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This is the first time Charlie has seen the much talked about Cullen house. It’s not quite finished yet, but near enough. Jesus fuck, these people are loaded.
He has been fishing on the stream at the edge of their property ever since he had bumped into Carlisle that one day, with the Cullen’s permission of course. Often, while he indulges in his Saturday ritual, he can hear distant sounds of sawing or beeping of construction equipment. Their last time at the bar, Carlisle had asked him to stop by before he went to the stream this week.
Now, Charlie is standing in front of something that looks like it belongs in one of those Traditional Home magazines you leaf through at doctors offices because you are so goddamn bored. Carlise’s pretty face is lit up by an elated smile as he rapid fire gives Charlie the low down about their forest mansion. He’s wearing an obnoxious yellow hard hat that should look stupid, but of course doesn’t. Under the dumb hat, his hair falls onto his forehead, slightly damp from the misty afternoon.
“Charlie,” Esme’s quiet greeting breaks through his reverie.
“Esme,” he nods at her. They are people of few words.
“Darling, I think Charlie has heard enough about the house and would like to go to the stream now,” she’s eyeing the rod and tackle box gripped in Charlie’s hands. She’s not wrong. As much as he enjoys Carlisle’s company, it’s his Saturday off. And he’s never been interested in architecture anyway.
“Oh of course, my apologies,” Carlisle spares him a dazzling smile as he turns back to their general contractor who had been waiting with a disgruntled expression on his face.
“Now, Mr. Cullen, I really want to get back to the kitchen. We have to make sure the specific things I mentioned in my email are up to code - ” Charlie tunes the man out and turns back to Esme.
“Would you like to join me?” He mutters.
She looks briefly surprised. But after a moment's hesitation, she nods her assent. They make their way through the dense woods, the sound of their breathing and distant bird calls their only companions.
When they reach the stream, Charlie baits his hook then offers it to Esme. Her small white hands reach out and take the rod. Grunting slightly, Charlie lowers himself to the mossy rocks. Gracefully, Esme casts the line. They spend the next hour or so in complete and mutual silence.
Charlie is gutting a fish when Carlisle and a slender teenager emerge from the forest.
“This is my son Edward,” Charlie gives him a jerk of his head, still not willing to breach the peaceful quiet. The sullen boy glares at Charlie with what he feels like is unnecessary fervor.
Jesus, the kid looks like he needs to take a shit or something. I know being a teenager is hard, but you don’t have to be a bitch to everyone you meet.
“You both look like you are having fun!” Carlisle smiles at them. Charlie cuts a look to Esme. What do you want to do? She cocks her head at Charlie, then looks at her husband and places a single delicate finger to her lips.
“Ah,” understanding crosses Carlisle’s face and he and the boy sit down on the stones beside Charlie and his decapitated fish. They all listen to the gently babbling stream and the wind rustling through the trees as Charlie finishes up and Esme holds the rod in her hand, ethereal face lifted to the gray sky.
Eventually, Edward gets bored: with a sniff, he gets up and wanders back into the woods. However, Carlisle stays. Charlie can feel the heat of his stare as he looks back and forth between Charlie and his wife.
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