Twilight 1. The Washing Line

Disclaimer - None of the characters belong to me. T_he Twilight_ saga belongs to Stephanie Meyer and her affiliates and I make no profit from these stories. This applies to all of the chapters.

Author's note:

It seemed really odd to me that Carlisle would buy Esme an island. Yes, he is generous but the purchase of an island seems so out of character. Thus I decided to give him a legitimate reason to do so in this **chapter** story. I took a little artistic license when writing, only with small details. In _BD_ it says he bought her it as a gift – no mention of honeymoon, as there is in some sources – so I'm going to accept that as canon and run with it.

Finally I'd like to say that I do love reviews. Reviews are good for writers and I am grateful for them. I am also relatively new to this, so they help.

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1952

He sighed a little, pulling the windows closed as the dazzling sun danced across Cincinnati. The house was reclusive enough that it meant there was no chance of being seen by an outsider however it did mean that he had phoned the hospital and excused himself from his shift under the pretence of debilitating flu; there was no escaping the rare sun. He was spared a large serving of guilt though because he had no surgeries scheduled for the day ahead, and instead had planned to be cooped up in his office catching up on the abundance of paper work which seemed to haunt him and preparing his lectures for the coming week. With a resigned sigh he realised he could do that here and, with this in mind, turned round to make his way to his study. At least he could rope Edward into helping him with the lectures in particular - considering he could not attend school today either - and maybe Rose would grace them with her presence to criticise their work. He laughed lightly, thinking of his daughter's harsh criticism of anything and everything that they came up with for his lectures on anatomy; she simply enjoyed riling them and while she achieved this with Edward, Carlisle simply indulged her and wrote what he wanted to anyway.

The sweet, melodious humming of his wife caught him off guard though as he trod the familiar path to his study and he directly changed his course, following her voice instead. She was humming what would be considered an old tune now, but to him it felt as fresh and familiar as it had in 1922. They had danced to it once, in the beautiful ballroom of the ship on the transatlantic crossing to their honeymoon. He remembered the wonder that graced her delightful face as she had stepped onto the dreary docks at Southampton. If he had given in to her, they would have remained in London the entire time and never moved on to Paris or Venice as intended. She had loved the miserable weather, meaning they could go out all day and not be afraid of the sun exposing them as the creatures they were. But even more than the rain, his wife loved the sun on those rare times where she could enjoy it unimpeded.

She was standing at the large oak table in the kitchen, her back facing him, the kitchen doors thrown open as the sunlight danced in to their home. She was swaying to the tune she was humming, her foot tapping lightly against the tiled floor. She looked, he allowed himself to think, like one of those magazine's covers that the girls bought in abundance. Tiny little waste, a fully skirt that seemed more problematic than it was worth when he watched her don thick tulle underskirts each morning, pretty heels which accentuated her legs. She looked lovely. His wife always looked lovely but at times, he would have said she was desirable rather than simply lovely. This moment was one such occasion.

Before her, on the table, there were piles of damp clothing. Having three boys who were utterly careless and two girls who were utterly frivolous meant piles and piles of never-ending laundry. He walked up behind her and, reaching around her waist, reached for the first thing he laid his hands on; one of his work shirts. While Alice despised their wearing the same clothing more than once, he absolutely refused to allow such utter wastefulness in his home. This was one of his favourite shirts and Alice simply hated it.

"Ohh!"

She let out a little squeal and turning round, smiled her dazzling smile. He kissed her forehead quickly, then with simple relish, joined her in her task.

"Absorbed in your task my dear?"

She made a hum of affirmation at the back of her throat and then continued.

He began folding the damp washing, moving to stand beside her. Despite his age tallying up into the hundreds, Carlisle was far from chauvinistic in his approach to domestic work within their home. She was as equal to him in his mind, and if she did not appear to be the coven leader, it was simply because she did not want to be. His decisions were always made on the advice of his wife and they were always the right ones to make because of this. She kept their home beautifully, but if she had demanded he order her servants, or indeed she demanded he do every chore himself, he would have complied with her wishes simply to make her happy.

Esme smiled at him sweetly as she watched his hands folding one shirt after another, at a human pace. He felt pleased with her scrutiny and evident amusement.

"You are always so good at folding laundry," she sighed jokingly, "Almost half as much as your sons are good at _making_ laundry."

He lifted up one of Edward's blue shirts, "Yes, they are rather productive in that respect. Perhaps we should veto their tree climbing to save on torn trousers."

"And curb their energy," she said caustically, "How could we be so cruel?"

"Very easily," he held out a ripped pair of slacks, then threw them with ease into the bin, "Thank goodness Alice has a handle on the stock markets; they would exhaust our coffers within months with the number of trousers they ruin. I fear even my accumulated wealth could not support them for more than a decade at this rate."

She laughed lightly, returning the basket to its space beside the sink and dragging her hands down the pristine white apron that she wore over her dress.

He scooped the newly folded pile into his arm, nodding towards the little airing cupboard which she kept unseasonably warm in order to dry their clothing, "Would you like it hung in there my love?"

"No!" She exclaimed, "Carlisle look outside. It's a glorious, need I say unusual, day in Cincinnati. You cannot possibly underestimate the delight of clothes dried in the sun and wind. We shall go outside."

He laughed at her passion, perplexed by the utter excitement that such a simple pleasure could create in his wife.

"Come on," she scooped the other pile into her arms, which was almost the same colour as her delightfully pale skin, "Let's make the most of it."

Their garden was vast, and the outlying forest and countryside was even more expansive. The first half acre of garden was beautifully tended to by Esme but as the rest of it expanded it became less tame and more natural, leading them into the darkness of the woods.

"Oh Carlisle," she suddenly stopped half way down the path, "We have no washing line!"

He turned to look at her and trying as vainly as possible not to be dazzled by the sinister glittering of her skin, smiled pityingly. The childish disappointment on her face almost rendered him pained, and he felt immediately that the only way to solve it was improvised chivalry.

"A moment, my darling, then I will ensure you have what you need," he placed the washing in her arms and dashed towards the outhouse in which they kept their cars.

Rosalie had recently developed an interest in auto mobiles, after Emmett had purchased a very ostentatious, not to mention expensive, scarlet Chevy. Edward and Emmett were ensconced under the hood, staring at the internal workings of the car as Rosalie rooted about in a nearby toolbox. The garage was cool and dark and he was puzzled as to why they would be inside on a day like this. Unlike their father, they liked to be out in the sun because they were not irrationally frightened of being seen. Alice and Jasper had already made their excuses to the forest, most likely heading for the most isolated – and sun-soaked- spot they could find within a decent distance of the house.

"Look at that engine," Emmett whistled lowly, "Every time I – oh, hey Carlisle."

"Good morning," he began rooting around distractedly in the drawer to his left, "How are we?"

"Well," Edward's distracted answer made him suddenly aware of the scrutiny he was under form his three children. He looked up and smiled at them, still feeling around in the untidy drawer.

"Carlisle," Rosalie moved towards him, "What are you doing? You never come in here."

"Oh," he pulled out a rather musty ball of twine, "Looking for, and successfully finding, this!"

"Right, ok," Rose simply shrugged, dipping her head over the engine, "There must be a way to make it even faster Emmett."

He was pleased with his find, delighted that he could give her even the silliest of requests.

"Carlisle," Edward questioned, a laugh lacing his voice, "You're making a washing line?"

"Yes," he answered, holding out the twine, "Esme wants to hang the abundance of washing outside."

Edward pulled a face, "How the sun meddles with even the most serious of minds."

"You old romantic," Emmett cuffed him on the shoulder, "I think it is very decent Carlisle."

"Thank you Emmett," he laughed as he dashed out, "Bare in mind it is for your clothes!"

He found her exactly as he had left her only a minute before, her hands outstretched under the bundle of washing. He went to a far away oak and began wrapping the twine at speed around the trunk, then when he was satisfied with his initial work, moved over to the little hooks on which her hanging baskets hung on either side of the kitchen doors, and tied it there too. It stretched across the entire garden; giving her a lengthy washing line. She smiled brightly at him, then offered him his original pile.

"I have a vague recollection," she said softly as they began unfurling the bright clothes over the line, "Of running through swathes of washing on the farm, in my human life. It was near the orchard."

He smiled gently at her, "Your recollections are vivid. I know that nothing in London was as..." he held up a bright white sleeve, "Clean."

She giggled, "Mmmm, it is next to Godliness apparently. That is why I always keep your clothes so sparkling; reflecting your true personality."

He tried to hide his embarrassment at such a truly blasphemous, but genuine, compliment. At times he could not feel further from God if he tried but Esme often made him feel a little more legitimate in his belief that there was something else after this.

He tried for another tact, mimicking Edward,"Sun has the most bizarre effect on some people."

Having already finished her task, and stepping back to admire the now full line, watched as he threw his last garment over the twine, "I do miss the sun so very much Carlisle."

"I know darling," he smiled, rubbing his now damp hands on his trousers, "Let us enjoy it today then."

"Really?"

Carlisle was, by his nature, a conservative man. In comparison to the rest of his dear family, perhaps with the exception of Jasper, he remained amusingly archaic. Even at that, Alice's very liberal modernity had worked to soften Jasper's antiquity quite a bit, brining him into each decade with an ease that Carlisle personally believed he himself could never achieve. He would always be older and more serious; not only because of his assumed role but because of his vintage and his naturally grave character. However he would never have believed that the human Carlisle, or even the vampire of 100 years ago, would have given into the urge to begin chasing his wife through the laundry as he did now. He chased after her as she dashed, weaving in and out of the shirts and pants on the line, her laughter echoing over the ancient trees as her curls bounced on the alabaster skin of her back. Her delight was unparalleled as he finally reached her - she was slower than him and the most delicate runner in the family - pulling her to him and then tumbling on to the soft ground. Against the grass her skin was sparkling pearl, beautiful in its exoticism. She cried a little as he pulled her to lie on him, their chests pressed at an odd angle.

"You do not tackle a woman to the ground," she admonished playfully, "It is improper. You of all immortals should know this Carlisle."

He laughed at her teasing, "Even if the woman is my wife?"

"Even more so," she laughed, curling against him in the loveliest of embraces. She released a contented sigh, turning her head to look once again at the drying laundry as it fluttered in the breeze.

"I miss something else too, you know."

