XX WARNING! XX The last chapter of this story is RATED M. If that is going to bother you DON'T READ! As far as M rated stuff goes though I'm pretty tame. XX

Author's Note: This is an alternative story for Esme and Carlisle that only slightly contradicts the given story. I'm not much for 'love-at-first-sight' so I switched up some things. The end results are all about the same. The title is from a Billie Holiday song (yes it's not quite as old as 1921 but give me a break) called "If You Were Mine."

Light Up My Lover's Way by November Murray

For the reminisce of night

The day will dawn with greater light

And ghosts that follow in my wake

Shall at your sight but quiv'ring shake

And flee into their native lands

In my memory's darker bands

And with the memories of despair

Those of your love are dearer there

Chapter 1: Meetings

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Esme

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When I first laid eyes on Carlisle Cullen I knew he was a dream. For one, he wasn't Dr. Brooks, our middle aged balding local doctor who's hands we always clammy and trembled slightly. For another, he was as beautiful, the way I pictured an angel. His expression as he looked down at me was softly loving, compassionate and pitying but in a purely abstract sense. Maybe it was the lack of empathy—and by that I mean only that he did not know from his own experience the pain I felt. Or had felt. My world was narrowed and fuzzy now, the pain only a mild nuisance. That was the other reason I knew he was a dream: the opiates.

The angel above me spoke, his voice like the whisper of wind and distant tolling of bells but it meant nothing to my muddled brain. The walls of the small wood paneled office were already closing in on me. I felt safe knowing he was watching over me, standing at my bedside but also sad because when I awoke he would be gone again. My angel frowned then and I felt my lips mirroring his actions. He turned away and spoke again, his voice deeper. He looked back at me with an expression that might have been meant to reassure me but all I could focus on was the little crease in his brow and under it his golden eyes locked on mine. Then the world faded out.

.

I awoke again hours latter feeling exhausted, my body heavy and lethargic. My eyelids were reluctant to even flutter and even the dim evening light thought the single window was bright. I groaned softly.

"Esme?" My mother's voice as my elbow questioned.

"What?" I muttered, finding my voice as sluggish as my eyelids.

"She's awake?" Dr. Brooks asked and his loud footsteps crossed to my side. "Nice to see your eyes again, Miss Platt. Mrs. Hersh told Dr. Cullen she knew how to administer a pain-reliever." My eyes managed to focus on the familiar man shaking his head over me. "City doctors, so stingy," he said to himself with a frown.

I looked down at myself, struggling to prop up my torso with my arms. My right leg bulged under the sheet twice as large as the left. Slowly the memories came back to me of climbing the old apple tree in the back yard. I liked to sit up there and sketch the cattle and the horses in the field but today—or was it yesterday?—my pencil had slid between my fingers and without thinking I had grabbed for it, reaching out into the empty air. The branch on which I was resting gave me up to the ground with the soft ripping of fabric, flutter of paper and the rustling of leaves. Falling had been much quieter than I imagined. Then I hit the ground.

"Will my leg be alright?" I asked Dr. Brooks.

"Of course dear. I was assured by Dr. Cullen that it was a simple fibula fracture. You'll have to stay off your feet for a while, 7 or 8 weeks to be safe. Then you'll be back to dancing with the young boys." I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks at Mr. Brooks words.

"I—I don't think I'm quite old enough for that." I muttered with a sidelong glance at my mother who was frowning at Mr. Brooks. My small hopeful smile crumbled. Miss Dorothy Rose Davis down the road was only 15, a year younger than me, and she was allowed go to the local dances held at the nearby town hall once a month. Mother said it was because she had three unmarried older sisters but I didn't see how that made her different from me.

"Who is Dr. Cullen?" I asked instead, steering myself away from the long debated topic.

"He was the doctor the Columbus hospital was kind enough to send while I was away. I dear say, after working in the city it must have been mighty dull around her until you came in Miss Platt. Else he would have felt the entire trip a waste of his time." Dr. Brooks shook his head with clear contempt. I thought I heard him mutter "City people," under his breath.

"Perhaps you were already a bit foggy with the medicine," Mother said and helped me to lie down again.

"I suppose so," I said softly, thinking back to the face I has seen in my dreams. Certainly no living person could look so beautiful and kind. He must truly have been an angel. I wish I could see him again I thought. I knew at least now I would have a face in my mind to which I could pray too. Somehow sending my hopes and worries to God would be easier if I imagined that angel as the messenger.

So he became my companion through the long Sunday mornings and in the evenings at my mother's side while I mended my father's clothes and she read aloud from her well-worn book of sermons. I imagined him sitting next to me through the pastor's long sermons or placing a reassuring hand on my father's back as he sat at the dinning table in the long fire-lit evenings with his tired head bent. I used to think it was in prayer but later I wondered if it wasn't in defeat.

