Disclaimer: None of the characters herein belong to me and I make no monetary gain from them. They are the property of Stephanie Meyer and the Twilight franchise.

Author's note: This story is influenced by a line from the film. I like the idea of anitquity and of feeling contrary to the times.

"At least we get to go to London. We haven't been there in a long time..."

It had been a tremendously long time since he had visited London; the city in which he had been born, transformed and, in the past he had thought, condemned. The last time he had visited had been in 1922, while indulging his wife's request to come here as part of their honeymoon even though he had been more than reluctant. Before that he had never returned since the time he had left as an immortal, going on foot to Dover and swimming from there to Calais. In all honestly, he had been delighted to leave it behind again and to return now, in such difficult circumstances, embittered him. In short, he despised London.

Rain, while his ally, was all the more miserable in this dreary city. He looked out of the hotel window as it slanted sideways onto the grey streets. Umbrellas floated below, as if on their own, hiding commuters as they hurried past towards the relative shelter of Covent Garden. The fat droplets coated the glass, impeding even his supernatural vision. He resisted a sigh as he examined the small, cramped streets below.

"I love London," she had said absently as they hailed a cab outside the airport and he had so wanted to share her sentiments.

When he had awoken in the cellar London had been, he had to acknowledge, a very different place. A filthy, gritty, uproarious town that was home to libertines and puritans alike. The town had been the spiritual home of the divisive Iron Side and his Rump Parliament and a common holiday destination for the Bubonic Plague. It was a practice in contradictions. The centre on which a precarious world spun. Yet, as modern and clean and cosmopolitan as it was now, it still made him feel uneasy. They had left Amun behind in Cairo, with the tentative promise he would travel to Forks with his small coven, and had flown here directly. The sun in Egypt, while a threat, had been a welcome distraction from the worries that troubled them so fully now. London however gave no such embrace and he hated her for it.

Before the snow stuck they had to get back home to their family. Before the battle that he was asking all of his friends to commit to he had to find them. Before the Volturi arrived he was praying to his God that some miracle would occur that would not condemn them all to certain death. Even to think of the task left him exhausted.

Alistair. He dreaded trying to find Alistair. He was a slippery fellow, and truculent too, so he would have to come up with a strategy to first encourage his friend to agree to talk and secondly to join them. He doubted, in all honesty, if he could find his friend at all if he did not want to be found. If Alistair really wanted to see Carlisle after eighty years he would seek him out. It was, he knew from previous experience, nigh on impossible to track down the paranoid man. It seemed impossible at least.

Defeat overwhelmed him.

Beside him, dragging him from his bleak revelry, Esme exhaled a breathy little sigh. He stole a look at her face as she sat on the window seat, her legs curled underneath her, her fingers pressed against the glass as she stared intently down onto the street below. There was longing there, though longing for what he could not be sure. He reached out to clasp her shoulder under her coat and the heavy wool was soft under his fingertips.

"Where should we start?"

She turned her face toward his at her question, a smile pulling the corners of her mouth. He reached out his fingers to caress her cheek.

"Alistair doesn't like me," she said suddenly with a sly little smile, "Does he?"

It was a ploy to make him laugh and it worked.

"I would argue that he is not particularly fond of anyone," he answered with a laugh, "He only considers me a friend because I have never been a threat to him. If anything, he finds me amusing."

She shrugged and smiled, turning her face back towards the window, "Where should we start then?"

He had thought they should start directly and in fact he had almost foregone the hotel reservation and suggested they go straight from Heathrow. Despite his keenness to begin, his better judgement prevented him from being so reckless. They had a façade to maintain but at times the façade became tedious. Thus under the alias of Mr and Mrs Smith they had checked into their very pleasant, and useless, five star hotel.

He longed, deeply, for tedium in this moment.

He selfishly resented this intrusion into his tedium now that it had happened so fully. Life had been so smooth for the last century but the last few years had been chaotic in the extreme and he longed, for all that was selfish in him, for the easier times he had taken for granted. Esme had brought him such stability and happiness, then his family had grown to the point where he felt surrounded with peace and security, and he had grown complacent in the normalcy of life.

