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spanishinfluenza · 6 days

Text

honesty

On ao3 here. CW: Brief reference to domestic abuse.

1923

Esme flopped onto the freshly made bed with a sigh, arms outstretched.

Her husband watched the scene for a moment. Then delicately picked up one arm, lying down beside her, and letting her arm fall over his body. His shoes were kicked off with his toe — falling unceremoniously on the floor with a thwack — before pulling his legs onto the mattress.

When she had insisted the first piece of furniture they built in their new-to-them home was their entirely unnecessary bed he thought she was endearingly silly. Yet, there was something to be said about the familiar comfort after a week of traveling across the continent.

His eyes slipped closed, listening to her unnecessary breathing, calm, slow, and steady. She was hoping to finally be reintroduced to human society and was doing everything possible to make it a successful transition. He felt the mattress shift as she moved closer, her shoulder bumping into his as she threaded her fingers through his.

He presumed he was as close to the sleep as he ever would be. Comfortable and somnolent. Warm from the sun shining through windows that did not yet have coverings. Birds chirping in the backyard. His wife by his side, the honeysuckle of her shampoo mixing with the fresh scent of the soap she used to wash their linens.

“May I be honest with you?” She asked quietly.

“I hope you are always honest with me, Esme,” he muttered.

He heard her blow air out of her nose, and knew, even without peeling his eyes open, she was smiling fondly.

“I feel safer now.” He felt her lift their joined hands off the bed, holding them upright, tilting them slowly. No doubt watching the thousands of beams reflecting off their unnatural skin.

“In this house?”

The house was located further from civilization than the former hunting lodge, minutes away from a small logging town, they had occupied in Wisconsin. The structure itself was larger, the newlyweds and the perpetual teenager finding they needed far more space than the previous two bedrooms. Structurally he questioned its soundness, it needed quite a few renovations. But Esme’s smile when she caught a glimpse of the slightly dilapidated project in his countless brochures ensured he was purchasing the property.

“In this country,” she said, letting their hands fall to the mattress with a quiet thunk.

“Oh?” He opened his eyes, blinking slowly, lazily turning his head to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

She did not continue, although he knew she could. Vulnerability no longer came naturally to Esme. She had reached a point in life where almost every word she spoke was mulled over laboriously before it met the air. The only person who ever got a look at her bare thoughts was a telepath Carlisle pitied and envied.

“Penny for your thought?”

“I believe… I have known in the logical portion of my mind Char- he no longer posed a threat to my well-being. I know that. Yet, when I saw the map today, and realized how far from home I was, it felt as if I could finally breathe.”

“Are you sure that’s not the mountain air?” He smiled.

“It might be,” she laughed lightly, rolling her head to look at him.

“I wish I had known you felt unsafe. We could have moved sooner. I presumed you might find it difficult to leave any earlier.”

Indeed she had found it difficult to leave the place where her son was buried. “Worthless mother,” and “abandoning him” were the only words he could discern as she tearlessly sobbed into his shoulder two weeks earlier.

“But that is precisely my point. I never felt unsafe, at least in the moment. Only in hindsight.”

“Small mercies?”

“Indeed,” she smiled. She let go of his hand, reaching up to brush a stubborn lock of hair off his forehead.

They fell into what he had nicknamed ‘comfortable silence.’ There was little pressure to fill the void, the silence could sit, be peaceful even. It was one of the elements of marriage he found most surprising and gratifying.

He watched as she closed her eyes and scooted closer, resting her head on his chest. His arm wrapped around her back.

“You used the word home,” he said after fifteen minutes or so.

“I misspoke, my home is here, with you,” she said quickly, correcting what she assumed was a transgression.

“Es, I only wished to know where you were referring.”

“I suppose Ohio,” she sighed. “It is humorous because it did not when I was there.”

“Oh, I understand that sentiment entirely.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I would never step foot in London again, and yet if someone asks me where I am from my mind immediately goes to that grey dreary awful city.”

“You would never go back?” She asked, looking up at him. He nodded causing a wrinkle between her brows. “That’s a pity. I have always dreamed of going one day, in the far, far future.”

“Perhaps I could be convinced by an enchanting woman,” he conceded.

“If only I knew where to find one,” she laughed, triggering his laughter. He caught her lips in a quick, familiar kiss.

She broke the embrace with a contented sigh, lying her head back on his chest.

“Did Ohio ever feel like your home?” He asked, threading his fingers through her hair.