The day came when I did go to the dances, when my mother dressed me in white and pale green ribbons, curled my auburn hair and pinched my cheeks. The day came when I danced with young men and smiled warmly until I was scolded by my mother for my overt pleasure. The day came when I was introduced to Mr. Charles Evenson and smiled shyly as I was supposed to though I did not feel like smiling much at all. I knew no matter what I did my mother would find something to criticize. The day came when Charles Evenson called at our small farmhouse with a half dozen tulips and sat by my side in sparse conversation. The day came when Charles Evenson made my parents a proposition that my mother readily accepted on my behalf with restrained elation and vain pride in her guidance of me, without which I would never have made so advantageous a match. The day came that I was married in the little church where my angel and I endured many muggy summer or drafty winter mornings to Charles Walter Evenson. If my angel had truly been there he would have been frowning, he would have barred me from entering, bid me turn and run while I still could. But that day I could hardly bear to think of him because I knew God had forsaken me.

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Carlisle

.

They say, even for humans, that scent is the best memory trigger. Hers hit me like stepping out of the cool shade of a marble hall into the overbearing Italian sun. I felt it all the way down my throat like burning sand trickling into my lungs. It took me back to a little wooden building in the countryside seven years ago that was crystal clear in my immortal memory. A little girl was laid out on the single patient bed in the small building, her right leg splayed at an awkward angle and her brow beaded with sweat. Her smell filled the room: apple blossoms, spring rain, cedar, the cotton smell of her clothing, the smell of fresh dirt on her bare feet, the faint smell of the cheep sheet of paper clutched in her left hand, and the syrup too-sweet smell of opiates that never failed to turn my stomach; through the last smell nothing could be appetizing. She looked up at me with wide brown eyes, clouded in drug induced confusion. Then she surprised me; she smiled. Usually under the influence humans were more inclined to listen to their baser instincts that shied away from my strangeness, innately sensing the danger I posed. She showed none of that. Her smile was easy and accepting as she looked up at me and I couldn't help but smile back.

This memory played through my mind in the fraction of a second as I let the doorknob turn back to it's usual state as I swung the door open. By the time I was fully in the room it had passed and I was looking at a young woman, not the teenage girl I remembered, sitting on the examination table. She was dressed conservatively for Columbus in her long dark dress, simple white gloves, and modest jewelry but her beige coat was well made suggesting she was not poor, certainly not the kind of woman that I usually saw this close to the West Side. Regardless of all of this she would have stood out to me. Without the sickening opiates, the unique smell of her blood, stronger as I approached her in the confined space of the examination room, was the sweetest I had known in a hundred years. Only one scent in my memory rivaled her and I clung to the memory of that victory. I had resisted then and I could resist now, I told myself. I refused to acknowledge that then I had been at a distance not standing close enough to feel the warmth of her body pulsing with every loud, wet heartbeat. I swallowed the venom pooling in my mouth.

"Miss Platt," I said reading off of her intake sheet, "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen. What brings you here today?"

She looked up quickly from her folded hands and her lips parted softly. I could see dust moats in the air dragged towards her by the inaudible gasp she stifled. Did she recognize me? My own reaction surprised me. I knew in my rational mind that it would be far better for me if she didn't but at the same time I wanted her to know I was the man who fixed her broken leg, the man she smiled at all those years ago. I could see thoughts swirling in her large eyes but they were a mystery to me.

"My hand," she finally managed to say rather abruptly as she lifted her gloved hand out toward mine. I had just raised mine to take it when she said, "the other one. I mean—I-It's Esme. My name that is, please, call me Esme. It's very nice to meet you Dr. Cullen."

She stumbled over her own introduction in such an innocently sincere way that I hae to smile despite the blistering feeling of my throat. I shook her offered hand: soft fabric against my smooth cold skin leaving ghost images of the touch in surprisingly comfortable heat.

"Like wise. May I?" I held out my other hand for the one she cradled in her lap.

"Yes, of course," She said and lifted it to me only to flinch as soon as my finger touched her palm.

"Tender?" I asked.

"Yes," she admitted with shame that I did not understand.

"Would you remove your glove?" I asked. Her nod sent her smell wafting around me and I forced my lungs to freeze mid breath. I watched her struggle with the glove, easing it off her swollen injury carefully, hissing softly under her breath at the pain it caused her. I could smell her perspiration as she worked gently. I frowned.