Carlisle was not exaggerating when he reflected on the fact that he literally loved everything his wife had to say. Despite this though, he hated when her rhapsodies began with the statement of inherent loss - those things which her immortality had deprived her of. She rarely indulged in conversation about what she missed from her human life but when she did he felt terribly, deeply guilty. He had never told her this. Not because he was duplicitous but because to tell her would have been incredibly selfish of him. If he told her she would, inevitably, stop sharing her thoughts with him. That would hurt even more than to hear her say what she missed. To her, he knew, these conversations were inconsequential but to him they were stored in a part of his memory reserved only for the things his darling wife missed. He had started banking these losses not long after he had sunk his teeth into the soft skin of her neck. It was his atonement. After all, he had conjectured, he was fully to blame for the fact she had to miss them at all.

In 1921 she had wept, so painfully, over her miss of the little baby boy. In the same year she had screamed at him that she missed death. He had been prostrate with horror. In 1924 she told him she missed dreaming, as she lay pressed to him in the bed they shared. In 1930 she had missed Edward so badly that she receded into herself. In 1935 she guiltily confessed how her locket, a gift from him, had accidentally snapped on a hunt and how much she missed it. In 1945 she had told him how she missed sleeping.

Even he believed he missed things from his human life, though he could not really remember any of it. His love for the smell of waxy, acrid church candles and his desire for knowledge had definitively come from his human existence. He felt deeply that he missed the kiss of the sun, or the taste of wine. Esme's recollections, while vague, were still legitimate misses and he had stolen them from her. He had no right to ask her not to share them with him and no right to tell her how awful it felt to be reminded of the fact that he had deprived her of those simple things. The only way he saw fit to atone for this theft was to find a way to give her whatever she missed back.

The baby boy he could not give back to her, but their family which had grown around them offered her an outlet for motherly affection. He could take no credit for this, though he would be ignoring a glaring truth if he did not acknowledge to himself that a part of him, in transforming Rosalie, was trying to give her what she yearned for. It was not the same; his child would never grow in her belly, but it lessened the miss, he knew. Then she had, in a fit of fury that same year, told him how she had wanted death. He had offered, gallantly and with the selflessness of the damned, to end it for her. His offer had sent her spiralling out of control and then suddenly she had regained herself, as if shedding the cloak of a newborn and becoming a full vampire. He cringed to think of it even now. With Esme he had been a terrible creator and an even worse teacher; he had already been inextricably in love with her. Her whisper of longing, regarding her dreams, had driven him to study and research and devise a sort of lucid dreaming (suddenly in vogue with the psychoanalysts of the present) which he practised religiously with her until they could lie side by side and experience a dream state. He had passed this on to the children. Edward's absence, so out of Carlisle's control that it had rendered him frustrated with how ineffectual he was, had been much harder to give back to her. He had simply tried to be as attentive, as loving, as _there_ as possible. He would never truly say he had given her back what she had missed then but he had tried with all his might to be a worthy substitute. He had been more successful with her locket - a honeymoon gift originally - and had it replaced to be doubly more opulent, this time hewn in platinum, though absolutely identical in terms of design, to the original. She never removed the chain from around her neck. Sleep he could not give her, no matter what he did, but as they lay dreaming he could be with her. He did all that he could to relax any mental fatigue she might experience (he knew all too well their kind did experience this) and he would light candles and turn down comforters and lay silent and quiet for as long as possible, holding her, to create the calm that sleep brought for mortals.

So, in essence, he had experienced limited success when it came to giving her what she missed. In fact, absolutely minimal success would have been a justifiable description of his attempts. He sighed a little, pushing an errant caramel curl back from her face.

"What my darling?"

"The beach," she answered wistfully, "Walking in the sun, sand under my toes, waves lapping at my ankles. The waves fighting me as I dove into them. Not that I went to the beach often, or that I was a particularly excellent swimmer. Still..."

He felt overcome with sadness, but smiled nonetheless.

"I can vaguely remember going to Lake Erie, with my parents, just before I married Charles. I think I remember a sense of foreboding, like it was the only time I would be free to walk on the beach again. It's strange how that came true."

"You paint a glorious picture," he whispered, "I could build you a swimming pool, right where we are lying, if it pleases you?"

She laughed a little, "No! What a crazy idea. This has been the only sunny day this year. Not that I don't appreciate it my darling, because I do, but it's not the same. Don't you miss it?"

"I cannot say I do," he answered honestly, "No one went to the beach in 1640. The only beach remotely near London was Brighton or Dover, neither of which were particularly picturesque. I honestly do not think swimming had been invented!"

She laughed at his silliness, then rolled to lie flat on her back. She stretched her hand out and flexed her fingers towards his. She tipped her head to look at him curiously.

"Carlisle, have you never walked along a beach in the sun?"

"No, never."

He felt suddenly as if he was missing out on something too. He had strolled along the beaches of Italy in beautiful moonlight, and taken wanders around Cape Cod in stormier weather, but he had never experienced the calm serenity and heat of a summer beach quite as she so eloquently described it. It had simply never been possible. He had read many descriptions, and saw many paintings, but he had never experienced it. He had never wanted to. Esme made him want to do things he had never wanted to do before; it was oddly disconcerting.

"You don't know what you are missing," she said sweetly, tilting her face up to the sun then towards the washing line, "Thank you for my beautiful washing line!"

He laughed at her natural ability to bring conversation back round to inanity, a skill he had serious trouble with, and made to stand up. Though she did not need it, gentlemanly as always, he offered his hand, which she took with that shy smile that was so entirely unique to her.

"I solemnly swear to you that I will take you to the beach, so you might feel all of that again," he said seriously, wrapping his hand around hers.

She laughed, "What if someone sees us sparkle?"

"Esme," it was rolling around in his mouth before he could stop himself voicing the ridiculously sentimental words, "No one need see you in the sun to see how truly sparkling you are."

Never one to laugh at the gravity of his sentiment, she instead clutched his hand. Her voice was insistent;

"I need only you to be happy. No beach, no anything. You Carlisle."

On the odd occasion that her fierceness truly showed, his wife was transformed. Her golden eyes blazed, her ruby mouth delivered fury, her hands became claws. She was so fiercely loving that he found it difficult to comprehend. He may have been a loving though astute, and somewhat rigid, moral compass but nothing would ever compare to the breath taking love that Esme was capable of. She conveyed it in everything she did, and in saying this to him, he realised that he had underestimated how aware she was of what he was trying to do. It made him feel strangely humiliated.

"Forgive yourself Carlise," she said softly, "God knows I have. So must you. I don't need you to atone."

The irreverent blasphemy was beautiful from her mouth. He felt his embarrassment grow, then under her loving scrutiny, dissipate as suddenly as it came. He smiled sheepishly at her.

"I am so obvious?"

She shrugged a little, an entirely human gesture intended to convey her forgiveness, "Utterly. It's very attractive."

"You are blind woman," he said softly, the tone teasing and very private. He would never have dared use such a tone towards her in ear-shot of any of the others.

"Perhaps," she led him inside, "And blissful, doctor. I have loved you since I was sixteen."

"Perhaps not blind; I suggest you are insane."

She placed a hand on his chest, her tone sobering him, "Perhaps the good doctor would stop fretting and analysing and be quiet and kiss me. The chase you set up was far too promising to end on such a low note. Don't ruin a lovely afternoon with your typical seriousness."

He merely laughed and, as was his wont, indulged her request.

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	2. A Half-Formed Thought

Thank you for your reviews on the previous chapter. I am vying for a more light-hearted tone in this story, since most others I write are decidedly maudlin but I'm yet to decide if I'm really good at this tone. Like everyone else, I love reviews so please indulge me if you like!

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The thoughts of those indulgent kisses, and the admittedly frustrating fact that they had led to nothing more since Edward and Emmett saw fit to interrupt them on a quest to find a car manual, had plagued him all evening. He hated these roguish thoughts - even after nearly thirty years of marriage. Even within the confines of matrimony, sacred and honest, he found himself embarrassed at times regarding just how much he wanted her. He would be on his rounds, a chart perched in his hand and making polite conversation with one of the residents, when he would suddenly imagine her face or hands or something far less innocent and desire would drown him in a pool of lust. It had not let up and it was the same feeling he had often unwittingly shared with Edward, accompanied by infuriatingly lewd images, in the first year Esme had been with them. Sometimes it frightened him in its intensity.

"Carlise, do you want me to finish up there?"

He realised he had paused over the open cavity a fraction longer than he typically would and William, his unusually astute colleague, had noticed. He had, oddly, been picturing her in one of those fashionable swim-wear two pieces. One of the caddish residents had hung up a picture of a famous actress wearing one in the men's locker room. He found the image itself rather distasteful, but the thought of his wife in one of those garments would simply not leave his mind. And he was angry at himself for it.

Carlisle looped the needle downwards, finishing the sutures off.

"Not at all," he smiled at the other doctor, "Just sluggish."

"Well, you have worked 14 hours with no break," William offered.

In any other profession this fact would have created suspicion; in medicine it was just a fact of the occupation. He wondered how his colleague would react if he told him he had clocked 48 hour shifts during the height of the flu pandemic. Probably a shrug and a laugh of shared camaraderie and stress before realising he was a little too fresh looking to have been around then. Of course, this job was not doing to him what it was inevitably doing to the men he worked with daily. It was not greying him prematurely or expanding his waistband by the year. The stress and exhaustion did not drive him to the bottom of a bottle or the arms of a woman who was not his wife. These men were the norm among the jaded and exhausted men he worked with. The men who dealt with it better took pleasure in their pricey suburban houses and happy wives and long, annual exotic vacations to places like The Gulf Coast and Miami.

At this, a thought occurred to him. It would be impossible to take Esme to a normal beach but he was determined to give her a beach nonetheless. He was reminded of his companion in the room and realised his silence had been protracted as he asked;

"William, where did you holiday this year?"

His fellow surgeon fell in to the latter category, those who were exhausted but happy, and Carlisle liked this about him. He did not, as a rule, have friends but there was a camaraderie with William that he rather enjoyed. He was a good surgeon and a nice fellow and did not, like others, keep that self-preserving distance from him. He should have been alarmed by this but with William, it was not an alarming fact at all even though Carlisle's better judgement told him it should be.

"Miami! It was excellent," his companion nodded to their patient, now fully closed up, "I'll tell you as we scrub down."

"Seems like an odd thing for you to be interested in Carlisle," William said, finishing his enthusiastic speech about his vacation with this observation.

Carlisle watched as he shook his hands out, the droplets of water decorating the steel basin below. His colleague passed him a paper towel and he smiled in agreement.

"I suppose it is," he answered, "I just wanted to surprise Esme, but it sounds a tad tough logistically."

As Carlisle expected, the other man misinterpreted him.

"Nonsense! Your kids are old enough to mind themselves. Right enough, with skin so pale, Miami won't be the best for you."

Little did he know, Carlisle thought wryly.

"Well, that is true."

