Love At First Sight

This is the story of Carlisle and Esme, of how they met and their subsequent relationship. May be a one shot, or I may develop it into a longer story, anyway so please R&R!

Chicago, Illinois 1939

Dr Carlisle Cullen strode down the main wing of Chicago General, his white medical coat flapping around his strong legs. His gaze fell on the numerous empty beds, the few patients sleeping soundly, undisturbed by ailment. Seeing the ward so empty, he heaved a satisfied breath of relief. Nothing was more satisfying to a doctor than an empty ward; not because it meant less work, but because it meant there were less sick or ailing people in the world.

In all his long years of life, Carlisle had never found any greater satisfaction than seeing his patients return to health and happiness, a penance for his state of existence. His mind drifted to his 'son', Edward, right now awaiting his return at their home on the outskirts of the city. He was so restless, so dissatisfied with his existence, always searching for something. Something unattainable and unknown. And Carlisle knew how he felt. He himself had been searching for that elusive 'something' for centuries…

"Dr Cullen?" a voice behind Carlisle snapped him out of his reverie, his blond hair floating ethereally on the breeze as he turned.

"Yes?" he asked, glancing at the intern scurrying up the ward towards him. His golden eyes glittered as the scent of fresh blood rose upon the air, somewhere far in the distance.

"We have an emergency. An attempted suicide, by all accounts. Found at the bottom of a cliff…pretty badly broken up, we need you down in the emergency department right away," the intern sputtered out, clearly out of breath. Carlisle was out the doors of the ward before he finished speaking.

"What do we have here?" he asked the moment he barged through the doors of the emergency room, remembering at the last moment to slow his speed, so he didn't take the doors off their hinges and out the windows at the other end of the room.

Several other doctors were swarming around a bed in the middle of the room, the clinical white walls reflecting the harsh light of the theatre lamps. Carlisle winced, to his evolved senses the light was almost painful. The sea of medical professionals parted to reveal a bloody form lying on a bed. As he neared, his stride slowed, stuttering almost to a halt, the scent of blood almost overpowering, even to his iron wrought willpower.

As he approached, slower now, the bloody remains became the form of a woman, barely alive. But Carlisle could hear her heartbeat, slow, weak, and barely discernible beneath the thunder of the others' heartbeats, but still there.

"Threw herself off a cliff, it seems. A widow just lost her baby in a miscarriage, no other family to speak of. Right we'll need to…." the voices of the other doctors faded into silence as Carlisle saw the woman's face clearly, lacerated though it was.

The woman's face was like the finest peach silk, where it was unmarred by the cuts and scrape from her fall, her hair lay lank and bloodied from a head wound, on the pillow, yet Carlisle could see it was a rich caramel colour, no doubt smooth as satin when clean.

Her long graceful arms, though bent at odd angles, lay on the sheet their purity sullied by red gashes and purple bruises flowering everywhere. His gaze swept lower, the rest of her body hidden by the sheet. She was so beautiful, if it weren't for the red blood spilling from her wounds, he would have sworn she was a vampire. His fingers tremblingly traced the line of her lips, bending over her, examining the extent of her injuries.

"…to the morgue," the words pounded into his brain, ripping him from his fascination.

"Morgue? But she's not dead!" he exclaimed incredulously, forgetting they could not hear her heartbeat, as he could. The other doctors looked at him pityingly.

"Carlisle, she's a bag of bones. There's no heartbeat, no flicker of life. She's dead," one of them contradicted him bluntly, already dismissing her from his mind. Carlisle felt an uncharacteristic rage fill him, he wanted to slam that patronizing oaf into the wall and pulverize him. But years of enduring the bloodlust had taught him self-control. He reined his rage in, controlled it, tempered it until it dimmed, tamed for the time being.

Two assistants appeared to wheel the bed from beneath his hands, as the fury rose again. He clenched his fist, swinging around to confront the doctor who had spoken.

"Did you even try to revive her?" he asked violently, running his hands through his hair against the urge to throttle the man. The doctor sniffed contemptuously; clearly thinking Carlisle was overreacting to the whole situation.

"Of course we did, but there was little point. She fell over thirty feet, there was no way she could've survived. Her spine was broken for a start. For God's sake, Carlisle get a grip. She's just one more Jane Doe," he turned away, taking a clipboard from a neighbouring doctor and marching out of the emergency room. Carlisle watched him go, thankful he was out of reach, before he turned and followed the trolley to the morgue.

In the morgue, they had laid out the Jane Doe on a bed, washing her wounds so they all but disappeared, the limbs set gently back to their natural angles, her hair washed and dry, the wound covered by the silken waves. They had dressed her in a buttoned-up-to-the-neck gown, her torn and wrecked clothes lying beside her, like so much lost baggage waiting to be claimed.