“You can not let a dead dog lie,” she sighed into his chest.

“I’m curious about my wife. Is that a crime?”

“You are too curious for your own good, Carlisle Cullen.”

“A trait we share.”

She took a deep breath, he could feel her body rise and fall against his. “I think it must have been the day I told my parents what he had done. I remember feeling entirely alone, clutching a cold rag to my eye to stop the swelling, while my mother went on a tirade about how difficult marriage was. I distinctly remember thinking there was very little left for me in life.”

“You have never told me about that day.”

“I told you they turned me away,” she refuted.

“Yes, but never anything further.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Only what you care to share,” he said. Her breathing halted, her body tightening under his hands. He continued speaking, “You do not have to tell me a thing, Esme. But I know when you broach a subject first you have been thinking of the manner for quite some time.”

She huffed, but he could feel her cheek move as she smiled.

“Recently,” she said, shifting off his chest, moving to tuck into his side to look at him comfortably, “I have begun to doubt my father ever knew what Char-he ever did.” He knew she corrected herself on his account, and as her husband, he should feel guilty about this fact, but when it came to Charles Evenson his rage often trumped his desire to be a supportive husband.

“I thought you said you told him.”

“When I got home he was in the fields,” she sighed as if lifting a heavy object.

For the first year after her transition, Esme had refused to discuss her past, unless entirely necessary. Only after much hurt and passive disagreements did she reveal this was due to the grief, and not lack of trust in her new companions. With clearer eyes the sorrow was evident, the slump of her shoulders, the spaces she left between words, the tone that made it feel as if every word was an exertion of energy.

“I told my mother, everything. She had not said a word in response, besides offering me a rag. He came in for a glass of water. My back was to him. I can no longer remember his face the last time I saw him but I remember the joy in his voice. He kissed the top of my head and asked the reason for the visit. Before I could answer my mother told me to go wash up. When I came back she told me he was going to drive me home in the buggy. I would still have time to make dinner.”

“And you suppose she did not tell him?”

“I presumed she had for the longest time.”

“What has caused you to doubt now?”

“Edward.”

“Edward?”

“Knowing Edward. Make no mistake I would have done anything for my son, but he was a babe. There was a part of me that assumed I could not understand my father’s indifference because I did not know the struggles of raising an impertinent child. But becoming well acquainted with Edward and all his flaws. I know I know I am not his mother, and I do not wish to be, but I care for him. If he confessed a fraction of what I had that day, I believe I would be compelled to commit a massacre. I can no longer conceive how my father would have driven me home, would have held polite conversation with my husband, if he had any idea.”

“Your mother knew, yet she arranged for him to take you back.”

“My mother never cared for me,” she said plainly.

“I am sure, she lov-”

“No, she did not. She told me as much, countless times. She never wished for children. I have accepted this long ago. But my father adored me. He would take me everywhere with him, he would just beam as he introduced me. ‘This is my little girl, Esme Anne.’ That first year of marriage he came by our house. I was in no shape to receive company and Charles asked him to leave. A few months after Charles enlisted he left a meal on our doorstep. He did not knock or leave a note — he could not write. But I know the taste of Platt beef. I am convinced he must not have known.”

“Perhaps he did not.”

“I was cruel to him.”

“Esme, I am sure he understood why you did not contact him. Even if he did not know precisely what you were experiencing.”

“At my brother’s funeral, he approached me, and I made some wicked comment about both his children being dead and how happy he must be,” she laughed humorlessly, a sound that bordered a sob. “Knowing now the pain he was facing, I can never forgive myself. Even if he knew.”

“You were hurt, you believed the one who was supposed to love you had thrown you into cruelty-”

“Carlisle, I do not need justifications,” she said softly, yet firmly, palm pressing to his chest.

“I understand,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

A true sentiment, one not meant to comfort or justify. I love you and the cruelty you see when you face a mirror. I love you and the fishing weights tied to your ankles in the form of memories I will never fully understand. I love you.

She pulled herself away from their embrace, forcing herself to sit up with a quiet groan. Her knees went to her chest, her arms wrapping around her shins, her chin resting atop her knees. He followed suit, tucking one leg under himself and letting one fall to hang off the bed.

“I apologize for being so morose,” she said quietly, her hair moving ever so slightly in the Summer breeze.

“I would rather know your true heart than be told empty pleasantries.”