"Mrs Cullen must need a break though, huh? Five teenagers! My two are only young and I am dreading it," William laughed jovially, "Gluttons for punishment. Have you read the Lancet this month? There's a fascinating article on..."

Carlisle rarely used his ability to look as if he were deeply engaged and was, in fact, completely and utterly disengaged. He found it rude and discourteous and would never use it unless he really needed to. This time though it was genuine excitement that was making him employ this entirely vampiric tactic. Though the idea of actually buying her a beach swung on a pendulum between completely and utterly indulgent and entirely possible as he considered it, he found himself excited by the fact that he was actually entertaining the possibility at all because it was entirely in contrast to his typical character.

He could, if he wanted to, buy his wife her sun and her beach and freedom to sparkle. He was incredibly lucky in this respect.

Carlisle had purchased innumerable properties over the years. They had though, he ruminated as he drove his reserved and sleek Ford home, been very justified. An entire beach,a half-formed thought which had occurred to him while he scrubbed down, was something else entirely. Where did one even purchase a beach? If he was to do it, it had to be near good hunting land. Could you buy a beach? Was it not the most indulgent, ridiculous thing he had ever considered?

The task seemed suddenly, and disappointingly, insurmountable. He pulled up the car, striding the stairs to the house and leaving his bag on the table by the door. He could not smell her scent and was momentarily disappointed. He thought seeing her might put the ridiculous thought out of his head. It may make him realise how utterly absurd the idea of actually buying her a beach was. Esme's presence could always be counted on to sweep him up in something entirely, so he would forget the niggling suggestion at the back of his mind. No such luck today it appeared.

"Esme and Rose are hunting," Edward said from the top of the oak stairs, "You aren't really going to buy her a beach, are you? What a gushing romantic."

Edward was both disgusted and amused, if his tone and smirk were any indication. He came down the stairs, just as Alice jumped over them and slid down the banister. Carlisle winced as she did so because Esme became rather irritated when they did that.

"_Don't do that_, I know," she smiled wickedly, "Your island is beautiful. It has to be an island, you'll soon discover, because it is so much harder to buy a beach. And an island is infinitely more private."

He shook his head, "I am not actually _going_ to purchase it."

Alice's visions were so changeable but he knew one thing for definite; once it had been decided, it remained unalterable in its finality, no matter how that finality manifested itself. He supposed he had already decided that he was going to buy her a beach, even though every fiber of his conservative being balked against the idea.

They walked to the parlour together, Alice twirling on the tips of her toes as they did so. Edward headed straight for the Steinway, up-keeping the old tradition of playing something for Carlisle every time he returned from work.

_Something of your own_, he requested silently. Edward smiled, hands poised over the ivories, and began one of his first compositions. It was imperfect, not like his work now, but that was precisely why it was one of Carlisle's favourites. He had written it around the time Esme arrived in their life. It was the entr'acte to his marriage.

"She's going to love it!" Alice sang along with the melody, "I wish I could show you but it'll ruin the surprise!"

"An island?" He asked dubiously, "It does seem like a much more...viable option."

He thought of the practicalities of an island in comparison to a beach on a mainland. An island would be good to offer isolation, enough wild-life in between to replenish itself sufficiently between visits. It would be safe for them. It would be fully self-sustaining and out of the way.

Edward chortled behind him, "My, Carlisle! the banality of your considerations! If it was Emmett considering such a purchase, his internal thoughts would never be as clean."

Carlisle frowned at his son.

"Carlisle is a gentleman," Alice jumped to his defense, opening the large maple map drawer in the corner of the room.

_Who is better at hiding his thoughts from you_, he grumbled silently, eliciting a sly smile from Edward's lips.

She rifled through their numerous maps and pulled out an unblemished one. With a red marker,she started doodling little crosses on different parts, smiling contentedly. Carlisle watched with bemusement and puzzled as to why she simply didn't just tell him where to look.

"She thinks it'll be more fun," Edward answered his question, "And more romantic this way."

He simply nodded, observing his daughter as she delighted in the intrigue. Would Esme really want an Island? Wouldn't she think it a little...ostentatious? Vulgar even?

"Are you kidding?" Edward stopped playing, "You say to Esme; "Let's go away for 2 weeks without the disastrous forever-teenagers who we have willingly allowed to grow like carbuncles on our stone hearts," and you think she's going to balk at the idea? "Oh and by the by dear, I bought you your own island. _Isle Esme_ if you will, it's all yours. You can finally enjoy the sun." Even Esme isn't as righteous as you Carlisle, she likes a bit of luxury now and then."

Carlisle was not sure whether to be offended by his son's very accurate mockery of his real, classically English accent which he reserved only for his home, or whether to be offended. He opted for the former for ease of conversation.

"You have such a way with words Edward," Alice said dryly, lifting her head from her task to roll her eyes at the boy in question. She turned to Carlisle then, "Of course she's going to love it. I've saw her reaction...it's beautiful! Trust me?"

When had he ever doubted Alice? He marveled for a moment at how they had just had a conversation, all three of them, without Carlisle uttering a word. It was bizarre living with these teenagers, as Edward so caustically put it, but not for the reasons others might initially think.

"But it is so indulgent," he finally said, noting to his own surprise that already his tone carried defeat.

His reluctance did not come from his unwillingness to spoil his wife, though both coming from a time when it was not typical to spoil one's spouse materialistically they tended to be far less inclined than those around them, but from a deep-seated belief that mere materialism to illustrate love was cheap. He would far rather spend time with her than spend money on her. If that was what Esme wished for, he had more than enough money in his personal bank account alone to ensure her continued pleasure for a million life times. He doubted though its true value and instead would far rather make time to be with her, doing silly things like chasing her through the billowing washing. He knew that Esme would have lived the far less comfortable life of a nomad if it had meant they could simply be together.

And there was something else, of course, but he was unwilling to even acknowledge that fear. He swallowed it. To show this worry to Edward would be indescribably embarrassing and so he suppressed it.

"Of course," Edward sighed with exasperation as he closed the lid of the piano with reverent gentleness, his face strangely unreadable, "She much prefers your time! But even I know, in my admittedly limited experience, that a woman likes to be spoiled once in a while. As selfless as Esme or not. And Carlisle, I hate to expand on the obvious but having a break would not be a bad thing for you either."

He nodded, realising the futility of his argument and the fair point that she might like him to be so indulgent once a century. Perhaps it was her constant thanking him which put him off buying her an island. He did not at all want her to feel that she was beholding to him. In his mind it was quite the opposite.

Alice seemed so sure though. The rub lay in his unwillingness and worry, not in her vision.

He smiled sedately, closing off the entire thought process for a moment, slipping the map she had presented him into his pocket.

"Perhaps we could call on Jasper and join them in the hunt?"

He looked to them both for an answer.

"You are going to pretend," Alice said knowingly, "That you're thinking it over. You're not, it's already decided."

"Thank you Alice," he muttered ruefully, shaking his head, "You have made that abundantly clear."

She merely giggled, folding her arm in his, "Don't be such a grouch old man."

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Please R&amp;R. Thank you for reading.


	3. A Man of Business

**Thank you so much for the reviews. They truly are very encouraging and I love reading them. Please keep reading and reviewing! I am glad you are enjoying it.**

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In the early twentieth century it had been fashionable to have a 'man in business' to deal with your stocks and shares and speculations. He had been successful with this method at for a number of years. However the twentieth century had also ushered in an entirely different problem for him too. There was suddenly so much more bureaucracy, technology and efficiency. Within the matter of a decade, between the Titanic floundering and the Great War ending, the world became infinitely smaller. People simply communicated more efficiently; a newspaper in Washington reported a crime in LA suddenly, the telegraph was king, then bested by the telephone, and governments were more able to keep track of their population. The world simply shrunk and a smaller world presented a far bigger danger to him. He had, in his necessity to remain anonymous, had to find a way to keep ahead of those who might be more curious than your typical human.

His man in business, now well into his seventies, had been handy for this. He was not someone who readily asked questions, and perhaps Carlise would have been alarmed by this in other circumstances, but for the dealings they had it was convenient. His man in business was willing to retain his silence, and offer advice and do as he was bid, because Carlisle Cullen was lining his pockets to run a limited company which only existed to own property and hold bonds in a complex, and illegal, set-up which ensured he was able to inherit his own money and investments over and over again.

It was, to Carlisle's mind, an unseemly but necessary element of the world he chose to be part of. His man in business had long retired and his son, a little more palatable and kind by comparison, now dealt with Carlisle. With Alice's gift they didn't need to speculate at all, and the ticker tape machine gathered miles of positivity in its place in the corner of the cellar before anyone bothered to check it, so the man of business acted as a conduit now; a go-between for documents and real-estate. Jasper had found a lawyer in Seattle though, who aided them at times too, and through him Jasper had acquired the latest passports.

He picked up the phone and dialled the number from memory.

"Hello? James Allison speaking."

It was a private line, as Mr Allison reserved for all of his best customers, and the silence crackled for a moment. The hospital was quiet; there had been only a few patients to see to, and it was far better to phone from his office here where he could be guaranteed a privacy which simply didn't exist at home.

"Hello Mr Allison."

"Aha! Dr Cullen," the man on the line answered, "Are you well?"

"Yes," he responded, "Very well in fact. I am looking to purchase another property..."

He stared at the map before him and once again considered how truly bizarre this was.

"Yes," the voice on the phone answered confidently, "Somewhere on the Eastern seaboard? It is your area of choice. Or the Midwest? How about Alaska? Back to Washington perhaps?"

Carlisle had to resist the rising panic he felt at the curiosity in the other man's voice.

"Ah, no actually. This request is going to seem a little out of place."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he smiled, despite the absolute realisation of how ludicrous this truly was, "I want to purchase an island."

The man on the other end coughed a little and then began. Good, he thought rather sardonically to himself, it is possible.

~o~

"Off the coast of Brazil?"

Emmett bent low over the map, his massive finger prodding the little dot, "You are full of constant surprises doc."

"Is it too extravagant?"

Even though the money had been transferred and the deeds signed in his own ancient script, the niggling doubt remained. It was one of the few purchases he had made under his own name rather than under an alias or under his limited company. It felt right to put it in his own name - even though that would present serious issues of inheritance in the future.

Rosalie snorted in her typical manner, "Yes! But that is the point. Why have all that money and nothing to do with it? Plus, Esme deserves it. By the by, can we use it when you grow tired of it?"

"Rosalie, I do not plan on us staying forever," he answered, folding up the map, "One hopes we will not tire of it. You may use it, of course, when we return..."

He was childishly protective of the entire project and wished, just for a moment, that not all of the children knew about it. Of course, Alice in particular could never keep anything to herself but he had wanted it to be as private as possible. He should have known better than to attempt to keep a surprise in his home.

