Work Text:
2023.
That evening Esme Cullen looked every bit like the twenty-six-year-old she physically was, despite feeling older than she ever had in her one hundred and twenty-eight years of life.
Her ‘youngest daughter’ and granddaughter had helped pick and style her outfit that evening, which felt like a ridiculous Halloween costume of a “twenty-something.” The dress, floral printed linen, fell to the middle of her calf, and a silt in the skirt reaching the middle of her thigh was held up by spaghetti straps that seemed architecturally unsound. Alice had sent it through the mail months prior with a note that only said ‘Trust me.’ It was from a brand that started with R, Resolution, Renovation, Restoration, Reformation, or something like that. The dress showed more skin than the negligee Esme had worn on her wedding night. Granted, that garment had long sleeves, and a high neck, and went to her ankles, but the point still stood.
Alice had assured her the dress would not get her stoned in the town square and was indeed very in fashion and the “perfect” choice for that evening’s date. One of her husband’s many current occupations was a first-year residency at a large teaching hospital. He was pretending to be in his mid-twenties, barely out of medical school, and newly-ish married. His coworkers had formed a unique sense of comradery and after a lot of persuasion had convinced Carlisle, who in turn convinced Esme, to join them and their partners for drinks and dinner.
It was a stark contrast from Esme’s own career — a phrase which still felt surreal to use — where she was pretending to be in her late thirties with the help of a remote workplace, clever makeup and fashion choices, and extremely well-forged government documents. It was a relief to not have to pretend to be an early professional for the rest of her eternity, unlike her husband, but it had its downsides. When you tell a lie enough, “thirty-nine, no kids, my husband doesn’t mind how much I work,” it becomes true in a way. Going back to the truth, twenty-six deliriously in love with a man who cared very much that she worked so frequently, felt like entering a world she didn’t belong in. It was a disconnect she had become well acquainted with over the years, whether her role was housewife, devoted adoptive mother, or college student to the public she was always something different to those she lived with. A wife who expected equal domestic labor, a twenty-six-year-old woman whose house a bunch of teenagers lived in, or a grandmother. It was a necessary part of how they lived, molding into the role humans expected of them no matter how uncomfortable the fit.
This role in particular — the woman she was forever frozen as — was more disquieting than most. The dress did not help. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window as she walked and paused mid-step after determining the real estate office was closed for the day. She had let her hair dry naturally in the waves she rarely let see the light of day. Her makeup was done with the instruction of Alice and Ness over a video call. They had spent ten minutes instructing her how to comb her brows and where to place her rogue because apparently applying blush where a blush would naturally occur was no longer in fashion.
Alice had called the second she saw Esme debate bringing a jacket for modesty’s sake, informing her under no circumstance was Esme allowed to ruin her handiwork. Ness had chimed in from across the room, “Just because you’re a grandmother doesn’t mean you have to dress like one.” The three stayed on the video chat for forty minutes, falling into a familiar warm rhythm despite being on separate continents. The entire family had not all been in the same place at the same time for more than four years. She was able to ignore this fact most days with the aid of modern technology but seeing their smiles and watching them laugh had the homesickness making itself known. Esme had only made an excuse to hang up the call when Ness attempted to explain the definition of the word ‘gagged.’
Her world, which was supposed to be unchanging until the end of time, had morphed into something unrecognizable over the last century. The downtown street she was walking along, for example, was unidentifiable as the small town she had vacationed in seventy years prior. It was a three-hour drive from their current home, but only twenty minutes from one of the hospitals Carlisle worked at. The streets were still fairly empty, due to the group meeting for dinner on a weekday afternoon. It was an ideal time for the hospital staff’s schedule, and those with vampiric-based concerns about sun, but apparently, it was not a popular time for dinner for most people. The setting sun and overcast meant she was able to walk down the sidewalk freely, without worrying about blinding a passerby and subsequently being murdered by a group of cape-wearing Italians or the overwhelming cacophony of thousands of beating bloody hearts.
