Work Text:
1921
Carlisle glanced up from his spot on the floor for the umpteenth time that evening. The jigsaw puzzle — which had initially been Edward’s but had been quickly discarded by the impatient teenager — he had intended to spend his morning working on had proved to be much less enticing than the woman curled up by the fireplace.
Esme was currently attempting to crochet a lace doily, for no other reason than she had never finished one in her previous life — much to her mother’s chagrin. Even with supernatural senses and strength the task proved to be difficult, fortunately — or unfortunately depending who was asked — her stubbornness had only been enhanced by venom. Her bottom lip was held between her teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration. The glow of the fire flickered, an orange glow reflecting on her porcelain-like skin.
Their courtship was still in its infancy, first declarations of affection only a month or so past, and yet — as cliche as it was — it felt to him as if they had been Carlisle and Esme since the start of time. From very early in their friendship they seemed to gravitate towards each other, fully content to spend an evening quietly in the same room. It was remarkable how simply being near her put him at ease, well as at ease as Carlisle was ever able to be.
She was kind, and brilliant, and much more fascinating than his puzzle. Half of her hair was tied back out of her face with a ribbon, loose curls falling over her shoulders. It was more flattering than he cared to admit.
“Is there something on my face?” Esme asked, breaking Carlisle from his own thoughts. She wiped at the corner of her lip with her thumb.
“Pardon?” Carlisle asked, feigning innocence. He turned a piece of the puzzle between his thumb and forefinger to appear as if he had not been gawking at her but instead in deep concentration.
“You have been looking at me all evening,” Esme explained. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No, no.”
“Then what is it? I styled my hair differently. Is it truly that unflattering?”
“No, it’s quite becoming,” he said quietly, refusing to look at her while paying the compliment.
“You were not looking at me for any reason?”
“I suppose not.”
She frowned in response and returned to her task, brows remaining furrowed as she twisted the thread around her finger.
The two returned to silently working on their own tasks, far more aware of the other’s presence than before. Carlisle attempted to focus on the puzzle but quickly grew tired of it and swept the pieces into their box. He did recognize the hypocrisy of how he had tormented Edward over a short attention span, but paid this little mind.
As he walked to the bookcase he could swear he felt Esme’s eyes on him. The brass candlestick sitting on one of the shelves confirmed this suspicion. He smiled to himself, trading the puzzle for a novel Esme had insisted he read a half dozen times.
His hand froze midair as the realization hit him.
“How did you know?” Carlisle asked, turning on his heel, what he figured was an unbecoming smirk on his lips.
She pretended as if she was only just looking up from her hook and thread, tilting her head in question.
“How were you aware I was looking at you if you were not also looking at me?”
Her eyes widened. “I… My senses are quite strong.”
“Is that so?” He asked, taking slow steps across the room.
“Yes.”
“You were not also stealing glances at me all evening?” He grinned, stepping in front of her.
She looked up at him, eyes widened ever so slightly — a fear response someone who did not know her as well would not have noticed — and he knelt down to close the height difference. She gave him an appreciative half-smile and quickly brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.
“I was not stealing glances at you all evening,” she said adamantly. He raised a brow, hands resting on the arms of her chair. “Perhaps a few,” she admitted quietly.
“I think someone fancies me,” he beamed, lightly poking her arm.
“I do not know who that would be,” she said, re-fixing her attention on her crochet project.
“You think I am handsome. You are fond of me. You find me pleasant to look at," he said in a sing-song voice.
“I was not looking at you nearly as often as you were staring at me,” she said flatly.
“Yes, I think you are enchanting. This has been well established.”
“You do?” She finally looked up at him, her tone that of a genuine question.
“I believe I have made that known, Beloved.”
“And yet it is gratifying to hear it,” she smiled, setting her project back in her lap, hands falling on either one of his shoulders.
“But you refuse me the pleasure of hearing you admit you are sweet on me.”
She rolled her eyes but leaned closer. “I am quite fond of you, Carlisle,” she said quietly. “Some would say I am in love with you.”
“You are?” He grinned, hand traveling from the arm of the chair to her back, pulling her closer.
“I believe I have made that well known,” she muttered, closing the gap between their lips.
“You were looking,” he muttered against her lips.
“Hush.”