"It's like one of those all inclusive holidays, huh? All you can eat?"Emmett looked about for confirmation of his joke, obviously not getting it, "You know like the humans go on. It's all the rage right now. No? Oh come on. Don't any of you listen to your class mates?"

He lifted his shoulders and emitted an unnecessary sigh, "When are you going?"

Carlisle had pencilled in a break from work in two weeks from now, which coincided rather nicely with their wedding anniversary, but he was reluctant to fully commit. What if she thoroughly hated it? What if he really disliked what he had done in this gesture? The administrator at the hospital had laughed and told him he was glad he was finally taking his holidays. He had smiled along but he felt a little off-balance. Did he really seem so intense that his colleagues noticed he never took time for himself?

"In 2 weeks," Edward answered for him and, before he could contradict him, "And Esme and Alice are back from town. I suspect you want to hide that."

Edward pointed smugly at the map.

Later that evening Carlisle pulled back the rich Egyptian cotton sheets, folding them onto the bottom of the bed distractedly, aware that the map was in his trousers that she had just folded neatly over the chair. She didn't notice, however, and began piling and pinning her hair onto her head as she sat before her dresser. It was silly really, readying themselves for sleep which would never come, but it gave them a sense of routine and time which could easily go awry in their life if they did not abide by it.

He had learned a great many number of things in his first few nights as a husband all those years ago. Some things he was yet to fully comprehend in all their wonder, others were far more mundane yet wonderful because of that very fact. He had learned the wonders of female nightwear and the distinct difference between cotton and silk. He had learned that she liked to press up against him with her back to his chest and her legs flush with his. Tonight she wore white cotton, gathering in swathes around her legs and her hair pulled back from her face. He had never owned pyjamas before Esme, but he had amassed quite a collection now for the bed time charade. A strange, wonderful little quirk of their marriage.

He pulled her to him, kissed her cheek and sighed his contentment as they lay down.

"I really do not mind that we climb into bed and have this routine for nothing," he mused, "It relaxes me."

"It is hardly 'for nothing'," she said playfully, and he would have blushed at her openness, "If I may remind you."

He laughed a little, assuring himself that it was acceptable to speak like this within the confines of their bedroom. It was hardly, he reasoned, an explicit conversation anyway. It had occurred to him today, before he swallowed the horror of his fear, that he was frightened of the entire concept of the island. He was frightened that the freedom and headiness of it all might shatter his carefully constructed facade where, on the whole and despite her vociferous encouragement, he remained entirely gentlemanly.

He had to work very hard not to give in to what he truly was when it came to his wife. There was always a constraint of some description; in the house it was the children, in hotels it was other guests, in the forest it was unwitting hikers. Somewhere, with just the two of them for miles, he was frightened that the animal in him might win over the gentleman. It was a balance on which the scales were tipping always and it was a balance he was petrified of losing. Esme was not, of course, physically breakable but it did not stop him from being frightened he might break her through sheer force of his desire. He shook the thought because it genuinely vexed him.

"You look pensive my love," she whispered softly, curling against him.

"Merely conjecturing," he answered, hating that the lie flowed from his tongue with ease, "What is the best gift you have ever been given?"

She did not even pause, used to his strange, quirky questions, "My life...my family."

He did not doubt the honesty of her words by the smallest fraction and her answer made him smile.

"And you did give me it, despite your unwillingness to believe me," she turned in his arms, "Why?"

"I was simply curious," he answered, placing a kiss on her forehead, "That aside, what is another one?"

"Oh," she thought seriously for a moment, "Do you remember, when I was just a newborn, you went into the city and you bought me a sketch pad and a set of charcoal? I hadn't spoken for days and I'm inclined to imagine that you were at your wits end with me and you could think of nothing else. It made me so happy and distracted me...for a while. I can still smell the charcoal."

She wrinkled her nose as if to prove a point.

He nodded, remembering it privately as one of the most frustrating and bleak periods of his life. Her sketches has been strange things back then; pages of flowers juxtaposed with furious, unfathomable scribbles. Portraits of him and Edward beside pages of black charcoal that had been rendered with such fury that the paper had ridges in it.

"Do you still have that book?"

"Yes, of course," she whispered, "It's beside all of your journals."

He smiled, thinking that he might take some of her sketches covertly and have them framed for the house which was currently being constructed on his newly acquired property. He had taken the liberty of pilfering one of his wife's blueprints from the 40s - one that was for pleasure rather than genuine design - and was having it turned into a reality on the island. She had yet to discover its absence from the collection of blueprints that were filed in the study, which relieved him to no end.

"Yours?"

She moved around a little, settling her face in the crook of his neck. It was hard to concentrate as he breath trickled down his neck.

"Ah," before Esme and Edward, he had been given few gifts of significance, "Probably the first piece of music Edward ever composed with me in mind. I still have his original staff paper, scribbles and all, on which it was composed."

"We are sentimental old fools, aren't we?"

She pressed a kiss to his earlobe, trailed her fingers through his blond hair.

"Just mentally," he laughed, "We look incredibly young besides."

"Yes," she smiled, "Yes you do look incredibly young doctor."

"As do you Mrs Cullen,"he kissed her neck, "What would you say we do an entirely human thing and go on a vacation in a few weeks?"

It tripped off his tongue casually; masking the fact he had been practising asking her for weeks now. She stalled to look at him, her hand coming to a pause on the top button of his pyjama shirt.

"Really?" She bit her lip, "What about the-"

"They are indestructible Esme," he chided gently, panicking that she might actually refuse him and the silly island would go unused and then he would be so embarrassed by the purchase that he would simply ignore its very existence.

"Yes," she laughed quietly, "But our house is not. I swear they've been sliding down the bannister again."

"Yes, they have," he laughed, "I admonished Alice for it a few days ago. If they do destroy our house, it gives you a perfectly legitimate excuse to remodel."

She smiled impishly, "Yes, I suppose it does."

She pulled the button free, then moved her fingers to the next one. He placed a restraining had over hers and with his other, drew her face to look at her eyes.

"So you will indulge me?"

"Yes," she looked puzzled for a moment, "What has brought this on?"

"The last time we had a proper vacation was in the Golden days - pre-war Europe. That was a long time ago Esme, even by immortal standards. When was the last time we took a trip, just the two of us, for an extended period, which did not involve some other agenda?"

She smiled a little, "I grant you are right."

"I am," he laughed a little, "And anyway, does one need an excuse to indulge in time with one's wife?"

"Never," she responded.

"Good," he kissed her temple, "Then it is settled."

He rested back, assuming her fingers would restart their previous activity. She remained still, looking at his face. He peered up at her then smiled sheepishly as she began her questioning.

"No, not entirely. Where are we going?"

He would have physically winced if he hadn't known that this was coming all along. Carlisle, as well as hating surprises, was poor at orchestrating them too. He had simply hoped she would just be content to wonder. The thought of the island, isolated and free, winded him with panic.

"It has to remain a surprise," he said honestly, gathering his strength, "I want it to be something just for you."

She eyed him sceptically then her face broke slowly into the most dazzling smile. He breathed again.

"Why Carlisle," she raised a brow, "You are just full of surprises."


	4. The Perils of Packing

Author's note:

**Thank you, so very much, for all the reviews and the follows! It's so lovely to read the encouragement of others. Please keep doing so - it makes it so much more fun to write.**

_This chapter is shorter than what I typically write but that is intentional. This entire story is actually finished but I spend so long editing that I don't post it all at once. Please stick with it. _

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He stood before two suitcases, monogrammed at Alice's insistence with the Cullen crest and no doubt obscenely expensive, and was genuinely dumbfounded by his lack of knowledge. Such was the rarity of this occurrence that he was actually embarrassed by how stupid he felt. He had never packed a suitcase for a beach holiday - did he own anything for a beach holiday? - never mind packed Esme's suitcase at all. When she had asked what she should pack he had smugly told her to 'leave it to him'.He was solidly regretting those words now. He was very much in charge of his own wardrobe, consisting of suits and shirts and sweaters and slacks (all of which he was willing to wager were unsuitable for their island) and did not let Alice anywhere near it. Esme did not interfere either: he had spent centuries dressing himself and he prided himself on the fact that he remained, in a house overrun with women determined to be at the forefront of fashion, in charge of his own dressing. Yet right now, he would give anything for Alice's assistance.

As if on cue, she rapped her knuckles on their door to announce herself before floating in, a pile of neatly folded and new clothing reaching past her face, carried in her small arms. He reached out to take them from her but she ignored him.

"I have been waiting for the chance to dress you since you adopted us," she said lightly, placing the pile on the bed instead.

At those words, he realised just how foolish his previous wish had been.

She lifted a brand new Panama hat and tossed it onto his head.

"Just dashing."

He pulled it off, setting it impatiently on the side table and groaned, immediately regretting his previous desire for her assistance. She went from the room swiftly and, on her return, was laden with shopping bags. He simply observed her in irritated silence as she set about her task.

"Of course," she was now folding clothes into the respective cases at vampire speed, "The island is so isolated that you won't need these. Not if you don't want them."

It was said with such innocence that if it hadn't been for his assurance that he couldn't possibly have misheard, he would have questioned himself.

"Alice!" He admonished haltingly as she held a fine linen shirt against his chest, like she was measuring him up in a tailor's.

He hadn't even considered that. Of course, it had occurred to him that they didn't really need anything that he was supposed to pack, or that a human would require, to enjoy a pleasant vacation. All he needed for a pleasant break was a pen, a blank journal and some books. However it hadn't occurred to him to embrace this lack of necessity in such a feral way. Suddenly an imagine of her, languishing on powdery sand and glittering against the violent sun, invaded his mind. He shook his head and frowned at his daughter.

Alice merely giggled, then throwing the shirt aside, reached into the case that was full of silks and linens and prints; obviously Esme's. She rummaged a little and pulled out a vibrant, lilac garment. On closer inspection he realised it couldn't really be referred to as a garment, well not in the typical sense of the word anyway.

"Edward said you liked the look of these bikinis," she smirked, "If only we could all read your mind."

He despised when he slipped up mentally in front of Edward, particularly when it came to thoughts of Esme. He had an inkling that this, amongst many others, had been one of the reason why Edward had been driven away all those years ago. Carlisle felt entitled to have private thoughts on his wife, no matter how uncomfortable they made him, but he could sympathise with his son nonetheless. To hear someone so happy, so content would have killed him but to hear Carlisle's desires embarrassed him too, he had surmised. So he suppressed them as much as possible, not only for his own sanity, but for Edward's. It was simply unfair to subject Edward to such lewd thoughts.

