Writings

Christmas Eve, 1917
Columbus, Ohio and Chicago, Illinois

She misses the tree.

Always, growing up, there was a tree, cut down by her father just after Thanksgiving. They would string cranberries and popcorn, and with her brother Jimmy she would make paper chains. There would be candles and warm pressed cider, and in their stockings, a single orange for a treat.

Now there is only the scent of pipe smoke, the touch of hands that are a little too rough. There is no stocking yet because there is no child; there is no tree because her father never taught her how properly to cut one. Charles has settled with her downtown, near the university, a stone’s throw from the Olentangy, which at this time of year is frozen in on both sides so that it is barely a trickle. Yesterday, she put on her boots and a coat and walked out to see the children as they played and slid precariously on the ice.

She longs for a child, but she worries, too. Worries that, as her father always warned her, she won’t be woman enough to raise him well; worries that that the child’s father will treat him as he treats her. Her friends told her how wonderful it was to be wed; how their husbands cared for them, how they enjoyed going to bed with them. But she is happier like this, when Charles is gone most of the day, and she is free to go as she pleases, to stare out the drawing room window into the hurling snow. After December, Charles is to be sent to Germany to join the war, and while she thinks she will cope well with his absence, it occurs to her that this may be their only Christmas together. It’s not that she doesn’t love him; she does. In a way he reminds her of Jimmy with the way he tucks his chin into his coat against the cold Ohio winter and with his infectious laugh. And sometimes the hands are gentle, and his stubble against her lips is soothing instead of rough.

But only sometimes.

So as the sun begins to set, she can see the figures moving down the street, a few automobiles moving slowly in the accumulated snow. Bells toll, calling the people in their coats to church; children throw snowballs, stumbling and laughing. And she presses her forehead to the window, her caramel hair sticking to the cold glass as she waits.

~||x||~

In the darkness, a doctor glides among his patients. Hospitals do not stop their work for Christmas, and he, having no family, faithfully volunteers for the Christmas Eve shift. The patients greet him cheerfully as he takes temperatures, listens for irregular heartbeats, brings water and blankets—normally the purview of the nurses, but tonight many are home preparing gifts for their children, and so he takes on these smaller duties with pride.

They send as many patients home as they can, but there are always a few who must remain. Some have stockings hung at the foot of their beds, courtesy of the ladies’ aid. Some have been visited by their families, some are too ill to recognize their families any longer.

The ward at night is lit by electric lamplight, and he finds himself imagining that the warm glows are produced by the candles and gas lamps that lit hundreds of Christmases in his past. The light washes over his pale skin, making it glow yellow-red, as though blood flows through his veins, and as he tends to his patients, he gazes at his arms, trying fervently to remember when this color was once their natural hue.

There is a calm here in the hospital, a quiet that passes understanding, and the doctor moves prayerfully among the beds, grateful for the presence of those whose lives which, in their way, sustain his own. They are a gift to him more precious than anything that will be opened in the whole city in the morning, for they give him purpose and direction.

Yet as he makes his rounds, he watches as a wife leaves her husband’s side, kissing his forehead and promising to return in the morning. A small pile of gifts sits on the nightstand next to a sleeping boy.

No one will be kissing the doctor; no one will celebrate this night at his side. There will be no gifts on his nightstand, and he has no one to bestow any upon. He will pass this night attending his patients, and in the morning will slide away, unnoticed, before the first rays of dawn.

And though Carlisle finds peace in this place, his stilled heart aches.

~||x||~

All Souls Episcopal Church has a candlelight service, which his mother still calls a Midnight Mass. Elizabeth Masen was born Elizabeth O’Hallohan, and the Irish Catholicism clings to her like so much that defines her. When he was younger, it was Edward Jr. who clung to her, his body wrapped around hers in the pew as he tried desperately to stay awake to see Santa Claus. But he never managed to keep his eyes open all the way to the candle lighting at midnight, and his father would carry him home in the snow.

It’s easier for him to stay awake now, although tonight he’s drowsier than usual because his father allowed him a large snifter of bourbon after dinner. He pretends to be alert because he wants to hold his liquor like a grown man. But he is an inexperienced drinker and skinny for sixteen, and more than a sip or two of alcohol sends him hurtling toward slumber.

He tries not to let his head loll onto his mother’s shoulder, but it’s difficult and his eyelids droop. The organ music swells, and his eyes close briefly as his father’s deep voice croons the Christmas hymns.

The anticipation is somehow still here, the fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach that used to accompany the knowledge that he would be carried to bed and would wake to a home full of new toys. Edward wants little these days, except to grow up more quickly. He sees a life before him that is just out of his reach—as a decorated soldier, as an accomplished pianist. As a father, as a husband—the dreams his parents have for him and which he, also, holds for himself. Christmas means the new year, an older age, a step closer to these things he dreams. So though at sixteen, he awaits neither toys nor Santa, he is tonight as giddy as he is content.

