Carlisle and Esme's first weeks as a couple

TW: Domestic abuse mentions

It's been on my mind for a little while now, to write something (short) that explores what Carlisle and Esme's first few months as a couple may have been like. I've worked with abuse survivors in the past, and I think that it is really important to challenge the preconceptions of abuse and what relationships after abuse may entail. These relationships require patience and hard work from both people, and lot's of survivors may feel unfair expectations to heal right away. I hope that this perhaps raises some awareness of the issue.

Lot's of love, I'd love to hear your thoughts x

She sat in the library for hours a day, thinking. Esme knew that Carlisle would never do anything bad to her, but her imagination was limited; she was incapable of conceiving a relationship which didn't end with being shouted at and hit and kicked. Wasn't it very possible, she asked herself, that she could push even somebody as good as Carlisle to that inevitability? Wasn't it forgone that she would inspire that hatred from even Carlisle Cullen? Was she so greedy for his love that she would ignore the lessons her history had taught her?

But even then, the quietest of voices had argued back. You can trust him. Carlisle isn't Charles; he would never do that. Not for anything. You love him for this.

And when she had tired of her time in the library, he would be waiting for her. In the leather armchair of his office, or sitting in the garden with Edward. He would always greet her with that same beautiful smile, pulling her close by her arms and kissing her gently on the cheek. In those first few weeks, Esme couldn't bring herself to initiate contact with Carlisle, nor ask for it, though she waited for it patiently. Becoming increasingly fond of those tender and innocent touches.

On the first night they shared a bed together, on Carlisle's promise that he would teach her the meditation that he had learnt during this travels and how it made him feel as refreshed as he imagined humans felt after a good nights sleep, they found themselves gently pressed against each other. Carlisle's right arm tucked under her neck and across her shoulders, his legs tangled with hers. Esme found herself beginning to crave Carlisle's affectionate physicality, which was so easy and natural and new.

One night however, as their nightly meditative routine was still recently established, Carlisle missed this crucial step and Esme worried that she had done something wrong. The next morning, as soon as the sun had risen enough to light their room in a delicate haze, she asked Carlisle if he was upset with her, and Carlisle, looking surprised, said of course not.

'I just wondered,' she'd began to stammer, 'because last night you didn't-' she was far too embarrassed to finish her sentence.

But then she saw Carlisle's handsome expression become clear, as he rolled softly onto his side and wrapped his arms around her delicate frame. 'This?' He'd asked, to which Esme gently nodded. 'It was only because last night was so warm.' Esme waited for Carlisle's laughter, which never came. 'That's the only reason, darling.' And they had kissed, which Esme still had to do with her eyes open, to remind herself that it was Carlisle she was kissing, and not Charles. But this time she'd closed them and counted to three, and when she opened them again she was smiling so much that she worried she'd ruined the kiss, but Carlisle had only kissed her harder. Following that exchange, he had held her the same way every night.

In those first few weeks Esme had been constantly pitting what she knew of Carlisle against what she'd learnt to expect from somebody who desired her. As if she somehow expected that the Carlisle she knew would be replaced with another, as though there was a different Carlisle for what was now different relationship.

It took Esme almost three weeks to muster the courage to ask Carlisle to replace the oil paints she had used. Her favourite colours had been emptied embarrassingly quickly and without painting to occupy her, she quickly sank into the thoughts that she usually reserved for when she was alone in the library. It was a Sunday morning, and Esme was suspicious that Edward had mentioned this to Carlisle, as he returned from the hospital with a heavy wooden box of painting supplies. She had almost cried; and had apologised and apologised until Carlisle had to all but beg her to stop. He was forced to reassure her five times, promising that he wasn't mad at all and that he would've gladly bought her an entire stores worth of oil paints had he known she enjoyed painting this much. Edward eventually intervened, easing the tension of the room by suggesting that the three of them spend the evening painting together.

It was less than a week later when they found themselves, as they often had in those early days, under their new favourite tree. Esme's head on Carlisle's shoulder as he read to her from a book she had shyly chosen in his office. After days of summoning enough courage, the young woman coyly leaned across and kissed Carlisle. It was the first time in her life that she had ever initiated such a kiss, and Esme hopes that with it she is conveying to Carlisle everything that she cannot say; everything she is ashamed of and everything she is grateful for. This time, she keeps her eyes closed for the entirety, imagining that someday soon, she too will be able to go wherever Carlisle goes when they kiss.