He had been listening to Edward playing last night, and watching his wife as she sketched, when that uncomfortable image resurfaced in his head. He had shut it down almost in an instant and congratulated himself on doing this before Edward had seen it. A poor assumption, he now realised. If he could have blushed furiously, he would have.

Humiliation filled him from his toes upwards.

He resisted the urge to find her teasing slightly humorous, he was so overcome with indignation. He had to admit though that she had covered every unnecessary item from towels to sun hats. None of which they actually needed, he reminded himself again and the image of his wife lying in the sand pushed its way back into his psyche.

He groaned, "Is nothing sacred in this house! For all that is holy! A bikini? That is really what it is called?"

"Oh don't grouse! Edward took great pleasure in telling me!" She said seriously, "You are going to have a great time. I don't mean to tease you; you know we all think it's sweet. And yes, it is called that. For all the reading you do, you are very sheltered."

He smiled despite himself, dropping his grimace when she was so sweetly trying to allay his fears, "I am from another time Alice. The very thought of a bikini was enough to have you burned at the stake."

And it was very true; in contrast to all of them, he came from a different world entirely - a world where it was considered crass to love one's wife.

"How times change," she simply said, throwing each case shut,"She is going to love it and so are you."

"Yes, so you keep telling me," he reopened his case and threw in the books he had planned to take anyway.

His first edition of the _Principles and Practices of Medicine,The Book of Common Prayer, The Republic _and a _Treatise on Human Nature_ landed with a soft thud on top of his entirely new wardrobe.

Alice rolled her eyes lovingly.

"And some things stay exactly the same."

~0~

He was relieved, if only slightly, when the contractor had telephoned from Rio to say that their house was complete, in line with the very competent blue prints he had sent. He made a note to tell Esme of this compliment as they stood before the reality in a few days time. Right now, he was staving off questions from his wife as if it were the inquisition.

"Esme," he lifted his head to grin at her, rather enjoying her frustration, "I really do need to get this paper work done."

"You have all night to get this paper work done," she lifted her head from her sketch book, where it was perched across her knees.

She had been relentlessly questioning him for an hour, and had come nowhere near to the correct answer, while she doodled continuously. Outside a storm was throwing itself against the windows, sending the smell of cedar and damp into the stifling study. She had thrown open the windows, so the noise of the rain was a distraction to him yet he didn't have the heart to tell her. The weather hadn't let up for almost a week and he looked forward to seeing the sun soon. He could not claim to love the sun as she did but he had a tendency to melancholy when the weather was so relentlessly miserable. He didn't mind clouds so much but rain and thunder made him anxious for fresh air and clear skies.

"On the contrary, you have all week to ask me even more questions," he teased.

He held up the paper work to illustrate his point, "This, on the other hand, needs to be with the Coroner by 8 am."

"I love sketching you when you concentrate," she informed him and he smiled at the tangent of her conversation, "You look so serious."

"Is that a complement darling?"

"Yes!"

She jumped up from her chair, "Carlisle, is it Egypt? Are we visiting Amun?"

"No," he answered lightly, deciding that he would answer in this way to all of her remaining questions.

The anticipation was delightful, and he had not expected to enjoy her excitement so much. He still harboured reservations about the gift itself but the build up was indeed pleasant. He thought of that dreadful bikini again and the image of her in the sand, startled with how it now seemed to be tied with his most urgent fear, and pushed his horror to the side as he tried in vain to ignore her questions for the remainder of the night.

It was safe to bet that the coroner would not get his paper work before noon.

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Thank you so much for reading! Please R&amp;R!


	5. The Shrinking World

Thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter. I love writing this story.

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The world had shrunk considerably in the time Carlisle had spent on it, and while he had found this worrisome, other aspects he found fascinating; how people traveled was one such aspect. On his crossing to the new world, leaving the Volturi behind, he had spent his arduous passage on a galleon which was driven only by the wind. For the few passengers able to afford the expensive crossing, the journey was both perilous and hellish. He had sympathised with them hugely, while staying in his little berth for the entire time in a self-imposed exile of fear.

Then wind was soon abandoned for steam and steam was cast-aside in favour of aviation. Horse and carriage was replaced by train, train was replaced by auto-mobile. All in the space of a century. He had been truly fascinated as the humans around him pulled the world to shrink at its seams. Others had marveled at the development of the atom bomb and ruefully condemned the shortening of hemlines which brought about the emancipation of women (which, to his rather philosophical mind, was ironic) while he had been watching the development of transportation with a fascination akin to wonder.

When he had swam from Dover to Calais, there was still a boat being towed manually on a rotting chain to transport the poor peasants between Britain and her continental neighbour. He had followed discreetly behind it for seven hours. Now boats ferried people in the matter of two. It was, even to his deeply experienced mind, unbelievable.

And, as always, he was able to see the inherent threat to his way of life in it.

For some, private transport was viewed as an immoral luxury; a private train cabin, owning your own car, a suite on a liner, a private plane. For him, it was an absolute necessity as far as he was concerned. It was one thing to be on a liner where, if truly desperate, you could go on deck and take the air and hope that the intense saltiness of the sea would detract from the ambrosia of hundreds of humans pressed into two hundred tons of metal. It was entirely another to be on a plane where the air being circulated was literally alive with human scent, recycled and reused. He was rarely adamant about things, and if any protests were lodged by his family regarding any matter he tried very hard to find a compromise which pleased them all, but on this matter he would not budge. No Cullen would fly on a plane with such a number of humans; it put them in a peril he couldn't comprehend. The very thought made him prickle with panic; a plane in the air, dropping out of the sky, with none of the humans alive and drained of blood. And of course, the only passenger missing would be called Cullen. Perhaps he would slacken this rule in the future but be remained insistent on it in the present.

He thanked God then, every time they had to travel, for the funds at their disposal. It was surprisingly easy to charter a DeHaviland out of Lunken for any long-distance trips, and unlike him, the children had grown rather fond of flying and had taken to regularly scheduling flights to different, exotic places. He had travelled extensively but in recent decades he had settled and that restlessness had fled him, so it was pleasant to pass the baton of adventurer to them.

He much preferred liners but there was, as it stood, no convenient route from Ohio to Rio De Janero which wouldn't take an inordinate amount of time travelling first over land then sea. He did not have that kind of time at his disposal. Esme, for one, would not want to be away from the family for so long but he also anticipated that the longer it took them to get there, the more nervous he would be. He wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible.

"Carlisle," Edward cut in on his musings, "They're perfectly safe, aeroplanes."

"Yes," he scanned their expertly forged passports, examining the green covers closely, impressed by just how authentic they were. The world might have been growing smaller, but lying about being part of it was growing ever easier thanks to Jasper's newly acquired Mr Jenks.

"Yes. However unnatural it is," he laughed, slipping the documents into his pocket.

He had checked them three times now and he was becoming annoyed at his own scrutiny. He vowed not to reach into his pocket again and thrust them back in with a determined air.

"Coming from the man who who is literally supernatural," Edward rolled his eyes, fiddling idly with the vase of flowers perching on the side table.

"I do not fear for our safety Edward," he reassured gravely, "But for the humans."

"Have a little faith. You've never slipped and Esme hasn't...in a long time."

"I know," he said a little tersely, then immediately felt guilty when he registered his son's aggrieved face, "Edward, I am sorry."

"Hey," Edward placed his hand on his shoulder, gripping it lightly.

He had taken this affection from Carlisle and turned it back on him. It was their common method of communicating their consideration for each other. It had grown from those early days when Edward had shirked physical contact so vehemently that Carlisle had avoided even looking at him for days on end. A seventeen year old, jammed in time, would never change in that respect.

"All is well. You just need a break," his son reassured, squeezing once more.

"At times," he suddenly confided, the words falling out of his mouth before he could really register their presence, "I feel rather out of date."

Edward considered him seriously, then grinned, "You are! But go easy on yourself Carlisle, you are very modern, despite how opposed you are to all of it. And anyway, as the father of a group of perpetual teenagers, it's your job to seem old."

He laughed a little, grateful for his son's genuine kindness. He didn't mean he had issues with technology; he could use a telephone and he could send a telegram and he liked driving his car. Sometimes his tenure on the earth just seemed so vast that it wearied him and he grew afraid that at some point, his relevance to the world might expire - surely it had to. One could not stay for so long and still be useful. He could have coped with anything but not with being useless or irrelevant to the world he occupied, regardless of how much he did not belong in it. He liked being useful and practical to those around him but he viewed it as fraudulent; at some point he would have to pay for the fraud he was committing. At some point, he would be found to be obsolete.

"Carlisle," Edward sighed, his amber eyes heavy with concern, "The melancholy of your thoughts is burdensome and pointless, as well as self-pitying. Please change the tone before Jasper comes in."

He laughed then at his son's blunt assessment and overly polite request, even though he could see from the set of Edward's shoulders that he was genuinely annoyed.

"Thank God the very presence of Esme lifts your mood, otherwise that island might grow rueful with your self-imposed worry," his son continued wryly.

"No wonder you despise being privy to my thoughts Edward, I know how exhausting it is being in my mind sometimes."

And it was true. He grew tired of his own over-analysis quite regularly.

He sat down on his seat by the fire and his son perched himself on the couch across from him. Emmett and Rose had been banished from the house for the day to expend their very unique brand of energy after ruining Esme's favourite side table. She would, he thought with a wry smile, let them back in before the day was through because her love always overrode her anger. Alice was in the garden, lying in the rain, with Jasper by her side. Esme had finally left the house, after dismissing Emmett and Rose, to go to town to keep up the pretense that they shopped for groceries. She was particularly vociferous about completing this necessary charade as the wives of the other doctors saw her there often, and if she didn't appear to be buying from the butcher and the grocer and the baker, it would seem conspicuously odd. In the future, she would be grateful for the laziness of the excuse of online grocery shopping, but right now she stuck religiously to her shopping days.

"You worry more, you know," his son said conversely, after a comfortable pause, "Than you used to. The more of us there are, the more you worry. You have unique worries for every one of us and I hear them all. Will I ever find love? Will Jasper ever forgive himself? Will the Volturi discover Alice? Will Rose ever forgive you? Will Emmett eventually learn his own strength? Will Esme always want you? It worries me Carlisle; you have to know we all love you, and are grateful for, the life you have given us despite how selfish we can be at times. You need to place a little more worth on that. You need to stop fretting so much and enjoy us a little more. None of us are going anywhere."

He was astounded, so much so he was rendered mute for a moment. He had realised his worry had been more acute of late, and the island had symbolised his biggest concern, but these worries always frayed the edges of his conscious. It embarrassed him too that his son should have such an accurate insight into his concerns. He could sense the guilt, however subtle, in Edward's voice and it pained him to come to the conclusion that, no matter how prodigal his son's return had been, he had failed to sufficiently ensure that Edward did not feel responsible for that hurt.

