Work Text:
May 1921:
The automobile rumbled down the gravel driveway as fast as the engine would take it, still not fast enough for the vampire who sat behind the wheel. Carlisle glanced towards the house as he rounded the bend of the drive. A line of linens hung up to dry greeted him. A face peeked out of the sheets as the car approached. The cloud cover was dense enough her skin looked almost human, her smile though gave her away in an instant. A grin more than a smile, the dimple on her left cheek shined, her nose scrunched ever so slightly. No, that smile was supernatural… divine even.
She disappeared back into the sea of linen as he parked the vehicle. “Good morning, Miss Platt!” He called as he grabbed his things from the passenger seat. He bounded up the front porch steps two at a time, hiding the surprise he carried from her peering eyes.
“Good morning, Dr. Cullen.” He heard the smack of a delicate hand against cotton.
“I have asked you a million times, Carlisle,” he sighed, shedding his tie and jacket with a quick swish. He hung his briefcase on the wall hook and quickly made his way back into the front yard. The front door snapped open and closed, as he stowed her gift behind his back.
She had disappeared onto the other side of the clothesline. “You’ve asked Carlisle what?” She asked and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I’m glad you enjoy torturing me so,” he huffed as he crossed the front yard at a human pace.
“You make it extremely easy… Carlisle.” He moved the sheet aside right as she said his name. What a sight to behold. He mentally thanked the Lord that breath was unnecessary since she insisted on stealing it so frequently.
“Hi, Esme,” he beamed, attempting to keep his smile casual but failing desperately.
“Hello.” Her smile was almost wider than his as she looked up at him. A few stray wisps of curls falling out of her updo, the caramel curl complimenting the dark honey of her eyes. They were getting golder every day, yet another thing he thanked the Lord for.
He blinked away the words he felt compelled to say every time she smiled at him like that. He then realized he had been staring at said smile silently for a solid minute and a half. Her eyes bounced from his face to the hand he held behind his back. He looked down at his arm and remembered the gift he’d spent so long picking out.
He thrust out the bouquet clumsily. She looked down at the arrangement and back up at him, a slight furrow of his brows. He extended his arm further and she looked down and up again, a tilt of her head this time. It dawned on him at this precise moment he was just silently throwing flowers at her with no explanation.
“I apologize,” he stammered. “These are for you,” he laughed lightly at his own foolishness.
“I don’t understand,” her brow furrowed again.
“I saw them… I thought of you… I thought perhaps you would like them. You like flowers, I thought you might like some of your own. Was that awfully presumptuous of me?”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she smiled politely.
“I wanted to,” he assured her. She met his eyes for a mere second and something in the gloss of her eye made him fear no one had ever wanted to before. “Consider it a thank you.”
“A thank you,” she guffawed. “Goodness whatever for?”
It occurred to Carlisle at that very moment he couldn’t quite say ‘being you’ as he originally planned while he spent twenty-one minutes at the florist’s stand. The arrangement was his way of silently declaring his adoration. Heliotropes, devotion. White tulips, a declaration of love. Violets, faithfulness. Phlox, our souls are united. Words he could never dare utter aloud.
“For being here.” Well, that didn’t sound too shabby.
“I should be the one thanking you.”
“Thank me by accepting the flowers?” He grinned.
“You drive a hard bargain,” she laughed, taking the bouquet from his hands. She brought the flowers up to her nose and he thought his heart restarted as she smiled to herself. “Thank you, Carlisle.” Dear Lord, he’d harvest every meadow if it meant she said his name with that much admiration once more.
“Any… Anytime,” he stuttered. He shouldn’t be able to stutter with a supernatural brain but here he was. “I didn’t know your favorite so I picked some of mine,” he shrugged, offering his arm to lead them back to the house.
“Goldenrod,” she said, slipping her free arm in his.
“Goldenrod? The weed? Those are your favorites?”
“They’re not weeds, they’re flowers. They’re native to Ohio and they’re pretty. I love these though. Did you know certain flowers used to have symbolism, people would send flowers when they couldn’t say what they wished to? Heliotropes were used to mean devotion and eternal love.”
Carlisle froze mid-step, she wasn’t supposed to know. How did she know? Did she know he knew? If she knew that he knew she knew, was she hoping he wouldn’t respond? Would she be scandalized if he did?
“I know you didn’t mean that, silly,” she lightly elbowed him, pulling him to keep walking. “You look like I just shot your dog,” she laughed to herself. He took a deep inhale when she looked away. That was far too close.
“Edward’s new record came,” she said as he held the door open for her.
“Did it?” He practically skipped over to the gramophone. “May we?” He motioned to the record already in place.
“Mais oui.” She nodded, disappearing into the kitchen to fetch a vase.
“That was good!” He laughed, placing the needle.
“I can’t take the praise. Edward taught me that one.”
The small room was filled with the romantic tune of a composer he recognized as McNair Ilgenfritz. A man with a small collection of beautiful tunes. The current piece had been described as ‘the pinnacle of romance’ by many when it debuted years prior. Listening again he found himself agreeing. He didn’t know if he was hearing the tune anew because of the years gone by or because after so many years he finally had a reference point for romance?