This Christmas night, three hearts wait in stillness. In a house on the river, a mother leans against the freezing glass. In a darkened hospital, a father works alone. And in the warmth of a pew, his face bathed in candlelight, the child awaited, this son beloved, closes his eyes and succumbs to sleep.

~

Note on Tweet, Tweet: Peter Facinelli was interviewed a while ago about his twitter. In the course of the interview, he said, “Carlisle would definitely have a twitter.” I was subsequently challenged by friends to write Carlisle’s twitter feed.

I made some minor adjustments to the presentation of Twitter just to make it easier to follow (not the least of which was putting the oldest tweets at the top so that it can be read in order). I also didn’t put in timestamps, but suffice it to say that sometimes there’s a longer gap between tweets than others. Suspend disbelief as needed.  This is set in 2010, making Nessie physically 3.5, and given that her rate of growth decays exponentially, I’m imagining puts her at about young teen/tween.

Tweet, Tweet!
or, How to Get a Workaholic Out of His Office
For Peter

Feb. 17, 2010

VampDad I don’t care what Oracle says. Charting was easier before computers.

1901Pianist @VampDad Someone’s bored.

VampDad @1901Pianist It’s alive! (Or…not.)

1901Pianist @VampDad :eyeroll: Your text messages are coming through fine, just so you know.

VampDad @1901Pianist Oh good. Because I was starting to wonder if Verizon had managed to cut off you and only you.

1901Pianist @VampDad Very funny.

LochNessMonst OMG! SO CUTE! RT: @BradPitt Pics of the kids—paparazzi caught us in Zambia. http://bit.ly/Cmiy5y

VampDad @1901Pianist …isn’t Brad Pitt pushing 50?

1901Pianist @VampDad I got that tweet, too. :\

1901Pianist @SuaCantante We need to have a talk with the daughter.

LochNessMonst @1901Pianist I can read your tweets, Dad.

SuaCantante At Costco. ‘Tis noisy and very red.

1901Pianist @SuaCantante Why are you at a grocery store?

VampDad @SuaCantante Why are you at a grocery store?

GrizzlyKiller @SuaCantante Why are you at Costco?

SuaCantante @1901Pianist @VampDad @GrizzlyKiller I just want you all to know that Esme’s response was, “Men.”

VampDad @SuaCantante Is that where she is?

SuaCantante @1901Pianist @VampDad @GrizzlyKiller I have children to feed.

1901Pianist @SuaCantante Plural? Because I missed the other…love child with the wolf?

GrizzlyKiller @1901Pianist I kinda love you right now, bro.

SuaCantante @1901Pianist @GrizzlyKiller I’m not talking to either of you anymore.

LochNessMonst @1901Pianist I can still read your tweets, Dad.

LochNessMonst @1901Pianist Also…ew?

SuaCantante @VampDad Esme says to turn your phone back on if you’re just sitting at your desk.

VampDad @SuaCantante What makes her think I’m just sitting at my desk?

SuaCantante @VampDad Carlisle, you just tweeted me back in under thirty seconds.

VampDad @SuaCantante Point taken. Have her ring me again.

8CylinderRoses I want a Zagato. One without a working engine.

CrystalBall @8CylinderRoses Christmas…

GrizzlyKiller HEY!

CrystalBall @GrizzlyKiller See, well, now you’ve gone and spoiled it. I was just suggesting it *might* happen…

GrizzlyKiller @CrystalBall I’m going to tear you to pieces when I get home.

CrystalBall @GrizzlyKiller I don’t see myself in pieces tonight, so good luck with that. J

SuaCantante @CrystalBall @GrizzlyKiller Esme says to knock it off.

GrizzlyKiller @SuaCantante I thought you weren’t talking to me? @1901Pianist

GrizzlyKiller Besides, isn’t @CrystalBall supposed to be with the spawn? Why is she on twitter?

LochNessMonst is opposed to being called “the spawn.”

GrizzlyKiller What? It’s funny.

8CylinderRoses It’s rude.

AlphaMale1989 @GrizzlyKiller Are you LOOKING for a throw-down?

***Direct message from SuaCantante Okay, what on earth did you just say to Esme?

***D SuaCantante Just that I thought I might need to stay late this evening.

1901Pianist I can’t side with you on the spawn thing, E. She’s my daughter.

LochNessMonst @1901Pianist Thanks, Dad.

GrizzlyKiller @AlphaMale1989 Oh, bring it, wolfieboy.

GrizzlyKiller @AlphaMale1989 Wait….are YOU over there?

GrizzlyKiller @LochNessMonst BUSTED! @1901Pianist

***Direct message from SuaCantante She’s really hoping you’ll be home tonight.

***Direct message from SuaCantante She’s doing that Esme thing where she smiles but you know you’ve totally let her down?

***D SuaCantante Well, shit.

SuaCantante Carlisle!