It had been so long since he had been truly alone with his wife that he was reluctant to believe they were in this position now. Yet the circumstances were so contrary to how he would like them that it made him nervous with panic. The longer they were here, the longer they were apart from Renesmee and the others. He thought of fine Italian brogues trampling across newly fallen snow and suppressed a shudder.

"It's drawing nearer," she suddenly said, realising his preoccupied silence signalled his panic again, "Isn't it?"

"I dread to think of it," he said, his voice straining to form the words, "I am so afraid."

It was the first time he had admitted what she already knew. Their trip to Egypt had been at the point where they were determined to be proactive, determined to see only the positives of their situation. He often witnessed this in patients; determination at the start before true acceptance, then black reality piled on top as they suddenly realised their predicament. Sometimes patients fought their way out of it where others simply submitted. At least he knew they had no choice but to fight their way out of their terror. That was a small, pitiful comfort.

She simply reached for his hand and said, "As am I."

Peace, like warmth, filled him. That was the wonderful thing about his wife; that she could be so profound with nothing but honesty. She had already brought him comfort where he thought he could never be comforted. She had banished his loneliness and pain, refused them any tenure in him, and had made him safe in her heart and arms. She turned back to the glass with a stuttering little grumble that was a precursor to weeping falling from her lips.

He wanted, as she had, to take her pain away.

"It's raining," he submitted to his impulse, "And we can find Alistair tomorrow if he is not already seeking us out – he is a tracker after all. Shall we go out in London? You know Covent Garden has the most fantastic antique shops. It's shallow, I know, but I could do with some distraction."

She twisted her head, her eyes big with fear still, and smiled a watery smile.

"You're so lovely Carlisle, to want to let me be indulgent, but we should make a start."

"No," he said more emphatically than he had intended, "No, to spend a few hours will make no difference. Alistair will not be found if he does not want to. Surely you see the futility in searching for him when he will have already decided? You could have a few hours, doing your most favourite thing, in your most favourite city. It would ease your mind. It would ease mine."

She cocked her eye brow then, "It eases your mind? You hate shopping."

He nodded, already knotting his scarf around his neck and making quick work of the buttons on the front of his coat, "It is decided my dear. And look at that dreadful weather. We would be fools to ignore a glorious day like this."

She handed him his gloves, then his hat, "If anyone were to overhear us, they would think us insane."

"Who is to say we are not?"

They found themselves gliding along the slick streets, then cobbles, leading to Covent Garden. So used to this foul weather, the whole place was still awash with life as lunchtime descended on London. Vendors had pulled their stalls and tables under huge striped awnings but that aside, people still went about their daily business. It made it so much easier to blend in as they weaved their way through the crowds, arms linked. Their first stop was a bookshop which caught his eye, as bookshops always did.

In the window was a first edition of Jude the Obscure, mounted on a little stand above the rest. Dusty and weathered, a copy of Hobbes' Leviathan lay on a velvet cushion beside it. His passion for books did not stop at the first-editions and obscurities that he collected but he did enjoy the rarity of such a find. He was just fascinated with any book he could lay his hand on. Not long ago he had purchased the only known edition of Geographia Cosmographia at an auction in Sotheby's, through an anonymous dealer of course, but he was not restricted to rare books and curious.

"If you could," she said dryly, "You would salivate. Why don't we go in?"

He laughed a little, then pointed to the Leviathan and said quietly, "I was already an immortal when that was being penned. That book is younger than me."

She was already pushing her way in the door, the little bell tinkling to signal their arrival. Inside it was musty and damp but perfectly curated, the books pristinely ordered in both alphabetical order and order of value. He was examining a copy of Gray's Anatomy that was almost mint-condition when the owner of the shop wandered over.

"There aren't many," he said, "But we've had a few."

His accent was typically British, hints of the East End sneaking into the purposefully Chelsea intonation. Here, at least, Carlisle could indulge in his genuine, odd accent too.

"I am a doctor," Carlisle answered, "I have a first edition but it is much worn and it is American, 1859, not British."

Of course it was very worn – it had been bought on the day of publication in 1859 from Johns Hopkins' bookstore by his own hands, then stored on many study shelves and leafed through many times. When the time came it had been shared by Rose and Edward and admired as a curio. He wondered if it might be amusing to tell the owner he had, in fact, corresponded with the author on the book itself. He still had those letters stowed away in the attic.