That afternoon the heartbeats were a hum she could ignore, like the buzzing of a gnat. There were probably under a hundred people on that block, tucked away in businesses and apartments or driving by in their cars. She could ignore them.
A man let out a wolf whistle behind her, punctuated by the slam of a car door. She could murder even the strongest man with minimal effort, yet, there she was gripping her purse and quickening her step, the intrinsic fear present no matter how minor the danger.
Thirty seconds later a large hand splayed against her lower back. She flinched ever so slightly at the contact before she recognized the weight of the hand, the cold of the gold wedding band, and the smell of the Sandalwood body wash she had purchased for him on a whim the month prior. Her fingers loosened around her purse strap as she glanced up at her husband.
“Hello, love,” Carlisle said, keeping the hand on her back as he pressed a kiss to her temple.
She gave him a once over. He had dressed just as ‘young’ as she had, only for him it didn’t look like a costume. He was wearing a light blue button-up, the top two buttons undone to reveal his neck but not his undershirt. His hair was styled looser than usual, a stray lock lying on his forehead, as usual. For the past few months, he had experimented with a pair of unnecessary glasses, with a modern take on Oxford frames. The outfit was quite becoming and he knew it.
“I hope,” she said, taking a step to the right so they were out of the line of nonexistent foot traffic, he, of course, followed right alongside her to stand in front of her, “I am the only woman you whistle at like that.”
“I assumed you knew it was me,” he said, brow furrowed as it always did when she flinched as she had, “my apologies.”
“I figured it out quick enough,” she said, waving away his unnecessary apology.
He nodded but was clearly unappeased by the way he was pressing his lips together, resembling a thin line.
She poked at the center of his chest, “Are you going to greet your wife properly or just holler at me on the street?”
“Oh,” he grinned, placing his hand on its former spot on her back to pull her closer and give her the requested kiss hello.
After far too few seconds she reluctantly broke the peck, which both were attempting to escalate. “We’re in public,” she muttered inches away from his lips, her arm had somehow found its way around his neck.
“This may be hard to believe, but a man can kiss his wife in public these days,” Carlisle smiled, leaning in for another kiss, which was met with his wife’s cheek as she turned her head.
“It’s never just a kiss with you,” she laughed, untangling her arm from his shoulders.
He sighed but did not attempt to refute her statement, knowing he could not win that argument. One public indecency warning had been enough of a deterrent for both of them. The fact it had been written by their son’s father-in-law had only served as a further incentive against public displays of affection.
“I’ve missed you,” he smiled, tucking a curl behind her ear.
“I missed you.”
It had been almost two weeks since they had seen each other last. Carlisle was working himself to the bone, holding positions at two separate hospitals and working part-time at a charity clinic. To her credit, Esme was also working herself to the bone, taking full advantage of the boom in the work-from-home movement consulting for half a dozen firms, and serving countless nonprofits. When the two were finally able to carve out time for each other they were forced to take advantage, knowing it could be weeks until they would see each other again.
Miraculously this evening had worked out for both of their schedules. They each had eight hours free of any obligations, they would spend two or three hours socializing and still have five to themselves. They had managed to plan to arrive at the restaurant separately, fifteen minutes before everyone else had scheduled to arrive.
“Did I compliment the dress yet?” Carlisle asked quietly, his fingers mindlessly playing with the back buttons.
“You did not,” Esme smiled.
“It’s divine,” he said, dropping the hand on her back to take her hand as she began to lead them down the block. His gaze never left the dress. “Just incredible.”
“It was a gift from Alice.”
Carlisle fetched his phone out of his pocket, “Siri, remind me to send Alice a thank you gift.”
“Done,” the robotic voice of his phone responded as he slipped the device back into his pocket.
Esme laughed, leaning into his side. “You don’t look too bad either.”
“You like me in blue.”