She shook her head. “It is not your responsibility to carry my burdens.”

He laughed, “I believe that is the definition of marriage, my love. You have certainly carried your share of mine.”

She shrugged, tilting her head on her knees to see him better.

“Is the move the only element that has brought up all of this?” He asked delicately.

She nodded. “It feels as if Esme Platt, Evenson, Bauer is gone, finally. I knew she was before, of course. I knew I could never go back but being here, in an entirely new place feels as if Esme Platt is finally dead.” No sooner had she finished speaking was she laughing. “How dramatic.”

“I for one, hope you are wrong.”

“Hm?”

“I’m quite charmed by Esme Platt… and her impertinence,” he smiled, bumping her shoulder with his. It earned him a small smile. “Can I tell you something?” She nodded. “I loathe moving.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. It feels as if the second I am content, I must pack up an entire life and move somewhere else unfamiliar and drab. Another town with another set of people I have to reinvent myself for.”

“So hundreds of ends?”

“I suppose. But I don’t know if it ends, in a sense I could be hundreds of Carlisles, and Williams, and one John.”

“You went by John?”

“Once, for two weeks. I moved because I could not force myself to respond to the name,” he smiled. “But they’re all me.”

“So this is a death and a birth? I like the sound of that.”

“You are an artist, aren’t you?” He laughed. She ducked her head. The fight over her clearly God-given talent was a battle for a different time, they had uncorked enough for one day. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said earnestly. In one move, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and was on the other side of the room beginning to unpack one of their trunks. It was a start. A birth of newfound trust, one would say. Now he sounded like the artist, but not a very good one.

#this has me shakingggg #its so so gooood #esme cullen #carlisle cullen #twilight fanfiction #Aghhhhhhhh #obsessed #thank you for sharing #your dialogue has so much tone and voice and character to it #the conversation literally sparkles

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spanishinfluenza · 2 months

Text

One Hard Pill to Swallow

Emmett was the most collected of all the Cullen children but he wasn’t calm or collected right now.

“Carlisle–”

Carlisle pressed the phone against his face and stepped out of the Emergency ward, into the hallway. His ears pricked as he listened to her screams in the background. “Is Esme hurt? Emmett, what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” Emmett spoke through his teeth. “That’s why I called you. Is today special or something?” Emmett could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her break down. Usually it had something to do with her baby, but Emmett couldn’t think of anything that would have upset her like this.

Carlisle ran through the family calendar in his head, it wasn’t an important day that would set her off like this, it was just a normal Friday. “Where is she?”

“We’re at home, I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

“Stay where you are.” Carlisle demanded, already heading for the locker room, he’d hang up his coat, pass off his patients and be out the door. “I’ll see you in ten-minutes.”

—

Exactly eight-point-five minutes later, Carlisle’s Mercedes screeched to a halt in the driveway, and 2 seconds after that, he was inside the house.

Something was wrong. The unnatural, suffocating silence emitting from the house, set him on edge.

Of the entire family, Emmett was the least likely to need him for anything, ever.

“I can’t get her to come out and I can’t get in without breaking the house.” Emmett pointed towards the staircase. “She got quiet and in this house, that’s never been a good sign. She slowed down as soon as I called you.”

There was always sound coming from Esme’s art room. She played soft classical music on the stereo system while she painted and when she was throwing pottery, 1960s love songs floated through the house. She was never loud, but there was always some level of sound coming from the room.

Then suddenly, there was nothing. No music, No gentle humming. Just silence, deafening and uncomfortable silence. The largest part of her breakdown was over.

Carlisle darted up the three flights of stairs, sliding on his heels when he reached the door to his wife’s art studio. He listened closely, waiting for some indication that she was in there.

“Esme,” Carlisle called her name softly through the antique door and knocked twice before trying the handle. As expected, the glass knob wouldn’t budge. “May I come in?”

He waited for a beat and heard the quiet snick of the lock and the door swung open.

Newspaper clippings were scattered across the hardwood floor, Carlisle had to step around them. He stooped onto the floor and grabbed one, but every headline said the same thing. Small Cemetery on the outskirts of Milwaukee: Land Reallocated’

“Oh no.”

She’d moved to the floor for the extra space to spread out her research. Esme subscribed to all of the newspapers from the various towns the family moved to. It padded the recycling, helping them blend in with the rest of the community.