"How much is this one?"

"Six thousand pounds," the man answered, dejectedly, opening the little glass cabinet with his cotton-gloved hands despite his clear belief that there was no point in doing so.

"Already darling?"

Esme had wandered over to him, a tatty 99 pence Art Deco book with no cover tucked under her arm. She wore a teasing smile as she too examined the book he was suddenly coveting. When engaged in this kind of task, it was almost possible to forget the horror of what was upon them.

"Mmm," he had taken the book from the owner with reverence, already clear on his decision, "I will have it."

The transaction complete, and feeling a little guilty, they left the store with the book safely boxed and wrapped and her little purchase nestled beside it in the plastic bag.

The rain still beat relentlessly and to maintain their charade he purchased a large golf umbrella which covered them both. Esme, unlike the girls, did not mind getting her hair wet but it would look odd if they were contentedly chatting and moving through the rain as if it were a light shower. He held it over them both, shaking it out when they reached the covered market in which lots of small, independent businesses had their premises. Her eyes were everywhere at once and he was reminded so thoroughly of her curiosity. It had seemed to be missing recently for anything other than Renesmee but now it was back in abundance. He was relieved and pained to see it.

She pulled him into a small shop with a green and gold front, the window filled to bursting with everything from Iron Crosses to wash stand sets and anything imaginable in between. In here she purchased a silver filigree brush set for Renesmee's pretty curls and a mother of pearl broach that was of no particular value but that she liked nonetheless. With delight at her pleasure he was happy to hand over the money for the trinkets he thought nothing and she thought everything of.

The next shop she fixed her intentions upon was decidedly more highbrow. There was more space inside and the antiques on display where carefully chosen. She wandered around, him following behind, until he found himself gazing at a double inkwell that was laid carefully out on a Regency desk which was selling for ten thousand British pounds. At first he thought it looked in keeping with the style but on closer inspection he saw the well was older than the desk. On instinct he reached out his fingers, letting them run around the lid and then flipping it gently open. The wells inside were, to his absurd disappointment, empty. His fingers longed to feel the feathery weight of a well hewn-quill, glistening with ink, suddenly. He felt bereft at how unused it was and how it was no longer useful. He cursed the fountain pen – he had yet to graduate to ball point even after all these years – that rested complacently in his trouser pocket in that moment.

He made his way to the counter, passing Esme as she studied a painting, where the man in charge of the shop lifted his head from The Times and smiled at him.

"I would like to inquire about the ink well?" He pointed in the direction of the desk.

The man peered over his spectacles, as if thinking hard about the piece in question, then gave a curt little nod.

"Pre-Restoration. Dating back to somewhere between 1630 and 40. Solid silver. Very beautiful."

No wonder he had felt such a kindred connection to it; it was the only thing in London that had been around when he had. He smiled.

"And how much is the ink well?"

He was already withdrawing his wallet from his breast pocket, no intention of haggling even crossing his mind. He felt the ink-well as if it were a tether, tying him to this earth at a time where he felt he was floating between existence and nothing. He cursed himself for his lack of faith.
Esme, as was her habit when Carlisle was indulging an unusual compunction to purchase an unnecessary luxury, was at his side instantly. The man heaved himself from behind the desk, reluctantly leaving his paper, and returned a few moments later with the item in hand.

"It is-"

"It doesn't matter," Esme interrupted the man softly, "It doesn't matter how much it costs. We will have it. It is very in keeping with your study Carlisle."

He reached over and placed a chaste kiss of thanks on her cheek, grateful for her inherent understanding. The man nodded and took his proffered credit card.

On their return, coats resting over gilded radiators and steaming in the heat of the room, Esme laid their purchases out on the huge bed. The rain still fell mercilessly outside yet he despised it a little less. She always did this; a line-up of plundered treasures that she would then admire and inspect. There were two books, the inkwell, the brooch and brush set, the little ceramic bowl she had fallen for, the post card of painted figures from the twenties and a trinket tin. All in all, a random collection of battered, pitiful little objects. She admired each individually though; appraised it and loved it, lifted it with reverence then returned it to its spot on the bed as if it was a priceless heirloom. He watched from his spot on the window seat, his eyes never leaving her, as she trailed her fingers along the fading paint on the ceramic bowl. Her mind was at home though, he could tell, and when fear overtook her, her fingers would pause in their appraisal as if startled. Then they would uptake their journey again, having battled their panic, and a little smile would flutter across her lips. He liked to imagine that she was thinking of him then, or of the others and Renesmee.