GrizzlyKiller @SuaCantante Ooh, what’d he do?

SuaCantante He just DMed me the s-word!

GrizzlyKiller Hot damn!

1901Pianist @VampDad I’m…so proud of you. :sniff:

LochNessMonst @SuaCantante I know that the “s-word” is “shit.” It’s okay. Really.

SuaCantante You’re setting a bad example. @VampDad.

VampDad I HIT ENTER BY MISTAKE!!! Do we need to have a debate?

CrystalBall @VampDad I was trying to tweet to stop you, but that was too last-minute.

1901Pianist @VampDad My, you’re getting saucy in your old age.

8CylinderRoses <—is just laughing.

VampDad …saucy?

LochNessMonst @VampDad Saucy. Like, fresh.

VampDad …fresh?

VampDad is wondering when he became food.

1901Pianist :sigh: www.urbandictionary.com @VampDad Look it up.

VampDad Weren’t we just talking about @AlphaMale1989?

AlphaMale1989 I’m in my apartment, not at E and B’s.

LochNessMonst …did I just get scapegoated by Granddad?

VampDad (@LochNessMonst Sorry, Sweet.)

1901Pianist @LochNessMonst Is your hw done, Miss Tweety?

LochNessMonst @1901Pianist Um…it’s just an essay on the reconstruction. It’s getting done, don’t worry.

LochNessMonst (@VampDad It’s your birthday, you’re forgiven. But only today.)

1901Pianist @LochNessMonst What do you mean “It’s getting done?”

1901Pianist @SouthShallRise Are you doing her homework??!!

AlphaMale1989 Well, it’s firsthand knowledge, right?

SuaCantante @SouthShallRise Jasper!

SouthShallRise I don’t use this thing, remember?

1901Pianist @SouthShallRise We got you an iPhone for a reason.

SouthShallRise Get off my back.

GrizzlyKiller @SouthShallRise I bet there’s an app for that.

***D SuaCantante Is *this* why Esme is upset? RT @LochNessMonst (@VampDad It’s your birthday, you’re forgiven. But only today.)

***D SuaCantante Oh. That’s why you’re at Costco, too. I see it, now.

SouthShallRise I’m turning off the ringer…

LochNessMonst @SouthShallRise Do you need my help?

SouthShallRise Not funny.

***Direct Message from SuaCantante You’re a vampire. It’s not actually possible that you forgot it was your birthday.

1901Pianist Look, I get home from work in 25 mins. There had better be an essay that is NOT written by my brother. Capisce? @LochNessMonst

SuaCantante @1901Pianist We’re on our way home, too.

***D SuaCantante I didn’t forget. It’s just not that big a deal. I’ve been 23 for a little while now.

AlphaMale1989 Hey, you guys bringin cake? @SuaCantante

***Direct Message from SuaCantante Carlisle. It’s the only chance we get to celebrate you. Edward pouts if any of the rest of us get you Fathers’ Day stuff.

SuaCantante @AlphaMale1989 Yep! Just for you. And maybe the Monster.

***D SuaCantante I just hate fusses. Something you and I have in common.

LochNessMonst is opposed to being called “the Monster.”

SuaCantante @LochNessMonst It’s said with love.

***Direct Message from SuaCantante We’re just having a little family get-together, that’s all. Then you and Esme will have the evening to yourselves.

***D SuaCantante With cake…

***Direct Message from SuaCantante The cake isn’t actually for you.

1901Pianist @CrystalBall Would you check on the Monster and make sure she’s not letting your husband write her essay?

SuaCantante @1901Pianist No worries. We’re home and Esme just went to boot her off the computer.

1901Pianist Awesome.

***D SuaCantante I can think of things to do with the cake…

***Direct Message from SuaCantante !! Has Edward explained to you the term “TMI”?

EsmeAnne @VampDad I just put the silk sheets on the bed…

VampDad @EsmeAnne :raises eyebrows:

1901Pianist And I’m going to need to bleach my brain.

8CylinderRoses Thank god we have our own place right now…

CrystalBall Yep. That will do it. @EsmeAnne

GrizzlyKiller @EsmeAnne Do you even want us to join you for the evening? ‘Cause it sounds like maybe you’d rather we didn’t…

1901Pianist EMMETT!!

SuaCantante EMMETT!!

LochNessMonst @EsmeAnne I can read your tweets, Gram.

1901Pianist @LochNessMonst GET OFF TWITTER. NOW.

EsmeAnne @VampDad Can’t wait for you to get home. I love you, sweetheart. Happy Birthday.

1901Pianist Happy Birthday, Dad.

SuaCantante Happy Birthday, Carlisle!

LochNessMonst Happy B-day, Granddad. (@1901Pianist Going!)

8CylinderRoses Happy Birthday, Carlisle.

GrizzlyKiller Happy Birthday, old man.

