I've been talking anti-depressants for years."

"And God forbid you should stop without a psychiatrist," Carlisle said, sharp with fear. "But maybe you should talk to someone – "

"Have you talked to someone?" Edward retorted insolently, and Carlisle bit the inside of his cheek.

"We're talking about you."

Father and son reached Black Bay and wove through its streets, until the Charles River glittered under the lights, and Carlisle buried his hands in his pockets.

"Why are you doing it?" Carlisle inquired, quiet and incisive. "You mentioned Isabella is one motivation. Why else? What else?"

Edward could not answer.

December 2014

Edward opened the door to his Springfield duplex looking half-dead, still wearing his surgical scrubs from the hospital, his hair a disheveled mess from repeatedly running his hands through it. The rings under his eyes were dark enough to look like bruises.

"Dad," Edward managed hoarsely, stepping aside to let Carlisle in.

Carlisle couldn't help the sharp wave of betrayal he felt from Isabella, the ice-cold blade of fear sliding across his throat.

The apartment was dark and freezing - Edward hadn't turned on the heat. Empty coffee cups littered every surface, alongside untouched takeout containers. Carlisle noticed his son's white coat crumpled on the floor where he'd dropped it, surgical textbooks scattered across the coffee table.

"Edward," Carlisle said softly, taking in his son's haggard appearance. The boy had a hollow, haunted look in his eyes. In that moment, Carlisle saw both the broken sixteen-year-old who'd lost his mother and the shattered twenty-seven-year-old who'd lost the love of his life.

Except, of course, Edward had not cried when Elizabeth died.

"I'm fine," Edward said automatically, but his voice cracked on the words. "I have to review these cases for tomorrow. I fell behind today because I couldn't-" He gestured vaguely at the textbooks, his hands shaking. "I couldn't focus during rounds and McClenna said-"

"Edward," Carlisle interrupted gently. "When's the last time you slept?"

Edward ran a trembling hand through his hair, making it stand up even worse. "I don't- I have to work. I have to-" His voice broke completely this time, and Carlisle stepped forward just as his son's legs seemed to give out.

"I've got you," Carlisle murmured, catching Edward as he crumpled. Edward's whole body was shaking with the force of suppressed sobs. "I've got you, son."

"I fucked up," Edward choked out against his father's shoulder. "Dad, I fucked up. I lost her."

"I know," Carlisle said softly, holding his son tighter as Edward finally broke down. He stroked his son's hair comfortingly. "I know."

They stood like that in the dark apartment, Carlisle supporting most of his son's weight as Edward sobbed - the kind of raw, gut-wrenching cries Carlisle had expected but not heard fifteen years earlier. All he could do was hold on, letting Edward's grief pour out in waves, his own heart breaking for both his children - the son in his arms and the daughter who'd finally reached her breaking point.

"Let's get you to bed," Carlisle said gently when Edward's sobs had quieted to shuddering breaths. "Everything else can wait."

Edward didn't resist as Carlisle guided him to the bedroom, didn't protest as his father helped him out of his scrubs and into sleep clothes like he was a child again. He curled up on his side, looking small and lost in the big empty bed.

"Stay?" Edward whispered, in a voice so vulnerable it made Carlisle's chest ache.

"Of course," Carlisle said, settling next to him. "I'm not going anywhere."