Hi! This is Lisa, and here's the beginning of my new series of Carlisle/Esme one-shots. I'm posting three today, but after this, I'll probably only do one or two per week (depending on the length of each). With any luck, I'll keep it up even after school starts again, but we'll see (grad school, so…yeah, I'm interested to see what the workload's like).

Time-wise, I'm just going to kind of jump around, so though these first three are in chronological order, after this, the order's going to be a lot more erratic. This first one's sort of reminiscent of the seventh chapter of "I'm Always In Love" (SHAMELESS PLUG FOR MY OTHER FIC!), so…I just thought you should know. Hope you enjoy, and if you do, please review!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Twilight," Stephenie Meyer does.

1926: Comfort

Carlisle's POV

Some old habits died harder than others. This one, for example: it had been a perfectly hellish day at the hospital, and though Carlisle would have liked nothing more than to go home, he couldn't somehow. He didn't want Edward to have to hear his thoughts, or for Esme to see his face and ask him what was wrong, because then he would tell her, and she'd be hurt by it too.

Some days, Carlisle was happy he wasn't human: there was a lot to be said for humanity in general, but occasionally he would encounter such an abhorrent example of the species that he was glad to count himself among another race of creatures. When that happened, he'd always felt the need to be by himself for a while, to let himself be unhappy for a time before going home and preparing for another day. Solitude hadn't been hard to come by for the first two and a half centuries of his existence, but since Edward and Esme had come into his life, he was rarely alone. Carlisle was devoutly grateful for this fact, except on rare occasions like this one when all he felt fit for was the silence of his own society.

He was sitting in the forest a few miles from their new house, his back against a tree: his shift had ended hours ago, and behind the clouds, the sun was coming up, but still he didn't move. Life could be so unfair, and humans were far frailer than they realized; why was it that some felt the need to harm one another?

"Bad day?" a quiet voice beside him said.

Carlisle started and turned to look at her; he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even heard her coming. She seemed to realize as much, because as she sat down next to him in the dead leaves beneath the tree, she touched his face gently to pull him back to reality. He blinked and smiled weakly at her.

"The worst I've had in a while," he said. "I'm sorry, I would have come home, but Edward—"

"Of course you worry about him," she said, her voice still gentle but firmer now. "But what about you? Can I—" She hesitated. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she whispered. "I know you're used to being alone when you feel like this, but—I worry about you too, trying to handle things by yourself. I'd like to do something, if I can."

Carlisle thought about this. He was still learning, he realized, what it meant to be married, or perhaps more specifically, what it meant to be able to rely on someone. Carlisle felt, with a growing sense of relief, that he really could tell Esme anything: that when something hurt him, she didn't want him to bear it alone. Neither did he. They could face whatever it was together, each protecting the other from having to endure pain without help.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She smiled and moved closer to him. When their shoulders were touching, he moved his arm and wrapped it around her. Then he leaned his head down and rested it on top of hers, inhaling the scent of her hair as he slid his other arm around her. Without a word, she moved until she was perched in his lap, and then she began to rub his shoulders. Though they both knew the muscles of immortals knew no fatigue, he sighed after a few minutes, as if her touch had relaxed tension that didn't really exist on a physical level.

"Better?" she whispered.

"Yes," he said, wishing he didn't sound surprised. He was used to being close to Esme under romantic circumstances, but it was different, embracing only to comfort one another; they'd barely done that since she'd been a newborn, when platonic contact was the only thing they'd allowed themselves. And those times, he'd usually been the one to approach her, to embrace her or touch her hand to try and ease the suffering she'd felt in the early months of her new life.

"What is it?" she whispered, noticing his expression.

Carlisle shook his head. "It's just…I'd gotten so used to being the one to comfort you, or Edward, when you were having difficulties. It's…I'm not used to being comforted myself." He paused, uncertain how to express how he felt at this moment properly. "…Thank you, Esme."

For an instant, he could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes. But then she smiled, and kissed his forehead, each eyelid, each cheek, and then his lips.

"I love you," she whispered simply.

He smiled up at her, marveling that he'd found her again, that she was his forever.

"I love you too," he said, scooping her up in his arms and getting to his feet. "Now, shall we go home?"