Crystal Ball Um, guys? He started turning off the computer at “silk sheets.”

LochNessMonst I so did not need to know that…

Windows is shutting down…

Back to Canon Backfire

Cullen. It’s a strong name, a good name, and as much as Carlisle can sometimes be snooty and upper crust, Cullen is a working-class Irish name, and he can’t escape that, I figure. It’s why I never minded being a Cullen. You’d think after all these years and with his father being a mass murderer and all that he’d get rid of the name, but he doesn’t. It sticks to him. There’s something about that name that traps him even after hundreds of years, keeps him working just as hard as he did when he used to take care of his old man’s church. Cullen is the name of a guy who had to earn an honest day’s living, even if he drives a fancy car now. And I like it, but sometimes I’d rather be a Hale.

It’s a convenience thing, I know, and I get it. Jasper is blond and Rosalie is, too, and so he’s got her name even though he doesn’t want it. Or really, in Jasper’s case, it’s less that he doesn’t want it than that he doesn’t care. You could call him Jingleheimerschmit or whatever that guy’s name was and that would be fine with Jasper as long as he got to be with Alice. So Jasper Hale ain’t nothing to him at all.

Being Emmett Hale would be a whole nother thing. It would mean sharing Rose’s human self. And Rose doesn’t share that, even with me.

Carlisle says that being changed is the thing people remember most about their human life. If he were right about that, it’d be a goddamn blessing. Sometimes I’m talking about something, maybe about school, or Edward’s sanctimonious ass, and I look up and she’s far away. I pretend, then, that she’s thinking about something else. A V-8 engine. Babies. Something that makes her happy.

But those are different looks, and after a long while, you get to know a body’s looks. And that one, the one that happens sometimes when I’m talking about nothing, where her eyes go glassy and she looks off into the distance like she’s waiting for someone… I see that look and I know. She gets that look and she’s not sitting in the living room any more listening to me. She’s back in that dark street, her eyes on the guy she figured she’d learn to love, watching him approach her, knowing what’s coming next. And her look tells me it’s nothing compared to the burning. Rose can deal with the burning. If the burning were her strongest human memory, she’d put it behind her just like the rest of us. Better than the rest of us, even.

The first time I found out why Carlisle turned Rose, it took Edward and Esme both to keep me from breaking the guy’s face. Edward blinds him; we all know that. He’s a good man, and Edward is too, but both of them get their hearts and their heads mixed up sometimes. If Carlisle makes a stupid decision, you can bet dollars to doughnuts that Edward had something to do with it. Now, he was right that they were alike, I’ll give him that much, although Carlisle didn’t know then how much Rose and Eddie would have in common. You ask either of them their opinion on something and they give it straight—even if it means telling you you’re a dumb fuck for asking. They’re both stubborn as hell, too. When it comes to it, Edward carries his demons, just like Rose does. He’s got a record like Jasper’s, worse really because he knew there was another way when he did what he did. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be here, and I guess that’s one more thing him and Rose have in common. But sometimes when he’s off in a snit because the world ain’t going the way he wants it, I want to pick him up by his shirt and remind him to his face that he’s why Rose is here.

She’s careful because of him, which I get but I don’t. She won’t think about it or talk about it if he’s anywhere near because of his gift. Edward knows more than I do because of what he can hear, and it makes me want to rail on him, even though I know he can’t help it. Jealousy, I guess, which doesn’t wear well on me. But even though it’s annoying, sometimes I think Rose should sit and show it all to him. Make him carry it, too, since she won’t let me. I said that to her once, when we were in bed and she was lying on top of me. Edward had smirked at us when we were heading off, and I told him to go jack himself off somewhere. He hauled off and tried to sock me, which was funny because even though he’s a vampire, Edward hits like a girl. Never had to slug anybody as a human, I don’t think, and he never really learned how to do it.

Anyways, I about broke his arm, and he sulked off. After, I asked Rose why she didn’t ever use her memories against him. And she just smiled the way she does when I’ve said something she thinks is stupid, and tucked a bit of my hair behind my ear.

“He’s just a boy,” was all she said.

Now, Edward is only eight months younger than Rose is in body, and he’s thirteen years older than her for real, but I get what she means. He’s sort of… simple, I guess. Yeah, he’s more of a thinker than I am, that’s fine. Him and Carlisle, they’ll go on about philosophy and art in these arguments that I think would be best solved on the football field. But when it comes to the way the real world works, he doesn’t see the same shades of gray. Just right and wrong, black and white. His world divides real neatly, and ours just doesn’t.

Which is funny because everybody else thinks I’m the simple one.

Rose and me, our life is complicated that way. I thought she was an angel come to deliver me, especially seeing how she was so goddamned beautiful. I was mostly dead by then, or all dead, I don’t know. But she picked me up, and I flew away, it felt like, and when I woke up next to Carlisle and saw her sitting there in the corner looking like the wrath of God was about to come in on her, I just said, “Thank you, Jesus” that my angel was still there. She didn’t believe me at first that I was okay with what she’d done. It took me a long time to convince her, and some nights I can look in her eyes and see she’s still not sure.