"What do you think of when you smile like that?"

She lifted her head from her study to look at him, innocence making her face more beautiful than it already was, "Lots of things. Home, our wedding...just now I was thinking of you."

He was bashfully pleased to hear it and delighted like a little boy in such wholesome affection. He came over to her, lifting the inkwell from its place in the line-up as he did so.

"Oh?"

"Yes," she answered, "I was thinking of you."

He climbed beside her on the bed, mimicking her crossed-leg position. He weighed the object in his hands, took pleasure in the heaviness and sturdiness of the cold metal, the very existence of it. He imitated the journey of her fingers and lamented their habit of collecting things as he felt the scrolls and turns of the silver under his fingers. Both of them were, in their own way, terrible hoarders. He collected information and knowledge and ideals as if they would disappear, she collected unloved and unwanted objects.

They were quite the pair of collectors.

Now they were here to collect old friends.

"You love antiques, don't you?" He asked into the comfortable silence, dropping the inkwell gently onto the space in front of them.

"Yes," she nodded, turning her elegant neck, "I do. In my wildest dreams I never thought I would be able to own so many valuable antiques. Not this lot, of course," she motioned to the bed in front of her, "But the other things..."

"A perk of immortality," he joked lightly.

She looked suddenly serious and, moving the inkwell, clambered into his lap so she was cradled there. She pressed her forehead to his, her eyes unblinking. He was taken aback momentarily but then settled into the embrace, their breath coming in unison as they sat silently for a while.

"You've never asked me what my favourite is," she whispered eventually.

"No," he agreed, perturbed by her trail of conversation after minutes of nothing.

Sometimes Esme's conversation, while always entertaining, was strange so he resolved to indulge her.

Ask me," she insisted, a sweet smile curving her lips.

"What is your favourite antique?"

"You."

He laughed then, openly and freely. The laugh came from deep within him, pushing its way out despite the fear he felt, to glance off the walls and furniture and ring around the room. She looked slightly disgruntled, laughing despite herself at his mirth.

"I am serious!" She scolded playfully, her little hand darting out to swat his chest.

"I do not doubt that," he laughed teasingly, "I just never viewed myself as a possession to you...until now."

"You know that's not what I mean," she huffed, "Earlier you spoke of my favourite city and my favourite past time. You had to know I already had my most favourite antique. It would be terrible of me not to tell you."

She looked at him seriously then, her fingers reaching up to grip the sides of his face, her eyes wide and dark, "Carlisle, you are my most treasured thing in the entire world. You have to know. You had to know."

He understood then and desperation entrapped his body. Reaching round he gripped the back of her neck, pulling her lips towards his. Their mouths crashed together violently, desperately. In a moment he was on his back and she was above him, straddling his hips as their newly acquired antiques flew in a scatter of indifference across the richly carpeted room. He wanted to pause, wanted to stop and tell her how he loved her, how he felt everything she felt in this moment. Urgency was insistent though and it felt urgent, in this moment, to instead show her. His hands moved over her abdomen, pulling her shirt free from the waistband of her slacks. Adjusting, he sat up, pushing the cotton upwards and placing kisses along the soft skin of her stomach.

It was a bizarre thing but he loved her stomach and it seemed the right place to begin his worship.

A shrill, grating sound broke the reverie of breathing and moans that they were sharing as her hands cradled his head lovingly.

"Ignore it my love," he ordered gently, feeling her tense slightly as he looked up and found her glancing towards the room phone.

It fell silent and she bent to kiss his mouth, smiling against his lips as her hands made light work of his shirt, her nails tearing impatiently at the material. Typically this made him embarrassed, that this diminutive creature could have such fire in her, but tonight it seemed only to inflame him further.

"My favourite antique," she splayed her fingers out against his chest with delight, "Is in mint condition."