However he tried to hide it from his son, Edward's departure from them in the thirties had scarred Carlisle irreversibly and he worried, albeit unnecessarily, about being abandoned to a life of extreme loneliness once again. He was aware that it was irrational and highly unlikely but at times he found himself in awe of his undeserving luck at having found such a family. Loneliness had been such an unwanted companion in his life that he was frightened she would rear her ugly head again to prove to him that he had never been worthy of such love and happiness. He was, he realised at times, waiting for it to implode.

"I just..."

He did not know how to answer his son so he simply smiled forlornly and closed his eyes, shaking his head lightly to dispel the embarrassment he felt.

"I know the loneliness was crippling," Edward whispered softly, "I was there, remember? This is real now though and it won't go anywhere. Certainly, the one person who will never ever leave you has returned from her errands and is very excited for your trip. If only you could feel the tenor of her thoughts because she's overwhelmed with excitement. I wish you could see Esme's mind old man; you'd never worry again."

He stood and leaned forward to grasp his son's shoulder and prayed, once again, that Edward might find love. There was such inherent goodness in him which, if it were to remain untapped to its full potential, would be such a waste.

"Don't," Edward mocked lightly, "Be concerned with my love life. You should be concentrating on your own."

"You know you were one of the best things that ever happened to me?"

He squeezed his shoulder; a poor conduit to convey his love. Knowing his son's dislike of physical affection he rubbed the back of the boy's neck instead of the traditional hug. It elicited a warm smile from him.

"Yes, and one of the worst," Edward smirked, "Before me your most anxiety-ridden thoughts could remain private."

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	6. More Than Just a Journey

**Thank you for your continued support with this story. I am truly enjoying it!**

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"Are you regretting you decision to allow Emmett and Rosalie back into the house _just_ at the beginning of our absence?"

He cast his eyes towards her, not particularly worried about concentrating on the road ahead. It was an easy drive from their home, which had quickly receded in the rear-view mirror with their family waving keenly, to the airport. She smiled dryly, obviously still ruminating over that side table.

"Yes, a little. I find myself hoping they used their temporary banishment to expend some of their energy," she intoned seriously, "Though previous experience finds me doubting that fully."

She raised a brow.

He laughed gently, reaching out his hand to squeeze her knee. She stared at it for a moment and then turned her neck to stare out at the green scenery as it flew past in a blur.

"Were we ever so...discourteous?" She asked after a short lull in the conversation.

"Ha!" He squeezed her knee, "Hardly. Though my dear, there were so many times when I wanted to act the way Emmett does. I wanted very much to lose control like that. There are still times I want to act like that - I simply don't."

The words spilled out against his will and though they were delivered in the most casual tone that he was capable of, which was hardly casual at all, he sounded too earnest. He had been so comfortable, one hand on her knee and the other resting lazily against the wheel, mind blank and at peace for a moment, cases perfectly packed and destination awaiting them, that he had let the words build at the back of his throat and come forth in earnest. Her eyes widened with wonder and he felt suddenly a little uncomfortable - he had confided a secret he did not mean to share. He gave an awkward laugh.

"Why not?"

It was not an accusation but his pride was, unjustly, a little dented. He knew that Esme was very satisfied in that regard, a fact which he very privately congratulated himself on, yet her question was curiously painful. She had told him, without his own querying, that it was very pleasurable to be with him and his wife never lied. She was too honest, too brutally passionate, to ever lie. Still, it was a little wound, just a small, stinging laceration,  
as she asked him why he had never allowed himself to be as passionate as he might well be. She registered his silence.

"Not that I am unhappy in any way," she said quickly, "Be assured. I simply wondered if you have ever felt that towards me, so desperate?"

He wanted to weep at the self-conscious tone with which she delivered this line. He could never tell her of those nights of frustrated fury, lonely self-pity and lewd visions that he had suffered in her first year with them. He could not tell her how many times she had been the subject of his many detailed fantasies. He could not tell her how many times he had watched her as a predator. He could not tell her because he was afraid of how she might accept it as part of him.

He could not tell her that she was his main distraction, the one thing that rocked the pedestal on which he had placed his self-control. He had never even intimated it in thirty years of marriage. To give it a voice was to make it real, and to make it real would mean she would permit him to act on it. And he knew, deeply, that Esme wanted him to act on it. That he could not risk until now, until this damned island.

.

There was one thing he had realised long ago about being a vampire. The revelation was this; once the blood-lust subsided, carnal lust became the next drive once a suitable subject of such desire had been acquired. He had, while chipping away at his strong-hold of control over the last thirty years, ignored that fact in vain. He had ignored his lust for over three centuries in all its manifestations and he though that it should be easy to ignore it with her. More than his lust for blood, his lust for her petrified him. He did not want blood but how he wanted her insatiably and it had never subsided. His cloistered life had, admittedly, ended when he married her but he had never fully submitted to the lust that often clouded him.

"If you need to see what you do to me," he realised he was growling, a noise from deep within his chest that he had never known he could make, "I can pull the car over right now and show."

He was trapped in an animal, an animal that finally seemed to think it had permission to control him.

He realised his hand was on her thigh now, gripping tightly. He knew this was an offer so entirely out of line with his carefully constructed façade that he was shocked by it himself, by the aggression in the words themselves. This island had altered him, he thought cursedly. She was staring at his pale white hand as if she'd never seen it before. He would have removed it but he felt the need to convey his desperate want for her physically. And anyway, he knew she was not in the slightest opposed to its position. This revelation alarmed him more than what he was saying or doing.

She was momentarily silent but her beautiful eyes widened impossibly and then she giggled. She actually giggled, rather than recoiled. He felt relieved a little but still there was an angry tightening in his chest.

"Won't we be late if we do that?"

Her question, innocent as it was, had awoken an urge to show her that he was indeed as cursed as all other male vampires when it came to their mate. In fact, he was furious with himself that his self-control had been so absolute that he had not done so in thirty years of marriage.

"Darling," he turned his eyes back to the road, his teeth grinding against his will, "I do not believe that I care about being late right now. If you have ever doubted, even for a moment, that I love you fervently then I cannot bear to live right now if you will not permit me to show you."

His word were deadly serious, his face set hard against the spinning desire to act on his them. She made a little keening noise in the back of her throat. In response, he moved upwards, and curved his fingers to press the inside of her soft thigh. The tone was so very different now; one of dark possibilities.

"I know you love me-"

"Yes, but you can love someone and want them. Or you can love someone and want to possess them," he interrupted, " I have always been afraid of showing you how truly I wish to possess you. I am afraid I will never...regain you trust. You are, I am afraid, my every thought - not all of them wholesome. In fact, some days they are not wholesome at all."

She sucked in a breath at his admission, his most honest one on this particular subject in their entire marriage. He felt like he could not stop telling her now. A damn, fit for bursting, had been breached within him. He could not help but confide this in her, while every conservative fibre of his soul screamed at him to cease.

"Why have you never-"

He knew he had interrupted her twice now, but a particular fervour had gripped him and he was desperate to illustrate how wrong her assumption had been.

"Because I am afraid of what you will think of me. Afraid you will think I am immoral or sinister," he answered candidly, eyes never moving from the road, "I am frightened of what I might do to you."

She considered his honest answer for a moment, "I am indestructible. I can't be broken."

"You can," he said softly, "Not physically but mentally. What if it were to suddenly remind you-"

"Carlisle," it was her chance to interrupt him, her tone one of gentle astonishment, "You cannot possibly think I would be reminded of him?"

She shuddered a little as her voice climbed a fraction into an assertive shout, "No Carlisle. No."

He was suddenly aware of his hands trembling subtly against her leg and the steering wheel. The tremble grew to fear then became a beast of fury, black and huge.

He had submitted to this fear only in its abstract form from the moment he had realised she had been brutalised by Evenson. He had never allowed it to solidly grow in his mind but it was, he had realised a long time ago, his worst anxiety made real.

He had swallowed his fear and rage so often.

He panicked at the very idea of laying her down any other way but with a reverence akin to worship, kissing her with anything other than infinite softness, taking her with anything other than gentleness because he could not bear, for one moment, to have her cower under his hands as she once had for another man. This was his greatest fear, the one worry that Edward had failed to list this morning because Carlisle had suppressed it; allowing it to grow and fester and convince him that one day, it would be a reality. It had plagued him for years.

"Oh my sweet, wonderful husband," she said gently, "My beautiful Carlisle. How could you possibly entertain the idea that you are anything like him? You are not Charles, you are Carlisle. The man in whom I hold absolute, irrefutable trust."

"I could not bear," he realised they were nearing the airport and he needed to feel calmer before anyone else was near, "If I got carried away and you were afraid or I hurt you...even for the tiniest of moments. I would nerve forgive myself."

She smiled as if pleased with what she was about to say; "I would not say that it would just be you getting carried away. You cannot just attribute all-consuming desire to you in our marriage. Carlisle, you are not him. There is a distinct difference; I want to be under your hands."

He shook his head a little, feeling as if he needed to clear it. He had not intended to have such a revelatory conversation, well at least not in the car, having not even reached their destination yet. It had relieved him considerably though.

"I love your self control," she said lowly, something lacing her voice which changed the tone entirely, "But I hope wherever we are going, there will be a certain part of it you are willing to shed."

He felt, so acutely, his control dissolving.

~0~

"You are clever, Carlisle," she complemented, tipping her pale face towards the window so that she could watch the thick blanket of cottony clouds, "I have always known that. Considerably cleverer than most others of our kind. Yet I did not know your intelligence extended to being devious."

He lifted his head from his book, glancing at his watch as he did so. There was only an hour to go and when they reached Rio it would be just after twilight had departed, welcoming them in night's embrace. He had been pretending to be lost in reading, when the only thing truly holding his attention was recollections of the conversation they had in the car. He was still reeling from it but it was almost as if it was bound to happen, as if his anxiety had to manifest itself in honesty at some point.

"Elaborate please Esme," he requested, "You see, as much as I may be clever I cannot deduce why you find me devious."

"Oh," she smiled, resting her jaw on her fingers as she looked towards him, "You are devious. Despite my attempts you kept your conversation with the pilot low and well out of my ear shot. You chartered a private plane so there would be no indication as to where we were going. You have given no clue whatsoever. How am I to know that I am appropriately dressed?"

He snorted a little, "You could wear that very pretty outfit in the Arctic and not even feel a chill. So that's a heartless, never mind weak, ploy for my sympathy. To address your other concern; need I give you a memorised definition of 'surprise'?"