Esme grinned. They walked for a minute, slower than the average human before she spoke. “You don’t think the dress is too revealing?”
He glanced down at her, looking over the dress again as if he had not been leering a minute before. “Not at all. But have I ever objected to you wearing less clothes?”
Her own laugh caught her off guard, as the juxtaposition of her seemingly innocent son of a preacher husband speaking freely always did.
“Do you not like it?” Carlisle asked sincerely.
She shrugged. “It’s pretty, but it’s a little more daring than I’m used to.”
“If you’d like to take it off I’d be more than willing to assist,” he winked. The frequency with which he did this gesture indicated he must have thought it charming, even though it had never worked on his wife. Alright, it did not work on her often.
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, smacking his arm lightly.
Despite her impressive charade of levity, he dropped the flirtation. “If you are uncomfortable, I have a sweater in my car. I’m parked right there,” he said, motioning behind him.
“I would appreciate that,” she said, and they turned to head back the way they had just walked. “How was work?” She asked as they walked.
“Less frustrating than the last time I saw you.”
“Is Dr. Barnes still making calls you disagree with?”
“Frequently,” he sighed, digging his keys out of his car, “but none of his choices cost a life this week.”
“Small victories?” She joked.
“I have always been envious of your ability to find the positive in any situation,” he said popping the trunk.
“What can I say? It’s a gift that has gotten me nearly killed on more than one occasion.”
He laughed politely, but his eye twitch gave away his disturbance at the reference to her ‘near death’ experiences he hated to remember. She stood on the sidewalk, peering into his trunk as he dug.
“Sandy was nice enough to drop off the fabric you ordered,” he said, moving a large pink plastic shopping bag. One of the hospitals he worked at was minutes away from a quilt shop. Rather than pay for shipping or drive hours from home Carlisle graciously agreed to pick up her orders on his way home. “She threw in a couple of charm packs and jelly rolls.”
“How well are you tipping her?” Esme scoffed. He only smiled in return.
Along with the fabric were three changes of scrubs tucked in a plastic crate, his usual medical bag, and an open duffel bag he had been living out of for three years. He picked a half dozen books out of the bag. She rolled her eyes when he took out a framed photo of her. Finally, he found what he was looking for, he passed her the forest green cardigan.
“This is mine,” she said. He nodded, eyebrows raised in question. “Why do you keep my sweater with you?”
He looked down at his feet, a lopsided smile. “I miss you, occasionally.”
“Is that my shampoo?” She asked, looking in the duffel bag.
“I miss you, frequently,” he grinned.
It was shocking, and very charming, even after a century, how much he seemed to fancy her. “Perhaps, if you didn’t work the jobs of six people you would see me more often.”
“Remind me how many W-2s will you have this year?” He asked, locking the car.
“This isn’t about me,” she said, slipping on the cardigan. “Does this ruin the look?” She asked as he joined her on the sidewalk.
“I think that would be impossible,” he said, taking her hand again. “Do you want to sit for a few minutes?” He asked, motioning to a bench down the block. She nodded and they began to walk.
“How is your work?” Carlisle asked.
“Wonderful, I got assigned to lead on the mining town project.”
“Congratulations! That’s the mining town soon-to-be strip mall right?”
“That’s not funny,” she said, squeezing his hand in jest. “I also got an offer for an on-site project in Delaware.”
“Oh?” Carlisle asked, making a poor attempt at hiding his disdain for on-site projects. He was barely tolerating her current work schedule and he got her undivided attention once a fortnight, six months apart with hundreds of miles dividing them would be uncomfortable, to say the least.
“I did not accept,” she said.
“If you wanted to—”
“I don’t,” Esme reassured him, taking a seat on the bench. He took the seat next to her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. Her hand rested on his knee, her head on his shoulder. “I spoke to Alice and Ness today.”
“How are they?”
“They seem well. Alice is Alice. Ness said she would be calling you soon about something at work I didn’t understand.”