We had been romantic for something like a year when one night Rose looked down at where we were together and she just got up, like that. She does that sometimes—gets distracted, or remembers something, and she can’t keep going. The first time it happened, I thought I’d done something wrong, but it’s never that. Sometimes she just decides it’s not the right time. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Rose is amazing and we can do it with the best of them, but when she’s not in it anymore, I know it right off, and we stop. By then I’d learned just to watch her in the dark while she walked over to the window and looked up at the moon for a while.

In the moonlight, her skin glowed blue-white, and she looked every bit like the angel I thought she was that first day. Rose looks perfect naked, something I tell her more often than I think she wants to hear it. And I said that to her that night, and she turned her back to me so that all I saw was just smooth curves. I thought I’d made her mad, because she gets mad like that—no reason it seems, just stops whatever she’s doing and walks away. But she turned back from the window a second later and came over to the bed and put her whole body on top of mine again so that our nipples touched. I thought we were gonna kiss, but she didn’t kiss my lips. She went for my forehead instead.

“You looked like Vera’s Henry.”

Now, one of the problems with a vampire brain is sometimes you got to root around a little to find the piece of information you’re looking for, like you’re in a messy cellar or something. That’s why when you ask Carlisle a question, he thinks almost as long as a human does before he comes back with some boring-ass lecture complete with three centuries’ history on whatever thing you asked him. Right then, my brain was busy absorbing everything it could about Rose—her scent, her breasts touching my chest, the way her collarbone poked upward into the pads of my fingers right where it became her neck. So it took me a second to really nail down what the hell she was referring to.

At last I remembered about Rose’s friend Vera and her baby. Rose didn’t talk about them much, but she’d brung them up once or twice. Really, I remembered less about Vera than the look Rose got when she talked about Vera’s baby. When she said his name, her face went all peaceful, like the world and the life she hated so much was all solved just by saying his name.

I think she thought when she said that I would be mad or something. Like she compared me to the baby, and that was why she turned me, and so I would be mad about it just like she was. But when she said “Henry” even the little lines by her jaw went soft, and I figured, anything that made my Rose that peaceful was a good thing to be like.

That was about the most explanation I ever got. “You reminded me of Henry” is Rose’s way of saying she’s sorry, even though it’s a cold day in Hell that I don’t like being who I am. I get to spend eternity walking Earth with my angel, and that’s good enough for me. But nights like that one—nights when we stop, when Rose gets up and walks away—those are nights I know I’m going to be working forever to never have it be good enough for her.

Like I said, we’re complicated.

And then there’s the beauty thing. I think Rose is the most beautiful thing on Earth—and we’ve near seen all of it now, so I can say that for certain. Nothing else compares. But for her, it’s a curse more than a blessing. She looks in the mirror and remembers what her beauty nearly bought her, and what it ended up costing. Every now and then, maybe once a year, I come home from somewhere and the mirrors in our bedroom are all busted. The first time I fixed them all right away, but now I know better. They stay broke for a while, sometimes a day, sometimes a week or two, and then one day she’ll just up and ask me why there aren’t any mirrors. Like I did something to them.

But it’s no matter. I go, and I get some more, and maybe a year’ll go by before they get broken again. And I’ll just put them back up, whenever she’s ready. That’s just the way we are. I wait, she tells me when, and then we both act like nothing happened.

Other people don’t get that. Even our family doesn’t get that, most of the time. “Rose has a temper,” Esme will say, or Jasper will try to cool her down, or Edward will sit at the piano and smirk like just because he can read Rose’s mind he knows her or something. He said as much to Isabella, the first time she came over, and of course Rose overheard him. She damn near strangled him when his girlfriend went home. He thinks Rose is jealous because Bella has him, but he ought to know better. Jealous is something humans feel, when they want something someone else has. Rose doesn’t want what Bella has; Rose wants what Rose had back. She wants the hope that she’ll have a little baby like Vera’s; she wants the possibilities. She wants a future, and the problem with futures is, they aren’t static. She loves me, but I don’t change.

So I get Bella. I know exactly where she’s coming from. Because when she looks at Edward, she gets the same look I bet I get when I look at Rose. Edward doesn’t see it, and I don’t think Rose does either. They both think Bella wants to trade humanity for speed, for beauty, to get rid of her god-awful two left feet that keep getting her in trouble, hilairious as it is. But that ain’t it, as far as I can tell. It’s not about being something better than human. She gets that look on her face because she knows what she wants, and that’s to spend forever with Edward.