What she’d found in Wisconsin, broke her. She wanted the floor to open underneath her so she could drop into the hole, allowing the uncertain aching darkness to swallow her whole and she would disappear. She would never have to feel this kind of pain again.

When she finally spoke, “He’s gone.” The hoarse whisper came from the corner of the room. Esme had wedged herself between the corner of her drafting table and the wall. She was hiding and still so afraid to take up too much physical space. Carlisle suddenly remembered the last time he saw her like this. Though it had been nearly 8 decades, the memory burned bright.

A year after her change, on the exact one year anniversary of her son's death Carlisle found her in the small coat closet, knees bent to her chest, dry-sobbing into a pillow so she wouldn’t be heard. Somehow, this was worse. Esme worked to keep the memories of her baby, they were so tightly intertwined with her vile first husband that she couldn’t think of one without the other.

The angular window cast a pathetic ray of sunlight over her head. A broken halo, over his angel.

“Why are you here?”

“Emmett called.” If Carlisle’s heart could still move, it would have lurched into his throat when he saw her like that.

“Carlisle–”

He cut off her argument and dropped down on the wood floor beside her. “You’re not alright.”

Though there were no tears, dark makeup smeared on her face and her hands. The collar of her shirt was torn and shallow pale lines marred her chest where she so clearly aimed to claw out her own heart. Folding himself into the small space with her, he pulled her into his lap and slid his hands over hers, holding them in place so she couldn’t reach for her chest again. With vampire strength, and Esme’s pristine manicure there was a real danger of her hurting herself.

“The city.” She choked out into the side of his neck. Chest heaving, hands shaking against him.

“Shh…” He stroked her back. “I got it, now.” The evidence on the floor was all the information he needed.

“They turned my baby’s grave into a parking lot!” The words tore out of her mouth in an angry hiss. Saying it aloud cemented the fact that her child’s final resting place was gone. She’d outlived her son, twice.

The desecrated grave stood as a tangible reminder that in this semblance of a life, there was no place for fairness. Their never ending existence meant that they would always be the last people standing, while everyone around them died. It was the curse that came with immortality.

Carlisle pressed his wife against his chest, helpless as she convulsed in his arms. Her hands clawed at her chest, screeching like steel on granite.

“Stop trying to hurt yourself.” Carlisle locked her hands in his keeping them still. “Hold me,” he guided her hands to his shoulders and curled her fingers around either end of his scarf.

He held her tight as apologizes and pleas for forgiveness slipped through her sobs as she gasped for air and trembled.

“I left him there-”

Carlisle knew there was no sense in reasoning with her, she didn’t need to be told that staying in Milwaukee would not have helped her son. Esme’s anguish couldn’t be reasoned away, it bubbled up like a pus infected boil needing to be lanced.

“You’re forgiven.” He whispered into her hair, “I promise he forgives you.”

Sitting up slightly he grabbed the handmade quilt from the desk chair and covered her with it. “Jasper.” Carlisle depended on Jasper’s enhanced hearing. “Help me.”

Carlisle kissed her hair, bereft of anything useful to do. All he could do was try to offer comfort. “I’m very sorry,” his words were not hollow, but she couldn’t hear him. Not really. “Both of you deserve better than this.”

After nearly 80 years of marriage, he’d learned that sometimes all he had to do was shut up and hold her. Today was one of those days. The long-buried pain ran bone deep and he had no hope of ever truly alleviating her suffering.

Her voice was frail when she could finally speak again. “My poor baby. I’m sorry.”

Carlisle, for the first time in a century, wished he could drug his wife. As a doctor he would’ve given her a xanax and put her to bed. But she needed this release and drugging her because it broke his heart seeing her so upset, would be selfish.

A minute later, Jasper was in the doorway. “You rang?”

“Can you make it easier on her?” She needed the release, he didn’t want to take it from her completely. “Calm her down gradually?”

“I’ll try.” Jasper sat on the floor in the doorway, concentrating on Esme. A few seconds later, her breathing slowed and she’d stopped shaking.

“Breathe,” Carlisle pressed his palm against her chest, his fingers smoothed over her sternum as her eyes fluttered open. “Nice and slow.”

“He’s gone.” She blew out a breath, the hollow feeling in her chest weighing her down. “For real. He’s completely gone. What am I supposed to do, Carlisle? Leave flowers at a truck stop!”

“We’ll find another way. I promise, we will find a way to remember him.”

“That grave site was supposed to be permanent–suddenly–it’s not. He’s not here anymore and I don’t know how to do this.”