Carlisle sat down beside her, still hearing her faint heartbeat in the silence of the morgue, the morgue techies leaving him alone, no doubt wondering if he was mad. He wondered if he was, clinging to this unknown woman's life, determined never to let go. He glanced at his watch; it was ten to midnight, his shift had ended and Edward would be expecting him at home. But he couldn't leave, couldn't unfreeze himself from her side.

He sat gazing at her pure, beautiful face, still so much warmer and darker than his own. Her mouth was slightly open, the thunder of her heartbeat still in his ears, he bent his head forward and placed his cheek against her lips. The tiniest whisper of cold breath from her dead lips, he jumped, tearing his face from hers. Beneath his hands, her chest rose and fell a tiny amount. Barely daring to hope, he leaned forward and spoke clearly.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

The woman's eyes snapped open, their sparkling depths clouded by great pain. They were a chocolate brown, as rich as her hair. He stroked it calmingly, trying to avoid her struggling, injuring herself more. Her heartbeat was still weak, already fading.

It would not be long now before she succumbed to death; she was completely paralysed, her lifeblood drained away, her soft limbs broken beyond repair. Pity welled, as well as relief, relief that he at least had not abandoned her. She clearly couldn't speak, and this last burst of energy could be a sign of the end.

An idea occurred to him, one he heard of doctors using with paralysed patients to test awareness.

"Can you understand me? Blink if you can," he encouraged her, taking her hand and squeezing it, careful of the cuts on it. A tiny flicker of an eyelid, and he smiled reassuringly. A single tear dripped from her eye, like a single twinkling diamond in the moonlight streaming in through the window. He touched it, wiping it away, and a strange feeling welled through his being.

"Don't be afraid. I won't leave you," his whole body was racked with helplessness. He could do nothing for this broken, beautiful butterfly, still so young, although he could now see she was, biologically speaking, a few years older than he.

"You enjoy talkin' to dead people or wha'?" a hoarse voice behind him murmured. Carlisle turned his head to see a youthful sprig he knew well, Harry.

"Still here, Harry?" he asked jovially, hiding his sadness.

"Yeah," he replied sullenly. He came to stand behind Carlisle, looking over his shoulder. "Aye, she's a pretty one, alright. Heard about your little scene in t'emergency room," he continued, probing for gossip. At Carlisle's silence, he continued doggedly, "never known you to get this attached, Carlisle. What's so special 'bout this one?" he asked. Carlisle shifted to face him.

"I don't know," he replied, before he turned back to his silent vigil.

"Look on your face a minute ago, looked like you were in love with her or somefink," Harry remarked as he stumped out of the door. Carlisle's eyes bored into his back, startled at the comment. Harry continued to march away, unaware of Carlisle's surprise.

Carlisle turned back to his patient, her eyes open and still aware, still alive. He looked into those beautiful, rich brown eyes, so full of pain, unable to give voice to her emotions. What was it they had said? She threw herself from a cliff? She had wanted to die….

He felt her death rattle, her breathing slowing, her heartbeat almost gone when he stroked her cheek and whispered, "I will not let you die,"

A strange recklessness had filled him, one that centuries of survival ought to have dispelled but it reared its head, like a newborn, unbelievably strong. In that single moment, when he met the eyes of that beautiful, broken woman, he knew why she was different, knew why he couldn't stand back and let her die. She may have been beyond mortal help, but not immortal help. But should he?

He and Edward had just moved back to Chicago after an absence of twenty years, if he turned her, they would have to migrate again pretty soon. Could he uproot Edward again? But, in all conscience, could he let this woman who had snared his heart die?

It wasn't just his conscience that rebelled against the thought, his poor deadened heart, his shrivelled soul rejected the idea with a vehemence that had Carlisle standing in a flash and striding to the window.

He stared into the distance, into the smog-filled city of Chicago, bright lights twinkling like so many stars that sat upon the Earth. He turned his head and watched the pale, glowing form on the mortuary bed, a strange longing filling his body. He walked back, slower now, and sat on the bed, taking her hand again. He took a deep, although unnecessary breath, before he whispered in her ear, hoping she could still hear him.

"Do you want to die? Blink if you don't," he waited, every muscle tensed, breath baited. Slowly he saw a flicker of an eyelid and satisfaction flared through him, glad that she was allowing him to save her. Her eyes followed him, her heartbeat weak and erratic, as slowly, he reached out one hand and began to undo the buttons of her gown, drawing the two halves apart so they bared her neck and collarbone. Her eyes were burning with pain and sadness, desperation in their intense depths. Carlisle could feel himself drowning in them as he lowered his mouth to her neck and whispered, pleadingly, "Forgive me…"

He bit down.