And that I understand. Because the beauty of me and Rose is that it’s a forever type of thing. Not just because we’re gonna live forever, but because we are forever. Bella wants to be with Edward like that, and like Rose, Edward doesn’t get it. He thinks he’s going to hurt Bella if he turns her, just like I know Rose thinks she hurt me. What Rose and Edward don’t get is that sometimes a person wants to love a broken person. But when you love a broken person, you don’t get to choose when they’re ready for you.

Eddie and Rose have that in common, and I think sometimes about telling that to Bella. Making sure she understands that she’s going to wait forever for him, even though it will be the best waiting she ever does. He’ll always open up to his piano more than he will to her, just like Rose opens up to her cars. She’ll turn pages just like I hand wrenches, but we’ll both be on the outside, looking in.

Some days Rose hates herself for what she did in having me turned. Maybe most days, even, I’m not sure. But what she doesn’t realize is that I’m the one who got a gift. I get to spend eternity with my angel, a car-fixing, baby-loving, mirror-busting angel.

And so I just walk with her, and listen, and wait. Always on the outside, but still beside her, fixing mirrors, looking like Henry, making eternal life livable, little bit by little bit. Taking as much of her burden as she’ll give me, but knowing she’ll never give it all.

I love my Rose. I like who I am. It’s good to be Emmett Cullen.

But it’d be amazing to be Emmett Hale.

Note on “Acronymy”: This piece was originally written for ninapolitan’s birthday in 2009, and as such, is dedicated to her. Authors from all over fandom chose one-word prompts and wrote fics for her. I, however, had an interesting conundrum—how does the writer who writes one of the most paternal canon Carlisles in fandom write a story for the woman who instantiated the original Hot Bitch? Well, I picked a word that that sums up ninapolitan’s approach to our beloved blond doctor—DILF—and decided to see what my Carlisle would think of it. Here’s the result.

Acronymy
for Nina

acronymy (n.) The act of using or creating acronyms.

A school bus chugged at the curb, dumping its exhaust in the direction of the line of bored, tired parents. The thought of what carpool pick-up lines did to the human lung was disturbing, at best. I had the luxury of not breathing—the parents around me weren’t so lucky.

As usual, the other parents granted me a fairly wide berth. A few offered a tentative wave, one, the father of a member of the football team whose fingers I had splinted the week before had given me a hearty, “It’s good to see you, Dr. Cullen.” But for the most part, they stayed away. Our family was unusual at best, and the whole of Forks seemed not to know what to make of the young surgeon and his wife and their five adopted teenagers who had just moved to town.

It was fine by me. The quieter we kept things, the longer we would stay.

This was the first time I’d had to come to the school for pick-up. The junior class was away on a field trip to Seattle to see the Royal Shakespeare Company present The Merchant of Venice. Alice and Edward, of course, were beyond capable of driving themselves home in the absence of Rosalie, Jasper, and Emmett—far more capable than the true fifteen-year-olds who sat in their classes—but these were the kinds of things we had to be careful of. According to the State of Washington, Alice and Edward were only learners, granted permits by being past their half-birthdays, but not fully licensed drivers.

And so I was here to fully support the charade; the father dutifully come to retrieve his children.

The final bell rang, and the high school buildings seemed to explode like hives of bees. Students came pouring out of every entrance—boys slapping one another, cuffing shoulders, and hollering obscenity-laden sentences about their homework loads; girls giggling over a cute football player or perhaps the shy boy in their English classes, and a handful of couples nervously holding hands. I leaned against the Mercedes as the students streamed past me, climbing into their second-hand cars and whizzing off with a dangerous ineptitude.

“That’s Dr. Cullen. The new doctor.”

My head snapped back toward the school at the sound of my name. Two girls, a shorter brunette and a slightly taller blonde, had emerged from one of the side exits, and were headed toward the parking lot. I saw the blonde lift a hand in greeting, and a light-haired woman several cars ahead of me waved in answer.

The two girls giggled, heads close together. They, of course, believed themselves to be having a perfectly private conversation, for which others of their friends’ parents could hear them from two hundred yards away? I meant to tune them out—the invasion of the privacy of the humans around me through my heightened senses was an unfortunate reality that I tried my hardest to avoid. But their voices were too shrill, or perhaps it was because we were still too new, but I listened in anyway.

“Yeah, he’s Edward’s dad? And Alice’s, and the ones who are juniors? The big one and the blonde and Alice’s boyfriend.” The blonde giggled.

“I wonder what he’s doing here?” asked the other.

“Duh. The blonde always brings them, yeah? All the juniors are gone.”

They both shot another glance in my direction, and immediately looked down and giggled when they saw I was looking their way.

“The juniors should be gone more often,” said the brunette, a moment later.

“I know, right?” The blonde giggled, and then dropped her voice to a whisper so quiet I guessed even her friend had trouble hearing her. “He’s a total dilf.”

I felt my brow furrow. I worked to stay on top of slang, at least to the best of my abilities. But this was a term with which I was wholly unfamiliar. The girls drew closer, and both averted their eyes as they walked over to the now-idling minivan driven by the blonde’s mother.