"Ah!" She bit down on her lips at the last tug on the glove and her shoulders flinched. Tears sprung into her eyes and vainly, she tried to blink them back. Finally free of her hand, she put the glove aside on the operating table and dabbed with the back of her wrist at the corners of her eyes awkwardly.

"Here," I pulled the handkerchief I kept in my pocket, mostly for appearances shake.

"T-thank you," she whispered, her voice strangled slightly with threatening tears. I wondered how much pain she was hiding behind her composure. She dabbed her eyes quickly and took a deep breath before offering up her hand to me.

I examined it quickly, forgoing the usual moments of fake contemplation I used to appear more human in an effort to avoid the aching burn feeling her heartbeat under my fingers caused. Through my agitation at the physical touch I was relieved to find nothing broken only very badly bruised. I could see a distinct pattern of constriction on her creamy skin where blood was just beginning to pool. I noted the thinner area on one side of her wrist and larger section on the other, like a large thumb and palm had gripped her there.

Then I had to breath again to speak and the need was somehow worse than before. Dear God, I prayed more ardently then I had in decades, do not let me hurt this girl. Whether he heard me or not I was thankful; I remained myself.

"It looks like a simple sprain, painful but easily healed." I saw her shoulders visibly relax though she was still worrying the handkerchief in her good hand nervously. She looked over her wrist, checking the bruise, barely visible to human eyes. "I will have to insist that you refrain from wearing gloves until it is quite healed. No need of fashion is worth risking further injury."

"Will I be able to draw again?" She asked quickly, her head snapping up from her wrist to mine, leaning in to better look at my face. For the barest fraction of a second my control slipped as her warmth burned against my skin through my clothes and her smell saturated the air around me, and I leaned in toward her. No! Only hundreds of years kept me standing still as she looked pleadingly into my eyes.

"Draw?" I forced my mind to focus on her question. Of course, drawing! I remembered the paper clutched in her teenage hand even as she lay with a broken leg and the smudges of lead on her fingers. Is she an artist? Does she draw only for herself? What does she draw? Questions filled my mind unbidden but they were a welcome distraction from the thirst. "Yes, I believe you'll recover full function of your hand in just a few short weeks. If you are worried I could fashion you a brace and suggest avoiding using that hand as much as possible." I took the excuse to turn away from her, rummaging behind me for the supplies I would need.

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Cullen." She sounded relieved.

I rummaged through the drawers even though I knew where everything was. I had to stall. The idea of touching her skin again, feeling… I didn't know if my control went so far even now. I cursed my own weakness. I cursed God. I cursed the old vampire who had made me. I cursed my own father whom I had not given a thought for nearly a decade. All because I could not stand next to this human girl and ask her about her drawings.

"It seems my nurse has misplaced the bandages," I said easily palming the roll of cotton strips into my coat pocket. "If you go to the front desk she will fit you a brace, I assure you she's as good as I am at these things." I turned around and forced myself to smile at Esme Platt.

"Of course, thank you doctor." She said getting up and gathering in her coat in her good arm.

"Do you have someone at home to help you while you recover?" I asked. Was she married? Children? She was not too young for those things now. She clearly did not live with her family out in the country anymore. What had brought her to Columbus?

"Yes, I will be fine, I'm sure," She said with a smile just as genuine as my own. She had answered in the affirmative but somehow I felt that she meant no.

"Good," I lied. "Take care of yourself, don't lift anything heavier than a loaf of bread with that wrist for a while and keep an eye on the swelling. If it doesn't get better in a few weeks…" come back was what I meant to say but I stopped myself. There was barely a hitch in my speech that human would notice. "…take it to Columbus Hospital. They have newer equipment that will help them get a better look at what's going on."

"Thank you, Dr. Cullen," Esme said again as she stood to go. I held my breath preemptively and smiled as best I could. Her eyes lingered on me a few moments too long before the door closed behind her. I listed to the tapping of her heals down the wooden hall floor and waited for them to turn the corner before I opened the one window. Blessed fresh air, muggy with summer heat and pregnant with the human scents of the city and chemical smells of the automobiles filled my lungs. After her smell even the smell of fresh blood, so long as it wasn't hers, would be a relief. I heard her soft voice in the building behind me as she talked with the nurse. Voyeuristically I listened in on their conversation.

"A nasty sprain," Nurse Hall noted. "How did you manage that?"

"It was just an accident. I fell on the stairs and caught myself," Esme replied, her voice light but her heart pounding.

"Probably carrying too much as well I imagine."

"Y-yes, something like that," Esme replied so softly it was almost lost in the noises of the surrounding offices and the street outside.

"Well if Dr. Cullen thinks this is all you need then you can rest easy."

"Is he very good, Dr. Cullen I mean?"