"No," she laughed, "How long have we got to go? At least give me that."

"An hour."

She smiled brilliantly, "I am very excited you know."

"Yes. It is very beautiful to behold. Is this a better gift than your washing line?"

"Yes, it already is."

He smirked a little, lifting his book again, vowing to actually concentrate this time, "Just wait to you see what is at the end of our little escapade then."

"Scoundrel," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. He enjoyed the lingering of her mouth on his skin, the suggestion behind it.

"Not yet," he said softly, "I am afraid I would bring the plane down."

She simply laughed and turned back to the window, a broad smile refusing to depart from her features.


	7. A Half-Formed Thought Come to Life

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"A boat?"

She turned her head from the glistening mahogany vehicle bobbing in the water to glance dubiously at him. A vast marina, bustling behind and glittering in front, surrounded them. The fisher men were just docking and their lobster pots tumbled from port sides onto the slippery cobbles, making the most tremendous clatter. The air smelled dry and salty and fragrant, the sea lingering in every breath he took. She had looked on in wonder as the car drove them through the city, her eyes wide and inquisitive, and he had enjoyed her reaction thoroughly. He vowed then to bring her to Rio a few times during their trip, if she wanted, so she could explore the vibrant streets at night but right now he was keen to forge on.

"You claim to be indestructible," he smiled, throwing their cases into the boat so that It bobbed with an unexpected ferocity. He placed his foot on the short bow to stop the movement.

"First Brazil...then a tiny boat," she shook her head, "What next?"

He ignored her question, instead offering his hand so she might steady herself as she got in. When she did not move, remaining exactly where she was on the dockside, he motioned with his head.

"Must I lift you darling?"

He rolled up the sleeves of his blazer in a show of preparation and held out his arms. She smiled despite herself and he knew Esme could not bear to have a mystery unsolved, so she might feign reluctance while desperate to board just to see what was in store.

She grumbled a little, "You see I do not necessarily like tiny boats."

"You will not fall out," he assured, "And if you do, my lightening reflexes will allow me to catch you."

She raised an eye brow, "I am positive I could save myself. You are very sure of your chivalry though."

"I am, yes. On this occasion at least. Are you not curious to know where our little vessel is to take us?"

"I am," she dropped her hand in to his, "More than enough, I suppose, to get me into this contraption."

"You do not trust it?"

She jumped lightly into the boat, landing with balletic precision on her toes, "No. I do not."

He followed her, watching as she settled herself along the leather bench which ran the entire length of the back, "However - you trust me?"

"Yes, yes of course I trust you," she smiled, "Though in all of our conversations, which I remember with precise clarity, I never once recall you mentioning your time as a skipper."

He did not fail to recognise her sarcasm. Carlisle was not, by any standards, a gifted sailor.

I know exactly what I am doing," for comic effect he donned the captain's hat ( a free gift with the purchase of the vessel) that was lying beside the wheel, "In theory."

Her eyes widened, "In theory?"

"What can possibly go awry? Might I remind you that you are indestructible."

"There are few things I regret saying but that is one of them."

He laughed as he turned the engine, enjoying the immediate satisfaction of a brand new machine roaring to life. A small pleasure. He had navigated a boat twice in his existence and only when it had been manual booms and full-bellied sails. He knew precisely what to do but he was sure that could only be attributed to his immortality rather than any of his human attributes. He was reluctant to imagine that he, as a human, had been fond of any sort of navigation though he would never know. He had read about boating until there was no other book to read that was relevant to this journey, so he felt prepared.

The absurdity of all of this was that he was incredibly prepared for this journey, for every step – he just was not prepared for the end of the journey when he was to illustrate the most out of character largess of his life. He sped out of the marina, coordinates committed to memory, and made towards their destination. Once they had cleared the majority of the traffic nearer the shore he sped up, turning to look at her finally. Her head was resting back, her face tilted towards the silvery moon. He could tell it was with intense enjoyment that she allowed the wind to whip across her skin.

"So you do not mind the boat?"

His voice carried across the breeze and purr of the engine.

She lifted her head and smiled, "I told you. Curiosity."

"I am disappointed," he beckoned her forward when he could see the outline of the island on the horizon, "Come and see this please?"

She walked carefully, smiling through her unnecessary fear. He pointed towards the horizon where a mass of land was rearing up before them and, becoming clearer than it would be to a human at this distance, quickly became an island.

"There, you see?"

Of course she could see it, "Yes."

"That is where we are holidaying," he said simply, drawing nearer as the lines became more defined.

She let out a little gasp of surprise, "An entire island?"

"Yes, all for us," he answered, failing to hide the satisfaction for his voice.

She did not interpret his meaning, that it was literally, eternally all for them, and he was relieved for a moment. He felt he should make revelations in stages as the niggling panic had returned again, making him feel as if his chest was tight and his brow was sweating; even though neither of those were remotely possible.

She smiled widely and watched, unblinking, as they pulled nearer to the freshly built jetty. She wasted no time jumping out of the speed boat and running down onto the powdery beach, washed white by the moon. She twirled around, her face tilted to the sky, and let out a squeal of delight.

It was, in itself, a breathtaking reaction. He was rendered immobile for a moment.

"It is just..." she looked towards him, "There are no words Carlisle!"

"No," he joined her on the beach, dumping the cases, "I wanted to render you speechless."

She leapt forward, knocking him off balance and smothering his face in kisses as they fell into the sand, "I love, love, love it."

Her lack of words was endearing.

"Come on," he lifted her with ease, suitcases in one hand and his arm wrapped around her, " I wish to show you something. Close your eyes."

She did exactly as she was asked and it filled him with absolute awe that she trusted him so fully. He wanted to tell her to run as desire overwhelmed him. He carried her the few meters, setting her on her feet when she was still facing towards the sea. The house rose before him and he stole a glance at it. In that tiny moment he begged of his God to make her love this because very suddenly he loved it completely. It was her art come to life and it was beautiful as always.

He dropped the cases again, then spun her to face the newly built property.

"It is-"

Her voice trailed away for a moment, then she spun towards him, "It is one of my silly designs! It's mine!"

"Yes, all of it is yours," he said quietly, dipping his head in humility.

It felt suddenly very grandiose to have bought all of this, despite the fact that he knew she was worth it.

"What?"

Her voice was incredulous, her hand reaching out to touch the white-wash walls of the property as if they might melt in a moment.

"I said all of this, _Isle Esme_, is yours. If that is what you want to call it. Silly really and Edward came up with the name but..."

He trailed off in his embarrassment, watching shock then wonder chase across her face, "You are jesting!"

But he could tell she knew that every word of what he was saying was true.

"You wanted a beach on which to sparkle," he touched her face reverently, "And here it is. I cannot take it back, no invoice or receipt you see..."

Let yourself enjoy this, Carlisle, he scolded himself as he realised he was trying to protect himself from her overwhelmingly positive reaction with a poor attempt at humour.

She had attacked him again, this time far more serious in her lavishing of kisses. He stalled her just as she wrapped her legs around him, despite the fact that he was very much a willing victim of her attack. He could not allow himself to let his last vestige of control slip just at that moment.

He made his tone soft, placed restraining hands on her upper arms, "Promise you like it? You do not find it vulgar?"

"Oh," she flung her head back, emitting a loud laugh, "Didn't I tell you? I thought I had cried my joy – you obviously missed it. I love it Carlisle. I just..I just..."

She stared directly into his eyes, and even in the pale light, they were glittering gold. She was disheveled, her hair rumpled, her shirt creased. She smiled a watery smile.

"I just don't deserve this," she said softly, "I don't deserve any of it."

He placed his fingers on her chin, raising her face towards his, "How can you say that?"

Her eyes were glassy and huge – pools of concern. He knew the look, the signals of tears that would never be shed, well enough to allow panic to build within his gut and spill out of his mouth.

"Oh Esme! I did not do this to make you sad. I though it would -"

She curled her hands around his neck, pressing her face to his chest as she interrupted quickly, "No, I am not sad Carlisle. I am...overwhelmed."

She shook her head quickly, her hair slithering in tendrils to gather messily around her pale face. He brushed it away. He accepted her reassurance because he could see no other way of it. She would never lie. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Shall we go inside? I want my décor to overwhelm you further."

She gave a snuffly little laugh as he pulled the doors open. It was warm inside, having retained the heat of the day, and everything varied the shades of white, as per his request. It was large and airy, just as Esme liked. When he had amateurishly sat down to design the rooms himself - using the little skill he had managed to gain from his indescribably talented wife – he had tried to mimic her. It seemed to have achieved the wanted result as she made little pleased noises and hums of approval while she ran her hands over the different pieces of furniture around the large sitting room. He had already saw this room, not literally of course, but he had spent so long making it perfect in his head that he merely stood in the centre, watching as she absorbed it all.

She reached the cluster of frames on the wall and delighted, turned to him.

"My sketches? Edward's staff paper? Our gifts! The interior designer did follow your directions – to the letter. You are a scoundrel!"

He laughed a little, "Yes, I did find it rather challenging. There was no interior decoration though. Just my humble skills."

She laughed with surprise, whirling round from her observation, to skip towards him. Alice had been entirely right; every reaction had been just as she promised – beautiful.

"You are a man of many talents."

"No, I am a charlatan. I simply pretended to be you as I designed it. It's far too modern for my tastes."

"Mmmmh," she agreed, "I do not see any thatched roofs or Gothic arches."

"No, they would not allow me to include that," he tipped his head to the side and raised a brow.

She placed her hands on his lapels, then toyed with the collar of his shirt suggestively, "Aren't there more rooms to show me?"

He would have shied away, while wanting to give in more than fully to her implication, in the past. This island though, the strange liberation it had afforded his mind and body, seemed to take hold of him then without him fully acknowledging it.

He smirked, mimicking her actions as he tugged at the collar of her shirt, then allowed his hand to linger on one of the buttons. Her eyes followed his and they took on an entirely new surprise, fluttering as she watched his finger pluck it open.

"The kitchen? Or perhaps the bathroom? Is it the linen closet you wanted to see?"

His voice was low to prevent the shaking that he knew was vibrating through his larynx.

She laughed again – the same beautiful music that had accompanied them all night – and reached forward.

"Yes, most certainly the linen closet is what I want to see next."

Her hand trailed suggestively along the band of his trousers.

"Aha! There is one I forgot of course; the bedroom. But by all means, the linen closet first!"

"I would not be opposed," she shrugged, whispering against his mouth.

He shook his head a little, "Small steps please Mrs Cullen. I have so much to adapt to...bedroom first."

"You are an unyielding gentleman," she complemented seriously as he led her towards what he had affectionately termed the 'white room' in his own head, "That is why you are different from him."