“We’ll just have to find another way…” he insisted, but he couldn’t come up with a solution at the moment. The Cullens rarely stayed anywhere longer than a few years. Who could have foreseen that the little gravesite with the stone placard and concrete angel wouldn’t be around for the next hundred years?

He lifted Esme into his arms, letting her head rest on his shoulder, her breath tickled the side of his neck.“Mind your head, My Dearest,” he gently extracted her from the small space and held her against him, his long legs eating the short distance to their bedroom.

****

“My poor boy,” the whispered words faded into the low light of the bedroom. The plush mattress dipped when Carlisle sat beside her, moving her hair out of her face. One finger ran back and forth against her cheek.

“His poor mother, too.” He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there.“I’ll be right back.”

Before she could ask where he was going, Carlisle was at her side with a warm, wet washcloth in hand. Carlisle was no stranger to washing wounds and all he could do was hope that Esme’s would start to heal.

“What are you doing?”

“You have makeup all over your face,” he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear where it had slipped from her ponytail.

“Oh.”

Carlisle washed the makeup from her eyes, he moved down the bridge of her nose and droplets of water drifted down her chin were the closest she would get to real tears.

“Does it even count?” A shy, timid question that Esme didn’t want to hear the answer to.

“Of course he counts.” He moved the cloth down her cheek, ever so gently; slowly chasing the dark streaks of makeup that melted off her face. “You held him in your body, kept him warm, safe and well fed. You loved him because that’s what a mother does.”

“Not well enough.” She choked, still teetering on the verge of emotion. “Not long enough.”

“It’s not your fault.” He didn’t know what happened to her son, but he knew Esme to be certain that she’d had nothing to do with his death.

“It was only three days.” There wasn’t enough time, she didn’t kiss her boy’s face enough times or watch his feet draw up when he slept. She didn’t get to read to him or even take him outside and let him feel the sunlight on his face. It wasn’t enough time, enough life to count herself as his mother.

“Joseph is your little boy. You nurtured him and loved him for as long as you had him, that doesn’t change.” He’d moved to her hands now, tenderly washing between each of her fingers and across her palms.

His hands slipped down her neck, barely grazing the nearly invisible self-inflicted wounds across her chest.

“Let me take a look.”

“It’s fine,” she tried to pull away but his hand on her shoulder held her in place.

“No, Esme.” He turned on the bedside lamp and retrieved his doctor’s bag from beside the bed. “It’s not fine.” He insisted, angling a penlight so the light shone across her chest.

“Carlisle please–”

“Answer the question, please. Does it hurt whilst I touch it?”

“N–” She sucked in a breath when his fingers prodded against her collarbone and down her chest.

“That would be a ‘yes’” He answered his own question, continuing to palpate the area. “Please stop trying to hurt yourself.” There was no question she’d cut herself. A long jagged line stretched across her breastbone, over her unbeating heart.

She didn’t deserve the pain and trauma of her human life. Now, her only tie left to that life was gone.

****

When he was finished and the ruined makeup had been washed away, Carlisle laid down beside Esme, holding her close. Her tangled curls falling across his chest. It was his fault for not keeping up with the gravesite. Carlisle knew he should have made it a priority to take Esme back to Milwaukee. The harrowing arrival of their grandchild and subsequent need to gather every vampire they’d ever had contact with; to confront the Volturi, took priority. Still, he should have made more of an effort to preserve the cemetery. Esme and Joseph did not deserve Carlisle’s negligence.

Mere words of apology couldn’t fix this, she would tell him that it wasn’t his fault. Without another comment, she’d kiss him, comfort him while she was the one in dire need of tenderness, and drop the subject completely. Esme wouldn’t hold a grudge, she didn’t have a mental rolodex of his mistakes filed away for ammunition to use later. She would just forgive him.

Carlisle didn��t want to be forgiven.

“Lay back,” he pressed one hand behind her head, angling her face away from his, giving him a clear look at her chest.

The venom washed up his throat, coating his tongue and he bent forward, sealing her wounds with his kiss.

#op this is gorg #like so what i needed on this fine Thursday morn #i love that its sombre and not so sickly sweet #i love that its a parking lot bc of course it is #i love the reference to self harm and Carlisle being firm with her about it #not so over placating #he is firm bc thats the kind of man he is #ugh delishhhh #carlesme #twilight fanfiction

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