“Carlisle?”

I jumped at the sound of Edward’s voice, causing Alice to giggle.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?” My son’s question was polite, but his face was smug.

“I’m telling Esme,” Alice teased. “They probably have a crush on you.”

I shrugged, tossing Edward the keys. It was another very important part of the charade—although our family rarely fussed over who got behind the wheel, no human teenager with a learner’s permit turned down the opportunity to drive.

“Trust me,” I answered my daughter as the three of us climbed into the Mercedes, “Esme is in no position to fault a teenage girl for finding me attractive.”

Alice giggled again from the back seat, and Edward just shook his head as he put the car into gear and left the parking lot.

“So, what were you thinking about?” he asked, when we were a ways from the school. “You seemed confused about something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I answered, looking out the window as we zipped past the last buildings on the outskirts of town. “Just a word I didn’t know.”

“A word you didn’t know?” Alice giggled. “Do you hear that Edward? I think that’s the sound of Hell, freezing over.”

Edward smirked. “I have to say I’m surprised, Carlisle. What was the word?”

I frowned again, remembering the quiet whisper and the conspiratorial giggle. “It’s nothing, really,” I answered. “It’s just that I was listening to the two girls—”

“—Jessica and Lauren,” Alice supplied. “Go on.”

As though she didn’t know what I was about to ask.

“Well, they called me a” — the word sounded just as foreign in my head as it had on her lips— “dilf? What does that mean?”

My body was suddenly jolted as Edward yanked the wheel first to the left in shock, then quickly course-corrected. Alice burst out laughing.

“Could you warn me if he’s going to ask something like that?” he spat, turning backward to give Alice the evil eye.

She smiled and stuck her tongue out at him. But neither answered the question.

I watched spruce trees whiz by for another half-mile before probing again.

“Well?”

Edward sighed, his brow pulling together. “Carlisle,” he said finally, “you know how you often tell me that I would be better off not knowing some of the things I find out from people’s thoughts?”

“Yes…”

He nodded resolutely. “This…would be one of those kinds of things.”

Alice laughed once more, and I didn’t get a word out of either of them the rest of the way home.

Back to Canon Backfire

Note on “Packages”: The inspiration for this fic was two-fold. One, HMonster4 and emibella issued a challenge for everyone to write her some more Emmett fics before Valentine’s Day. And two, on the Ithaca is Gorges Twilighted thread, a long discussion about the similarities of the saga’s character’s names prompted kittandchips to ask a very provocative question. These two things collided in my head one evening while I was making tea, and “Packages” was born.

Packages
for KittandChips, HMonster4, and emibella

It was one of those completely plain packages. Too plain, really. Red-and-white Priority Mail stickers, and a simple return address.

A simple return address I recognized.

And it was addressed to E. Cullen.

I was going to have a fucking field day.

Footsteps fell at the doorway before I’d had a chance to think further about how best to wield this dangerous information. “What has you so excited?” came my brother’s voice. He already had a tiny smile on his face, confused as it was.

I held up the box. “I just brought in the mail. This came.”

Jasper took it from my hands. He inspected it, front, back and sides, before handing it back, looking all kinds of confused.

“What?”

The laugh was out before I could stop it as I tapped the return address. “This.”

He looked at it again. “D & F Systems. So…you ordered a computer part?”

“I didn’t order shit,” I shot back. “Edward bought this. And I know this address. It’s an online sex toy store.”

Jasper’s eyes got huge. “Really?”

“Yeah, Rose and me have ordered stuff from there before. You know, they send stuff under a fake return address and all that. This is the fake address.”

A grin spread across my brother’s face. He took the box back from me and shook it with fascination. “Sounds big,” he said, and then added immediately, “He must be making up for something.”

Making up for something. That was a good question. “Have you ever seen it?”

“Seen Prudeward? You must be joking.” Jasper looked thoughtful, turning the box over in his hands. “It would explain, though…”

“Explain what?”

“Well, you know, Tanya has a lot of experience. If he’s not packing…”

We both threw hands over our mouths at once; Jasper’s laugh came out half-choked, like a donkey.

“Where is he?” Jasper said a moment later when we’d both recovered. “I want to be here when he finds this out.”

“Finds what out, exactly?”

Edward was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He always looked like that—holier-than-thou. But I was having the last laugh on this one.

“This, little brother.” I threw him the package, and he frowned at it. Typical Edward. It was impossible to get a real reaction out of him, because he’d see what reaction you expected and do just the opposite. “Oh, enough of that,” I added. “We know your dirty little secret. What is it?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Emmett. Perhaps you ought to explain. I would ask you to do it simply, but for you there is no other way.”

Oh, he had not just said that. I shot across the room to catch him in a headlock, but he dropped the package and was on the other wall before I got to him. I hated his stupid mind-reading.