"Well preserved," he muttered lowly, his lips seeking out the little depression between her neck and shoulder, eliciting a moan of success from her in his endeavour. Spurred on his hands found the edge of her shirt again and lifted it up, pushing it free of her body and onto the floor.

"I love you," he paused, crushing her to him, "I love you so very very much."

"Me too, my darling," she pulled her fingers through his hair, tugging back so his mouth was tipped towards her face. He groaned in ardour and in surprise just as the phone started up again.

No one ever phoned them in hotels. They had no one to phone them in hotels even if it was an option. If any of the family wanted them they used their cell phones to call. He shook his head to reassure her it was nothing to worry over and stretching, grasped the receiver a little too aggressively so it cracked under his hands. She climbed off of him and began, as if panicked, to collect their purchases from where they had scattered on the floor.

He had not, until this point, realised just how lost in the moment he had been. He had not recognised how truly he was giving into his basest instincts until the hand-set crunched in his fingers. He breathed deeply, loosened his knuckles and spoke.

"Mr Smith speaking," he sounded nothing like himself.

"Mr Smith," the nasal voice of the receptionist was almost grating, "We have a man at reception claiming to be your friend. He will give us no name other than Alistair. He's making the other guests very...uncomfortable."

He couldn't resist a rueful smile at the receptionist's words as he climbed from the bed, "Yes. I will be down directly."

"No!" The receptionist said urgently, "We'll send him up!"

He understood perfectly that someone who was dressed like a vagabond and refused to remove his sunglasses in a well-lit lobby was not the type of clientèle the hotel was accustomed to so he brooked no protest and simply said thank you before hanging up.

She had scooped everything into her arms when he had turned around and she simply stood there, heaving as dry sobs trembled through her body, her arms filled with their collection of unloved things. Half-undressed, gloriously beautiful, he was willing to wager it was the most terrible thing he had ever witnessed.

"I guess he- he found us," she sobbed, dropping the items onto the chair carelessly.

To both of them, he knew, those stupid purchases were trivial now.

He rushed as quickly as he thought himself capable of and pulled her into his arms, holding her with all the force he could muster, "All will be well, I promise you. There will be…another time."

"No," she whispered, defeated but accepting, "There won't. It has begun and we haven't...it's ending and we have not had enough time together. I don't mean to make love but for everything!"

No amount of time would ever be enough, he had come to realise, over the course of their marriage. Now it was so real it seemed as if both of them were being robbed for a second time of lives which had been the ones they were supposed to lead. He hated himself for such selfishness and such lack of gratefulness for what God had given them but to deny it, he felt it would to be deny that the sun rose in the east. He watched silently as she detached herself and pulled on her shirt, then passed him his.

"I promise you Esme," he vowed emphatically, as he pulled it over his shoulders, "We will have more time."

And he so desperately wanted to believe it. She sucked in a breath, pulled her resolve around her like a velvet cloak, and straightened up as she combed her fingers through her hair.

"We have to think of the family," she said as if she were reassuring herself, "We have to think of the child."

He nodded mutely because there were no words. For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes, realising that this was the last time they would be truly alone now. There was no time left for just them; it had slipped away and they hadn't even noticed.

"I don't know what your wife is snivelling over but I assume that is why you've set the whole world looking for me. The Volturi will never forgive me Carlisle," the voice from the other side of the door hissed aggressively, breaking their reverie.

She smiled and he smiled back. He had seen it often enough in patients; the acceptance of the end.

"Do you want to meet another old antique again?" He cupped her cheek softly, running his thumb across the crest of her cheek as he tried aimlessly to comfort her.

She smiled a little at his joke, then nodded with a whisper, "Most of the antiques I meet like me."

"As long as they don't love you as I do," he warned, turning towards the door.

"No one could," she promised, exhaling a little sigh.

Later they flew home, their frivolous inkwell and brooch and books and other items bundled safely into a case though not loved half as much as they were when first bought. She had closed her eyes, tipped her head onto his shoulder as the plane took off, and had not moved a muscle since, even though he knew she was awake. London drifted away behind them, dreary and unwelcoming, and fear overwhelmed him again. He prayed to his God to grant them more time. To grant Edward's daughter a full life. He prayed every prayer he knew, in every language he had.

Surely, up here amongst the clouds, God was listening.