"Oh yes, young though. I must say it's strange working for a doctor half my age."

"H—has be been here long?" Esme asked and I felt the ghost of a beat in my chest. She did remember me. Fear or excitement filled me in equal measures. I didn't like Columbus any more than other places I had lived, but if I left I would never see her again. Foolish! I admonished myself. You could hardly stand to be in the same room with her yet you want to see her again? Just to check up on her injuries, I told myself but I knew that was a lie. She would be fine, of that I was sure—So long as I didn't harm her.

"He came to us a few years ago from the north side. We could never figure out why an upstanding doctor like him would pass up better work for a place here but he just smiles whenever we ask and says he 'didn't fit in up in Beachwood'. Did you know him up there, Ma'am?"

I held my breath.

"No, no I—I've never lived in Beachwood."

"Oh of course not. Listen to me fishing for gossip. Well that just about does it. Keep that dry and tight. If it does come loose just pop back in and I'll get you all fixed up."

I breathed out. Turning back to that room that still carried traces of her smell, my eyes caught on a spot of white. It was her glove on the table. She had left it behind. I lifted it, feeling the traces of her warmth still in the fabric and inspecting the few seems that had been well mended, almost unnoticeably, and the two buttons at the wrist, one pearly white and the other a different shape and pale blue, clearly sewn on by hand as a replacement.

I was two steps toward the door, on my way to return the glove when I paused. I rationalized that seeing her again would only put her in danger never considering that Nurse Hall could deliver the glove. I was reluctant to let it go. Footsteps sounded in the hall and I slipped the glove into my coat as my next patient was shown in.

After that day I thought I had passed my greatest test and there was little more to be improved on my control. I was wrong. I did not know that there was a kind of bloodlust I had never encountered that undermined every shackle and chain I had painstakingly built for the beast inside of me. I had very little experience with pure unadulterated hate.

In the days that followed my second chance meeting with Miss Esme Platt I knew only the barely consoling assurance that she was living her life happily somewhere. I would find myself reminded of her suddenly: between shifts, waiting to return to work, sitting at home alone reading an author's description would bring her image to my mind, the smell of paper would bring up my burning curiosity at her drawings, the smell of a passing stranger would be just close enough to bring back the throat scalding memory of her scent. It seemed in the months that followed I found every possible way to be reminded of the woman I should never see again. And then there was the glove tucked away in my white coat at work, the tenuous physical connection that I indulged myself with. I entertained the fantasy that I might return it one day. I deeply regretted getting the chance.

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Esme

.

I knew when Charles pulled up beside the little office that I would not be lucky enough to miss Dr. Cullen. I knew that my husband's anger should he learn of my last visit to the kind doctor on the other side of town would be all the greater if the two men met but I remained silent. It seemed a price worth paying to see his angelic face again, a face I thought only a dream for so many years and seemed still impossible because it had not aged a day in my mind. Though my mind, as I have been told many times by my mother, is unreliable at best. Her words of our last phone conversation still echoed in my mind: "He can not be expected to humor your abnormalities the way we have. You will endeavor to be a better wife and not the sniveling child that I sent down the aisle. You are a woman now, that means taking on a woman's responsibilities. Lord help us if he leaves you we will be out of house and home in a few short years. You do not get a second chance at this, do you understand me Esme Anne?" It wasn't a question. All I could do was nod on the other end of the line and grip Dr. Cullen's handkerchief like a rosary because I did not trust my voice to speak.

Charles led me roughly into the little building and made his usual excuses for my "clumsiness." I was glad at least not to see the talkative Nurse Hall anywhere as we were lead into the small examination room.

"Sit," Charles grunted and released my arm. Blood rushed like a warm flood back down to my fingertips and I shivered. "Smile," Charles demanded as footsteps approached outside. I just nodded and took a deep shuddering breath. I had only managed a half-hearted trembling quirt of my lips before the door opened.

Seeing his face I wanted nothing more than to cry. My memory never seemed to do it justice. I had never exaggerated his beauty, if anything I had understated it in my own imagination. He looked at me with those strange light eyes filled with all the compassion I had felt in my first prayers to God. He glanced down at the papers in his hand and I knew he was double-checking my name.

"Mrs. Evenson," he said without hesitation, eyes scanning me then flickering to apprise Charles, who was leaning against the wall. "And I assume you are Mr. Evenson. I'm Dr. Cullen. What brings you here today?" It was like a sick parody of our first meeting. I watched as the two men shook hands stiffly. It didn't look like Dr. Cullen was even breathing.

"My wife," Charles said without even glancing at me, "tripped while cleaning the house. She's hurt her shoulder."