The bounce of a piano key felt like the undead flutter of his heart when she laughed so hard she snorted. The feeling of warmth when she lightly touched his shoulder as she passed. The impossible flip of his stomach when she smiled so wide both her dimples showed.
She smiled that exact smile as she rejoined him. Bringing with her the flowers arranged in an old painted thing they’d found in the attic months prior. She placed the arrangement on the mantle, fiddling with the leaves till they fell just right.
“I think the sixteen year old who corrected my pronunciation of jejune would have made the connection eventually,” he smiled, watching her work.
“How many times do I have to apologize for that?” She joked, turning to face him. Her eyes flickered to his left foot that was bouncing along with the waltz. “That was Edward’s favorite too.”
“It’s a beautiful composition. I imagine he forced you to dance all night,” he breathed. What he’d give to whisk her around the room until sunrise.
“I’m not a waltzer…. And our Edward is many things but a patient teacher is not one.”
“You don’t know how?”
“Not many balls on the farm.”
“Well that will not stand,” he grinned.
“I truly have two left feet,” she protested, but he was already reaching for her hand.
“I assure you, my right is good enough for both of us.” He held his hand out which she immediately took. He glanced down at their hands, and remarked at how well hers fit in his own. His eyes darted to her face, her own gaze fixed on their hands, quickly darting to his stare. He went to grab her waist. “May I?”
She nodded and he tentatively rested a hand on her back. Her stiff posture seemed to relax every so slightly with his touch. He motioned with his head her free hand was to rest on his bicep. If she was wearing a proper crinoline she’d be holding her dress but fashion had died; and thus, her hand was going to rest over a scar he hated anyone touching. She placed her hand where he directed and instead of shirking away he sunk into the touch.
It was the closest they’d ever been, besides the time he cradled her dying body as he whisked her away from a morgue but that hardly seemed to count.
He took a deep inhale and she mirrored his breath. “Ready?” He whispered as ‘Cynthia Waltzes’ faded into the ‘Hesitation Waltz.’ She smiled with a jerky nod and he took the first step.
“One,” he counted as he took the first step. “Two, three.” He beamed as she followed along excellently, a little nervous but excellently nonetheless. “Thatta girl.”
She mastered the basic bounce back and forth quite quickly, swaying easily wherever he led. “It’s going to get a little more complex. Alright?”
“Alright,” she grinned. He pulled her tighter and stepped forward. She wasn’t expecting the movement and stumbled slightly, although the grasp he had on her gave her little room to fall.
“You’re alright,” he assured her. “We’re going to step one.” They slid one step. “Two. Three. Four.” Their smiles got brighter with every successful step. “Now we’re going to spin.”
He led them to turn as the music picked up. Their first spin was clumsy, feet bumping into each other, bodies jerking in two different directions. “Just go where I go,” he reminded her. “I have you.” He pulled her closer to demonstrate his point.
“You have me,” she repeated in a hushed whisper. More to herself than to him.
He led them to turn again, this time it was a movement completely in tune with each other. The third she was practically floating on her feet. By the fourth they were almost jumping from one foot to the other. They continued twirling around the small living room until the song ended. There were more complex moves he should have led them into to teach her the dance properly; but spinning around like a music box was far more thrilling.
Hesitation faded into some sloppy rendition of Vivaldi and Esme was still wrapped in his arms. Eyes alight as she looked up at him, her updo had come almost fully undone. Her body had slipped much closer to his than the position they started in, not that he was complaining.
“Can we try again?” She whispered timidly. “Now that I know the moves.”
“Of course,” he chuckled, pulling her over to the gramophone and rewinding to the waltz.
They repeated the waltz six times, throwing in a few more intricate moves with each go.
Eventually they had to pull away from each other. Carlisle feared Edward’s wrath if he burned a hole through his brand new record.
Both were laughing over some quite dull joke he’d told, acting as if the quip was the pinnacle of humor.
“Has that gotten boring after two hundred years?” Esme asked, collapsing on the couch. A stray curl falling on her forehead as she fell.
“What?” He collapsed half a foot away from her.
“Dazzling the entire dance floor.”
“Well, I…” he glanced at his feet sheepishly. “No, it’s still quite fun.”
“I imagine it has changed over the years,” she said absentmindedly.
“Much more physical contact. Much more. A trend I used to oppose.”
“Past tense?” She glanced over with a raised brow.
“I believe the right partner was all the persuasion I needed.”
“Well I advise you to never try that on any human women, their hearts might just give out.”
“Is that so?” He felt a crooked smile on his lips. “How’s your heart, Ms. Platt?”
“Dead, but if it wasn’t I’m sure it would be well on its way there.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to die.”
“I’m lucky I know a very skilled vampire doctor then,” she laughed lightly, looking away.
He smiled too but had to bite his tongue to refrain from confessing how wrong she was. ‘Till the day he died he’d be the luckiest man undead. He dreamt of the day he could say the words aloud but for now heliotropes and hesitant dances had to suffice.