It is 2005, and Carlisle Cullen has been working the late shift at the blood bank on the first floor of Cook County General Hospital for the past three months
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He's got an order, a white half-folded paper in his hand, as part of his physical. But it's a hospital he hasn't been in before, so he's left walking through hallways, haplessly lost after the last minute or two.
Retracing his steps had not helped. Only made him sure he was lost.
"Excuse me," He said to the first person he passed, reaching up to ruffle his fingers in his hair, not quite embarrassed or chagrin, put there was the air to it. Whether pressed more upon or honest. "Could you help me?"
Carlisle startles at the sudden voice in his presence. He'd known the boy was there - could smell him as soon as he stepped onto the floor - but the fact that he talked to him --
Edward shrugged with a nod, but his lips had split into a rather pleased, semi-crooked, smile at being at least in some hazy area of where he was supposed to be.
Which was probably better than the fact he was now staring at the man instead of his paper. Maybe even a few beats too long before he realized it and glanced down, proffering his paper.
At least he wasn't yet another endless Mike or Josh or Tyler. Edward is a respectable name.
A pat on the exam table is all Edward gets by way of invitation to sit; Carlisle is immediately in the cabinets around the room gathering the tools he'll need to draw samples.
He doesn't know why he offers, why he says that bit of information especially, hopping up on the table. His hands settles palm down, behind him, so that he leaned on them as his eyes looked across the posters on the wall meant to entertain people, or at least distract them.
They were really doing neither for him.
Especially in the sense of distracting him from the -- nurse? doctor? phlebotomist?
Carlisle has absolutely no idea what his father's name was.
He turns around with latex gloves on, silently pushing a tray closer to Edward leaning back on the exam table while Carlisle works. A narrow band tied just above Edward's elbow and Carlisle can hear it - such a healthy thrumming --
Even with his eyes the shade of . . . scarlet? . . . the man has disturbingly amazing features. Even from the standpoint of a random observer it was obvious he could have been doing movies or modeling.
Even if they simply gave him contacts for that color. Which somehow seemed wrong, with how comfortable he seemed.
And the fact he wasn't doing any of the jobs he'd obviously could be given, that he was here instead, on a lower floor in a hospital, made him far more intruiged. Yet all he felt was calm near him, which was intriguing.
Edward cleared his throat, with a breath out his nose and looked to one side as he straightened his arm not watching it.
Edward tried not to focus on the piece of metal in his skin, or sitting still, managing to fail at both. Looking at the wall and then the man's hair.
He followed instruction well enough. Breathing slowly in and out, stretching his shoulders when he was told to relax. Then closed and opened his fist, focusing mostly on the hair.
Counting down to when this would be over. Counting down, not exactly, to when he could leave the building. Did anyone really normally have that color of gold?
He's trying to keep everything at an even keel. Breathing in and out, closer to his chest and not blowing it against the head or arms near him. Clenching, and unclenching, his fist slowly still.
Retracing his steps had not helped. Only made him sure he was lost.
"Excuse me," He said to the first person he passed, reaching up to ruffle his fingers in his hair, not quite embarrassed or chagrin, put there was the air to it. Whether pressed more upon or honest. "Could you help me?"
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Well. Might as well look at the guy.
"I can try?"
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Carlisle's gaze shifts downward again to see if he can't read the paperwork himself. He'll have to do it; no one else here.
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Which was probably better than the fact he was now staring at the man instead of his paper. Maybe even a few beats too long before he realized it and glanced down, proffering his paper.
"For my physical."
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"Edward? Do you prefer Ed?"
Carlisle's taken the paper and he's turned away from the boy then, walking back towards one of the exam areas behind the nurse's station.
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Even when it does make his face squish up distastefully.
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At least he wasn't yet another endless Mike or Josh or Tyler. Edward is a respectable name.
A pat on the exam table is all Edward gets by way of invitation to sit; Carlisle is immediately in the cabinets around the room gathering the tools he'll need to draw samples.
Reply
He doesn't know why he offers, why he says that bit of information especially, hopping up on the table. His hands settles palm down, behind him, so that he leaned on them as his eyes looked across the posters on the wall meant to entertain people, or at least distract them.
They were really doing neither for him.
Especially in the sense of distracting him from the -- nurse? doctor? phlebotomist?
Reply
He turns around with latex gloves on, silently pushing a tray closer to Edward leaning back on the exam table while Carlisle works. A narrow band tied just above Edward's elbow and Carlisle can hear it - such a healthy thrumming --
Reply
Even if they simply gave him contacts for that color.
Which somehow seemed wrong, with how comfortable he seemed.
And the fact he wasn't doing any of the jobs he'd obviously could be given, that he was here instead, on a lower floor in a hospital, made him far more intruiged. Yet all he felt was calm near him, which was intriguing.
Edward cleared his throat, with a breath out his nose and looked to one side as he straightened his arm not watching it.
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Latex doesn't conduct body heat all that well - it masks Carlisle's own lack of body temperature enough for him to work with people.
The needle pricks below Edward's skin --
Carlisle breathes in. Slowly. Perfect pretense of not enjoying this.
"Flex your fist to move things along."
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He followed instruction well enough. Breathing slowly in and out, stretching his shoulders when he was told to relax. Then closed and opened his fist, focusing mostly on the hair.
Counting down to when this would be over. Counting down, not exactly, to when he could leave the building. Did anyone really normally have that color of gold?
"What is your name?"
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What an odd question.
"Carlisle. Cullen."
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He's trying to keep everything at an even keel. Breathing in and out, closer to his chest and not blowing it against the head or arms near him. Clenching, and unclenching, his fist slowly still.
"It's nice to meet you." Beat.
Faintly rye. "Quite an original way to do so."
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The crack upward of Carlisle's mouth appears to signify that he had just attempted a joke. He's out of practice.
"It's nice to meet you as well, Mr. Masen."
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