Author's Note: As I was typing up this little trifle, a sudden thought hit me-this is the very first Esme POV I have ever written. How shocking is that? I think I've done every other Cullen but her, and now she finally gets her own one-shot! *Applause*

This story is unique among my current archives because it's the first one to do with that emerald-hued emotion we all know and love. Yes, that's right...Jealousy. Esme gets just a little jealous in this fanfic over the thought of one woman named Sarah...I guess you'll find out how she deals with it!

The song for this (fairly short) fanfic: Sharp-dressed Man by ZZ Top (whew, 80's song!) .com/watch?v=Pn2-b_opVTo I just laughed when I heard this song. It seemed appropriate.

Enjoy! *Insert dark, Edward-style chuckle*

Made In Morocco - A Twilight One-shot

"Do you like this one, dear?" I held the shirt between my thumbs, offering it up for inspection.

Carlisle sighed. "I will like whatever pleases you, darling."

I translated that sentence in my head: Can you please just pick the shirts you know we're going to keep and get this over with? I smiled to myself. No matter how erudite my husband was in all matters acadamic, Carlisle had never been one for fashion. I recalled a time when he told me he'd been all too happy to throw off eighteen-century clothing in favor of the Volturi's charcoal gray robes. But I didn't allow myself to dwell on the memory; it brought up images of Carlisle throwing off any kind of clothing, and I did have my mind-reading son downstairs to consider...

"Esme?" Carlisle was staring at me, the last shirt I'd persuaded him to try on in his hands. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, just remembering," I said, returning to my task.

Every three months or so, on the first Saturday of that month, Alice would hand me a monstrous stack of apparel bearing her stamp of approval. This stack typically contained button-down shirts, slacks, and polos perfectly tailored to Carlisle's size. From this stack, Alice would declare, and this stack only, would I be allowed to select outfits for my husband. I could sift through these shirts and slacks and pick whichever ones I liked best, and if she ever caught me with any shirts or slacks besides these, there would be dire consequences.

I was always rather hurt by Alice's assumption that I had no eye for men's clothing, but I consented to her wishes. And I also forced Carlisle to consent to her wishes as well. Truth be told, I rarely had to force him to follow our daughter's pharisaical fashion guidlines. Carlisle would wear whatever I handed him-that was the depth of his trust and the shallowness of his interest in clothing. It also helped that Alice bought most of Carlisle's clothes through Free Trade programs. He couldn't complain about replacing his wardrobe every three months when it benefitted a humanitarian effort.

So here we were in our bedroom, and here was the stack scattered about our bed and on the floor, the rejects of the pile already packed neatly into a cardboard box at my feet. Carlisle had already suffered through modeling twenty-eight shirts and fourteen pairs of slacks, six of which we had rejected. He was now sitting cross-legged on what little free space of the bed there was left, wearing only his new pair of deep gray pants. Those I could have mistaken for his old pair, they were so similar. I smiled again with the thought: Alice had undoubtedly seen how fond Carlisle was of those gray slacks and knew to replace them. Then I dropped my eyes quickly to the shirt still in my hands, trying to ignore how beautiful my husband looked without a shirt on. His skin was so perfect...

"Focus," I muttered to myself, low enough that Carlisle wouldn't hear me. Then I held out the shirt again. "Well, what do you think?"

Carlisle pursed his lips, holding back the reply I knew he longed to say. He settled for, "It's very...blue."

I sighed and handed it to him. "It's actually teal. You might as well try it on, Carlisle."

With a martyred expression that nearly made me laugh, he stood in one fluid motion. I watched as he shrugged into the expensive, soft button-down shirt, his grace apparent even in such a mundane action. As his hands flew down the shirt, Carlisle's face turned very serious, as if the shirt's buttons provided a challenge to a skilled vampire surgeon. I stifled another bubble of laughter.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Carlisle, once the buttons were conquered. He stepped sideways and into the light of the overhead bulbs stationed in the ceiling of our room.

I nearly gasped aloud.

Exquisite. That was the only word to describe him.

I had never seen Carlisle in a teal shirt, oddly enough. In all our years of marriage, one would think the color would have popped into our closet now and then, and yet this was the first time I could remember seeing him in such a vivid jewel tone. And the effect was...well, dazzling.

Against such a stark color, Carlisle's pale skin shone pure alabaster, as flawless as an Italian master's finest sculpture. The teal did not wash him out so much as it brought forward his vampire beauty. Where black or navy would make his skin white, this color made it luminescent.

The jewel tone transformed Carlisle's fair hair into shining gold. My eyes traveled from his golden hair to his golden eyes, both rendered beyond description by the teal. His eyes were staring at me, molten and hypnotizing. As my eyes slid over his face to drink in his symmetrical features, I felt venom begin to pool in my mouth.

For a moment I was on the point of a hysterical giggle. I was literally drooling over my husband, and all because of this one teal shirt.

There was no way this shirt was going in the rejection box.

But, then, I was brought quite powerfully back to earth when I considered Carlisle in this shirt at the hospital...around all those nurses. All those very human, very susceptible, very hormonal nurses. Even when he was wearing the most boring, unattractive clothes in the history of mankind (namely, scrubs), I knew women were looking. Of course, I couldn't blame them-Carlisle was so handsome, anyone would be mentally impaired not to notice.

The question was, did I have to encourage their interest by dressing him in this shirt?

I remembered with my impeccable recall the time I had spotted one nurse in the Forks hospital coveting my husband. She had stood across the room from him and followed his every move with her eyes, her gaze alight with indecent attention. I'd felt a snarl building in my throat, which I quickly turned into a cough. Carlisle had seen me then, and his radiant smile for me, and just me, had put the nurse in her place. I had hurried to embrace him and whisper to him what I had planned for our evening together, once he signed out of his shift. Carlisle's arms around me and his gentle kiss on my forehead had certainly wiped that simpering look off of her face.

But Sarah-I cringed internally when I thought of her name-was waiting at the Forks hospital. She was waiting expectantly for Carlisle to come back to his shift, and if she ever saw him in this shirt, looking like the angel that I knew him to be...

Such a thought was unacceptable.

I walked from around the bed, pretending to need a better view. Carlisle watched me with his eyebrows raised. Putting a hand to my chin, I tilted my head to the side.

"You know, darling," I said to Carlisle, inserting a due amount of dubiousness in my voice, "I just don't think that's your color."