“Only because it gives me an edge,” he answered, still laughing. “Now, what is this about?”

“Nothing,” Jasper said coolly. “We’re just proud of you, that’s all.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. “Proud of me…for…what?”

“For getting over yourself, Prudeward.” I grinned, picking up the box again. Crossing the room, I slugged him in the shoulder. As always, he winced.

The lightweight.

“It’s about time you showed Bella why it’s good to love a vampire,” I said.

For my money, he looked even more confused. “I dislike that nickname,” he answered slowly. “And what the hell has gotten into you two?”

“Come on now, Edward,” Jasper said, his wide grin spreading across his face again. “We know what’s in here. We know where it’s from. Emmett said he and Rose ordered from here before. It’s okay, brother. You can man up. It’s a good thing to want to give your woman some pleasure. I mean, were it me, I’d do it with the tool God already gave me, but you want to wait, and that’s certainly…noble.”

The last word came out as a snort, and I was done for. The next thing I knew, Edward was prying the box out of my hands as I doubled over guffawing.

“What the—” He was looking over the box again. “Emmett, this is addressed to you.”

“Oh, I didn’t buy shit, Little Brother,” I answered. “You’re going to have to own up to this one. Caught red handed. Or…white-handed, maybe.”

Jasper snickered.

Winding Edward up was always fun, because he eventually got to the point where he started pitching a hissy fit. Always. You almost expected him to start stamping his foot like a little girl. And sure enough, we were there.

“I. Did. Not. Order. That.”

“Sure you didn’t.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Just as an FYI, it’s generally considered a bad idea to get her used to something bigger. That thing in there is huge, if it’s what I think it is.”

“I—” he practically snarled at me, but he clearly changed his mind about the approach and whirled on the third party. His face went back to that cool look that he learned from Carlisle at one point or another. “Jasper, I don’t know what he told you, but it wasn’t the truth.”

“Oh no, little one, you are not getting out of this—”

But Jasper was suddenly frowning. He looked from Edward, to me, to the box, and back to Edward. “He’s not lying, Ed.”

I started to say, “I told you so,” but Jasper beat me to the punch.

“And neither are you.”

What?

“That’s what I said,” Edward spat. “I don’t know where this came from, but it’s not mine. I don’t know what’s in it; I don’t want to know.” He shoved it back at me with such force the box crushed partway under his fingers. “But take it and do whatever it is you do with…whatever it is.”

I fingered the box for a second, as Edward continued with his little-girl pout. Jasper was still frowning, looking from me, to Edward, to the box, and back to me. His head was cocked to the side real funny. And then his look changed from confused to a sly smile.

“Jasper?”

He looked back at the box in my hands. “E. Cullen?” he said dryly.

“That’d be what it says.”

“Well,” he said, his voice was shaking with laughter, “if it isn’t you, and it isn’t Edward…”

Not me; not Edward?

Oh, hell no.

The package went skidding across the floor.

Jasper was already doubled over wheezing, and Edward’s lip was curling in disgust. And of course that was the moment she breezed through the doorway as though she’d been listening to our entire conversation.

Which I reckon she probably had.

“Hello, boys,” she said sweetly. She bent to the floor, picked up the nondescript box, and smiled. “Thanks for bringing in the mail, Emmett. I’ve been waiting for this.” She scrutinized the three of us for a moment—Edward’s shock, my horror, Jasper’s poorly-contained laughter. “I thought all of you were going hunting?”

Well if we hadn’t been before, we sure as hell were now. I had no intentions of finding out what was in that box, on purpose or by accident.

“We’re on our way,” I heard Edward say absently, his jaw still gaping a little. But he didn’t move.

She frowned at us. “Are you okay?”

I felt myself nodding, and I could see Edward’s head bobbing up and down, too. It was Jasper who controlled his laughter just long enough to squeak out the line that ruined us all:

“But it’s…it’s huge.”

And I will be forever damned but that she didn’t give all three of us the most patronizing, motherly face as she answered him.

“A woman gets used to a certain size, Jasper.” She shook the box in our direction and the item rolled around with a heavy thunk. “And I would be careful, were I you, assuming that any given man needs to ‘make up’ for anything.” With another smile, she turned on her heel and was gone.

Three jaws dropped open and stayed there for several minutes, long after we heard her disappear onto the third floor.

Edward was the first to recover the powers of speech.

“She did mean Carlisle’s—”

“Shut up!” Jasper and I yelled at once.

I was still staring at the spot where Esme had vanished. If the mysterious box hadn’t disappeared, it was almost as though she had never been there at all. Which, now that I thought about it, was probably the way to play it.

“This. Never. Happened,” I muttered.

Edward nodded. “Agreed.”

Jasper looked meaningfully at us both. “Let us never mention it again,” he said solemnly.

We made tracks for the front door before any sound could float down from upstairs.

Back to Canon Backfire