He lifted her then, scooping her into his arms, "I never want to hurt you."

"Then don't. Just love me...Carlisle."

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	8. Revelations

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They watched the sun climb over the horizon, ghostly at first then burning across the sand. He did not shirk away, did not wrap the sheets around their bodies, despite his desire to hide himself from the light of day. The white room was awash with feathers, which floated every time she turned to kiss him again and mutter her stupefied thanks. Through the open door, where he had a clear view of the cool hallway, he could see the linen that they had obviously trailed from the closet in a fit of passion scattered haphazardly. He thought momentarily of the cracked marble of the kitchen, and of the cleaning team from the main land that he had contracted to visit, and was too sated to feel embarrassed at the vivid recollection of it shattering under his fingers. White marble shattered by white marble fingers. He had never broken anything before. He had bitten a few pillows, accidentally torn a few sheets or a few pieces of her underwear. He had never broken something.

Most importantly though, he had not broken her.

She moved from his embrace silently, few words exchanged between them for most of the night, and went to the glass doors which led directly to the beach. They had simply lay staring at each other, not able to find the words, convey the sentiments in language. She flung the doors open, the muslin curtains dancing in the breeze, and her skin immediately refracted the light in tiny shards of crystal. It bounced off of his skin too – painting his thigh and arm in sparkling white. He watched as she stood there; eyes closed, beautiful against the garish sun.

"You know," he said softly, "Alice said we would not need clothes if we did not want them here. I did not think you would embrace her suggestion so quickly."

She turned towards him, gifted him a magnificent smile, and then laughed.

There was a garland of feathers in her hair, sticking out at odd angles. Her skin and eyes were as bright as diamonds. She was truly beautiful in the sun and he felt annoyed that he had never properly noticed it before.

"I don't think I will ever embrace her suggestion. I am far too old-fashioned," she answered, walking towards the bed again, "What else did Alice say?"

He thought for a moment, then said; "I did not know if buying you this island was a particularly excellent idea. She counselled much to the contrary."

She looked thoughtful for a moment, "You doubted your decision?"

"Every single step," he shook his head, opened his arms so he might pull her closer, "It seems absurd now, I suppose."

"No," she assured ironically, "Buying an entire island is not something to be question at all darling."

He smiled, a little abashed, "You see I did not know what exactly you might think of it. I wanted to give you a beach and I wanted to be romantic...but oh how I panicked. I am sure you can guess how much I questioned myself."

He dipped his head, peaking at her through the lock of hair that had fallen in front of his face. She was smiling at him and he could see pity forming in her eyes.

She sat up on her knees, rested on her heels and sat before him, her face contemplative, "You do panic, quite extensively. It has grown worse recently."

"Edward has made the same observation," he said casually, feeling very scrutinised.

He made a dismissive gesture with both his hands but she caught them in hers and stilled them.

"I really..." she appeared to be seeking the right words, "Admire it. I do not know that there is another word. You see, you take on everything in our family and absorb it. You never give it back to us in your own distress or angst. You are so constant that I think you are inclined to panic because you are full of all of our...problems."

"An interesting take on my neurotic immortality," he laughed, rolling his eyes, "Edward's is different. He says it is because I am frightened that I do not deserve all of you. You see, it is all because of this island as far as I am concerned."

She laughed a little sceptical laugh, "Go on."

There was an undercurrent of seriousness to this conversation but he refused to let it trundle down the route of unprecedented angst. He had intended this to be a light-hearted vacation, and while he thrived on the understanding his wife had of him, he did not want to weight it down with intense conversation. In spite of this he had to be honest with her because it was so integral to him that she was fully aware of who he was.

"It was a symbol," he answered, fiddling with the hem of the sheets, "Of being truly alone with you. Truly alone. I was afraid of that. Honestly, I was afraid of that."

He had, he realised, been unintentionally liberated by this damn island. The marble, the linen and the feathers were all evidence of him indulging in a savagery he never had before. Despite himself, he could not feel guilty. She was safe, perhaps more than safe, and she had not flinched under his hands. She had screamed, cried, moaned in pleasure instead. And what pleasure it had been.

She nodded, "Yes. I deduced that. Thirty years is so long for you to have been frightened of that part of yourself. That part of me. You work so hard to punish yourself about anything you enjoy. I am your one indulgence and even at that..."

He was embarrassed to voice his next question, "But you were always...satisfied? Pleased?"

Doubt had invaded him again and he felt so like a child, out of his depth with this, even though only hours before he had been confident of this fact. It was bizarre to him; he had all the money in the world, physical and mental power beyond comprehension and yet he could not fathom his way around his marriage at times. It was not that it was difficult to love her; it was that it was difficult not to love her more than he thought truly possible. He was consumed by her in a way he never thought could be real, and to feel so out of control was frightening to a creature who had spent his entire life accompanied only by loneliness and control as his shield.

"Trust me, if I hadn't been satisfied I think I might have voiced it before now," she smiled, touching his cheek, "I was always..._pleased_, to use your word. I just wanted _you_ to be pleased. Sometimes I felt you holding back. And I see it in you with everything. You are so afraid at times."

"Of losing you, yes," he added quietly, "All of you. So this stupid, silly, lovely island was the time I could lose you and it made me afraid."

"And did you lose me?"

"No," he shook his head, "Just myself."

She crawled into his lap, "I would say the exact opposite Carlisle. I would say you found yourself."

"How poetic," he kissed her forehead, "Shall we hunt?"

"In the sun?"

"Yes, in the sun," he ran his fingers through his hair, "Then we will come back and you should permit me to find myself again. And again. And again. And again."

The humour was alien to him and it made him uncomfortable to be so suggestive. He closed his eyes and shook his head, illustrating his own embarrassment.

Her laughter rang through the house, carried into the trees and bounced off of rocks. She touched his forehead, and then his lips.

"You are not a monster," she said suddenly, with deep intensity, "Last night was-"

"I feel like a monster, sometimes. I feel as if all of this," he motioned around him, interrupting because he could not bear her praise to be so entirely wholesome for an act of utter depravity, "Is so undeserved. I am so lucky, yet so undeserving. I cannot always love you like that, I cannot give myself over so entirely – I am too afraid. I cannot lose my grip on self-control."

"Perhaps one day," she whispered, "Someone will be strong enough to convince you of your humanity. It saddens me that I fail. I love when you worship me Carlisle, as you have since the night you took me to your bed. I just want you to feel as...safe as I do, to be yourself."

There was an openness in their union that he would never experience with anyone else. To have shared his most intimate pains with her was to be exhibited in a way he never thought possible. To be examined and studied by her, and found satisfactory still was a relief to him.

To be_ loved _by her was more than a relief, it was a blessing.

He simply kissed her, pulling her mouth down to meet his. He felt himself tremble in her arms and dry, cathartic sobs traveled through his body. He was not ashamed to cry in his wife's arms, cradled in the sanctuary of their island.

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	9. Epilogue

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He retired to his study and, closing the door behind himself, sat down in the familiar leather chair. Below he could hear them welcoming her back as their mother, asking questions about her island, wondering if he enjoyed it as much as they suspected he would. He thought of the two weeks as a flurry of love-making and reading and chess and swimming and debates of philosophy. There was a sizeable pile of correspondence waiting and he knew he should begin in earnest, yet he felt boneless, relaxed, panic-free. It was as alien to him as any of the panic that gripped him regularly. He let it wash over him and, leaning back in the chair, closed his eyes to listen to his family below.

He was enjoying their questions, but in his shyness, had felt it necessary to ground himself in his study for 10 minutes before re-entering their frenetic conversations. As quick-witted as they all were, their jumping discussions left him feeling overwhelmed at times. He had been so used to silence for two weeks that the sudden noise was too intense.

A knock on the door though, followed by Edward's entrance, broke that gathering of spirit. He smiled at the boy, delighted to see him nonetheless.

"She loved it," he simply stated, "But more than that, so did you Carlisle. You're different. You are freer."

Carlisle considered his observation, "I cannot argue. You know my mind better than me. Yes, I have to admit though, it felt very good."

"You didn't want to come home, did you?"

Edward was not worried as he asked this, and he had heard it anyway, so Carlisle's momentary guilt was extinguished as he looked at his son's curiously happy face.

"I know what it is," his son perched on the edge of the desk, "For the first time you were alone with her, truly. I realised it when you left – the reason you were so worried. I understand you were alone when I left, all those years ago, but your third party after that was anguish. There was no time for your marriage because you were both so consumed by my absence. She was never fully there with you, nor you with her. And the other vacations have always had a pretext; family holiday, museum trip, something like that. Even your honeymoon you were anxious, both of you, to get home to me. So for this first time ever you were actually alone. But it wasn't about the lack of conversation or things being strange, was it? It was about you. I don't understand that."

He nodded, reluctant to divulge anything as to the nature of the fear. It was embarrassing and personal, so he kept his thoughts deliberately vague. He tried to close the doors of his mind, as he had practised, and it worked well as he saw Edward's face darken a little.

"Oh," Edward nodded, "I can see you don't want me to know. I'm not desperate to know honestly. I just wish I had saw it before. We could have cleared out, given you some..."

He trailed off as Carlisle help up his hand, "Let me stop you there Edward. Our family is our life. My panics, worries, idiosyncrasies are my own. At times I need - as you so calmly observe – to relax. I relaxed, I believe, for the first time in all my existence. I felt," he smiled at the irony, "Oddly human."

His son nodded, rewarding him with a wide smile, "And you weren't going to buy it!"

"Well I am man enough to acknowledge the foolishness of the whole reluctance," he stood up and clapped his arm around Edward's neck, "Shall we go down and engage your siblings in a bit of verbal sparring. I have so missed the sound of bickering."

"Do you know Esme actually thinks it's called Isle Esme," Edward shared conspiratorially.

He simply shrugged, "It is. I liked your name, so I had it changed. It was expensive but..."

"She's worth it?" Edward finished for him, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

He watched Edward as he watched the woman he had taken to his heart as his mother. He understood entirely why; she was a brilliant mother.

She smiled at him then her eyes alighted on Carlisle. He thought of shattered marble and golden sand and golden eyes. His mind recalled the tinkling of her laugh and her giggles of joy as the waves jumped over her calves.

He thanked God for her every day. He thanked God she made him human; with all his weaknesses and strengths.

"Oh yes, yes she is."

His son laughed loudly, the noise mingling with the rest of the shouts of joy and the questions and the booming noise of Emmett tapping his foot to the wireless.

Golden sand and waves. A washing line and white laundry.

He had once thought, lying in the cellar as poison burned his veins, that he would never know love. How glorious it was, he thought, to have been proven wrong time and time again.


End file.