“I look forward to it.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching people across the street. An elderly couple were walking down the street bickering. A man in his forties was talking on the phone, a small dog dragging him along the sidewalk. A young couple turned the corner, with three children in tow. A little boy, four or five, with bright red hair was being terrorized by his little sister, a blonde who could not have been older than three. The parents had their hands full with an infant who was screeching like an owl.
Esme didn’t speak until the family walked into one of the shops. “I miss them,” she said.
“As do I. It’s been too long.”
“Have you earned any paid time off yet?”
“A few days, but I will have two weeks next year. Perhaps we could invite them out for the holidays?”
“I don’t want to trouble them,” Esme said, she was interrupted by the ping of her and Carlisle’s cellphones.
Carlisle checked his, laughed to himself, and angled the screen so she could see.
A text from Edward, ‘We’ll all be there.’
A follow-up text from Alice, ‘Only if Esme takes off the cardigan.’
Emmett’s text came in as she was looking at the screen, ‘Carlisle wants to take off more than the cardigan.’
“What did we ever do without a psychic?” Esme laughed as Carlisle typed out a response and then stowed his phone in his pocket.
“She does prove helpful in some instances.”
“Ridiciolusly irritating in others.”
“Yes, I remember the incident of ’57 as if it were yesterday,” Carlisle chuckled.
“Is there anything I should know about your coworkers?” Esme asked.
“There’s no one I’ll tell you to stay away from.”
“That’s a first.”
“I know. I think you’ll enjoy Madison, she works in pediatrics, and her partner the most.”
“I’m looking forward to finally putting faces to all of the names.”
“They’re all quite eager to meet you. More than one of them has joked you must be fictional.”
“Technically I am,” she laughed lightly, but it sounded sad even to her.
“Not the Esme I talk about.”
She ignored the compliment, sitting up and glancing at her watch. “Should we start walking?” She angled her wrist for him to see.
He shook his head, “They are all habitually late, I think we have time.”
They returned to people watching. Her head fell on his shoulder again, and his hand on her shoulder started to play with her hair. The silence was comfortable, like an old armchair next to a crackling fire. It was often that way for them. A large truck passed with all four windows down, Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine,” playing so loud it shook the car’s frame. The couple simultaneously blew air out of their nose, glancing at each other with a smile.
“I can’t say that was the song I expected,” Esme said.
“Me either,” Carlisle agreed.
They fell quiet again, her hand on his knee was mindlessly drawing shapes.
“I have been thinking of something,” he said, breaking the silence.
“I’m shocked,” she smiled, squeezing his knee.
“Would you be opposed if this was the last time I worked this schedule?”
“Are you truly asking me if I would be displeased by you working less?”
“I wanted to make sure before any decisions were made. I have been thinking we give this all a few good years but the next time we move could be to somewhere a little quieter. A small town, with internet, of course, so you can still do your work, but where I won’t need to work seventy-twos.”
“Carlisle, don’t feel as if you have to slow down on my account.” Perhaps she had given him too hard of a time about his schedule. She was in no position to judge. She was his wife, her role was to support him —
“I love you but it’s solely on my account. When this was necessary it was fulfilling but now… I fear I’m too old to never slow down.”
“I know what you mean.”
“If you’re old what am I?”
“No one is debating the fact that you’re old.”
“So you would not object to moving somewhere quieter in a few years? Having me around the house more?”
“Have you invited Edward yet?”
“Am I that transparent?” Carlisle laughed.
“I like to think I simply know you well.”
“Bella has been eyeing a Literature program at a university in Canada. I know you have to stay in the States but there are quite a few border towns. It would certainly be less of a distance than now.”
“I presume the rest of them would stay overseas.”
“I don’t know. Have you spoken to Rosalie recently?” Carlisle asked.
“No,” Esme muttered. It was a sore subject. “She’s invited me on a few trips I have had to decline, we have not spoken much since the last one I missed.”
“You haven’t reached out?”