"I see," Dr. Cullen said, turning to me. "How did you fall?"

"What does it matter?" Charles demanded.

"It will help me determine the severity of the injury," Dr. Cullen answered without missing a beat and I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead. I wondered if my heart was beating loud enough for Charles to hear it on the other side of the room because it was pounding in my ears. My shoulder ached, making me realize I was trying to wring my hands.

"She was carrying too much, slipped on her own mess, and fell on her shoulder." Charles replied for me.

"Is that what happened, Mrs. Evenson?" Dr. Cullen asked me.

"Yes, doctor," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

"Well then, let's have a look."

"A what?" Charles demanded.

"Just a figure of speech," Dr. Cullen replied. "I need to feel how the joint reacts so I can ascertain the amount of damage. If I may, Mrs. Evenson." He held his hands over my shoulder and waited for my nod. I was immediately grateful. I often jumped at unexpected touches nowadays. I didn't want anything to make him more suspicious than he already was.

His hands were cold and firm through my sweater as he moved my shoulder. Even as he moved it slowly and gently I had to gasp aloud when the pain hit.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled and released me. His face was troubled and his brow furrowed in concentration, perhaps even suspicion. My heart pounded faster and I was very glad the doctor's back was to Charles at that moment. By the time he had turned around his face was a mask of professionalism again.

"Well the good news is that I don't think anything is broken or torn. At worst you had a minor or near dislocation and your shoulder will be very weak for at least a month." He spoke directly to me though I could only meet his eyes for a few seconds at a time. They always seemed to stray to Charles face, which grew dark as Dr. Cullen continued to ignore him. "I will get you a sling and I must insist that you use it for at least two week. After that don't lift anything heavy for a month, work up to larger items and don't strain yourself. If you do you may cause further damage and lengthen your recovery."

"Yes, doctor," I mumbled and I caught a quick frown across the doctor's face.

"I'll also write you a prescription for some pain killers, they will take the edge off the worst of the pain. Mr. Evenson, if you would go to the front desk, Nurse Joy will find a sling for you and I'll have your wife's prescription as soon as you get back." I barely need to glance at Charles face to see that he was furious, and for a moment I was afraid that he would refuse.

"Yes, of course," He said and left the room in a huff. I heard him muttering 'understaffed' and 'pompous' as he left so I was sure Dr. Cullen heard him too. My face burned red with shame made all the worse by being alone with the beautifully kind doctor.

His back was to me as he scribbled on his prescription pad and for a moment we were completely silent. Even the scratching of his pen stopped and he stood so still I wondered if he was alright.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper.

"Not at all," he said, coming back to life. He turned to me and ripped off the top sheet of his pad. "Privacy is part of the job; everyone is entitled to theirs. This is for you." I thought I imagined an emphasis on the last word but ignored it.

"Thank you, Dr. Cullen."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Evenson." He stepped away toward the window, his left hand slipping into his pocket. Silently as I could I stood up to leave, holding my injured shoulder gently. I was almost to the door when his voice made me stop.

"You don't deserve it." He spoke softly but his voice rang with conviction and it froze me in mid step. "I know it is not my place to say, but his abuse is not your fault. Any justification he gives for this… is just a lie to disguise the truth. There is nothing you could do to deserve physical violence." I could hardly breath and from the silence in the small room I don't think he was breathing either. I knew I shouldn't, but I betrayed myself and looked back at him. His eyes were the same, golden and caring even though his jaw was rigid as stone and the crease in his brow was a deep shadow of concern. He was standing awkwardly, too straight, too still, with one hand shoved deep into his pocket and the other fisted at his side. I wondered for a second how scary an angry angel could be.

I said the only thing I could say.

"He's my husband."

My angel looked away sharply and down at the floor, nodding once his understanding. I swallowed thickly before fleeing the room. I couldn't look at his pity and the pain in his face. I tried in vain as Charles drove us home to picture my angel's face as I had first seen it, serene and caring but all that I could conjure up was the fresh memory of his tortured look, helpless and grieving for me. I hated myself in those moments more than I thought Charles ever could. Try as I might it was that image of Dr. Cullen that I was left with and that image haunted my dreams for the years that followed. It sprung to my mind whenever I saw the little square of folded cloth in the bottom of my handbag and the faded initials, C. C. sewn on the corner. The small cloth talisman was a painful reminder of his words but I could never bring myself to throw it away.

Author's Note: Well this is something I never thought I'd do. Write Twilight Fanfiction (insert dramatic shiver here) but for supernatural fluffy romance there's little better. This is one of my favorite couples and I had a lot of fun writing their love story. I hope you liked it and keep reading. -Ember