(no subject)
She's always taken care of the house, but she learns in these years how to take care of life.
A lot of their first few weeks of nights out she plans. She knows what Carlisle likes, but she doesn't know what he has and hasn't seen. Where the differentiating line is between what he's seen and what they'd seen together, before or even after she arrived. These were their things and she didn't pry.
But she does know, all too well, the face he makes when she suddenly suggests one of the latter ones. The look that says he's looking somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere she can't follow and she waits knowing he'll be back.
Whether back is in five minutes or five days.
Which happened a few hours ago.
Again.
Instead of the Grand Ole Opry, Esme is organizing the bookshelves.
The first four were easy, but the one she's on is normal book for the top three shelves and then the bottom three are going to be for Carlisle's journals. She has the bookshelf redecoration mapped out in her head. The stacks around her, existing in a way that likely only makes sense to her. There's no one else to disturb them, but she's stuck staring at the piles of journals.
Wondering, logically, and testing the silence --
"Carlisle?"
A lot of their first few weeks of nights out she plans. She knows what Carlisle likes, but she doesn't know what he has and hasn't seen. Where the differentiating line is between what he's seen and what they'd seen together, before or even after she arrived. These were their things and she didn't pry.
But she does know, all too well, the face he makes when she suddenly suggests one of the latter ones. The look that says he's looking somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere she can't follow and she waits knowing he'll be back.
Whether back is in five minutes or five days.
Which happened a few hours ago.
Again.
Instead of the Grand Ole Opry, Esme is organizing the bookshelves.
The first four were easy, but the one she's on is normal book for the top three shelves and then the bottom three are going to be for Carlisle's journals. She has the bookshelf redecoration mapped out in her head. The stacks around her, existing in a way that likely only makes sense to her. There's no one else to disturb them, but she's stuck staring at the piles of journals.
Wondering, logically, and testing the silence --
"Carlisle?"