“I’ve learned if she is cross it’s better to let her simmer.”
“That may be, but I don’t think she’s angry. Hurt, maybe, but I think she’s mainly trying to respect your space. She’s proud you’re working.”
“So you have clearly spoken to her.”
“She calls almost every Tuesday.”
“Really?” Esme asked. Rosalie and Carlisle had never been the best of friends, for many years they got along purely for Esme’s benefit.
“She calls to ask about you. I won’t betray her trust but I think she’s trying to give you the same grace you gave her when she first moved out on her own. I respect this is your relationship, but I think you should give her a call. Maybe invite her out here, before the holidays.”
“You don’t think she’s angry at me?”
“If she is she will get over it quickly,” Carlisle shrugged.
“I miss when life was simple,” Esme said, running her free hand through her hair.
“Things with Rosalie were never simple,” Carlisle laughed.
“I meant the whole world, I feel like a grandmother trying to figure this all out.”
“You are a grandmother.”
“Do you never feel as if the whole world is changing around you and you can’t keep up?”
He scoffed. “No, I always feel completely up to date with the times. Pray tell, are women allowed the vote yet?”
“I was asking a sincere question, Carlisle.”
He squeezed her upper arm in apology. “Of course I do, Es. Frankly, I think it would be concerning if I did not.”
“How do you keep up with it all?”
“Many would say I don’t. In fact, if I recall correctly you would be the one leading that thought process.”
“Carlisle.”
“First off, I think you aren’t giving yourself enough credit. You’re quite progressive for a hundred and twenty-eight, even if our granddaughter doesn’t agree. Second, I think what helps the most are the moments I do feel young.”
“For instance?”
“When I see you, for one. When you wear your hair like this. When I look at you in this dress.” He had leaned closer while delivering this line, the hand not around her shoulders rested above her knee, slowly trailing to mid-thigh.
“Is that right, Doctor Cullen?” Esme asked, recognizing his intent and matching the dare.
It was unclear who initiated the kiss, she thought it was him, but all she knew was she certainly did not feel old and the world felt quite simple.
“Get it, Cullen!” A deep voice shouted from across the street after what she would consider an embarrassing amount of time in retrospect.
Carlisle broke the affection, turning to the man, the two were positioned in a way she was blocked from what she assumed was Carlisle’s coworker’s view. He untangled his arm from around her shoulders and waved at the man across the street.
“Hello, Jaxson, with an X.”
“You don’t have to say with an X every time,” the man, apparently Jaxson, bellowed across the street.
“I assure you I do,” Carlisle chuckled.
"Hi, Mrs. Cullen," Jaxson yelled, she could hear the smile in his voice.
She waved over her husband's shoulder, refusing to show her face.
“We’ll be over in just a moment," Carlisle said.
The man did not respond verbally, but Carlisle’s light-hearted scoff made her think there must have been a gesture. Esme waited until the heavy footsteps and boisterous laughter faded paired with the sound of the restaurant door closing to look at her husband finally.
"Do I want to know what that gesture was?"
"Proof that, while the entire world changes around us men stay exactly the same," Carlisle chuckled lightly.
“That was absolutely mortifying,” she groaned, forehead falling on his chest.
“I have caught him in the on-call room in compromising situations on more than one occasion. Trust me, he does not find this mortifying. In fact, he might think higher of me because of this.”
“Just like in Grey’s Anatomy.”
“That television program is completely fictional,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and then standing. He held his hand out to help her up.
“You love that show and you know it,” she smiled.
As they began to walk he draped his arm around her back, her hand slid into his back pocket.
“To answer your question, this,” he said, hitting the crosswalk signal. She cocked a brow in question. “This,” he motioned with his head to the two of them, “that,” he glanced back at the bench with a lopsided grin, “are some of the things that make it feel like it’s not pretending and is what makes the pretending worth it. I can have an evening like this when I was fated for an eternity of solitude and misery, makes it worth it.”