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Death affects the humans around it in profound ways. It alters them at a molecular level. Be it the grief or the morbidity, it changes the way their bodies regulate, alters their reactions, throws things into flux. It does things to vampires too, or at least it does to him, not too dissimilar at its core. It has always repulsed and horrified him; it only deepens the more he sees, and the more he cares. It worsens as he grows closer to those with limited time. Wayland, whom he briefly encountered but never truly knew, stirs the same feelings every tragic death does, but it's not his own grief he can feel himself getting sucked into.
The first time he and Charlie met was in the emergency department on a Saturday night. Listless, he sat stumped but vigilant next to a drunken man in handcuffs, a sizeable gash on his forehead after losing a fight against the brick wall he was trying to escape over, arms too full of a stolen VHS player to get a proper grip on the ledge. He had been called because, despite the plethora of skilled nurses on hand, nobody wanted to be responsible for screwing up face stitches.
Cordial and professional around the obvious annoyance, Charlie had sat there stoically while he worked, neither curious nor overly invested. At some point, he had tried a joke about his intense focus, which had elicited a genuine laugh from Carlisle, because Carlisle could honestly say his attention had never been more split. He had known, even back then, that the blood pulsing through Charlie's veins was more appealing than most.
This would repeat itself twice more before Charlie promoted past the role of accompanying his prisoners to the hospital, with vaguely different circumstances; a man wailing about a broken wrist after having it slammed in the door by the person he was trying to rob, another who had accidentally shot himself in the foot trying to hold up the 24-hour petrol station. Despite that, as years went on, they continued to meet in moments of need: welfare checks which had gone unanswered, violent patients wandering the corridors with weapons. It had started happening more often after Carlisle took a permanent role as a general practitioner. They worked together to keep their community safe and healthy.
He was reliable, and over time he saw the other grow to acknowledge and appreciate his reliability in return. If Charlie needed to liaise with someone, seek advice, or needed a medical presence on the ground, he explicitly asked for him. ‘Alright Cullen,’ he would say ‘here’s the situation', not an ounce of remorse for the evenings, weekends, holidays the other had no reason to believe he was not interrupting.
More than once, it brought them face-to-face with death together. As violence, or tragedy, or age took bites out of their town they were there to pack the wounds. Hiking accidents or a fast car catching a patch of black ice, a neighbour concerned about the mail piling up... but never a friend before. Never so close to home. Never quite like this. So, when Charlie called him to come down to the station, Carlisle knows that is exactly what it is. Personal.
Charlie is not stupid. He knows the difference between a patient and a body. He knows when to allow that flicker of hope to drive him to action and when to slow down and pull out the tape. He knows when he needs Carlisle there, which can only mean that he wants him there instead.
When he arrives, Charlie is leaning against his desk, arms crossed and head bowed, a man finally forced to feel his own exhaustion as the adrenaline ebbs. Action has finally dwindled into aimlessness now he has done all he can, leaving him with nothing but the pain, and fatigue, and hopelessness of his own grief.
Bella is out with friends, and neither he nor Charlie is supposed to know that Edward is keeping a close eye on her. He is turning a can of pepper spray in his hand as though it is a stress toy. And his friend his dead. This time there is no ‘Alright Cullen, here’s the situation.’ When Charlie looks up, he simply says "Carlisle," all weak, tired, damp with the tears trapped in his throat. He puts the pepper spray down.
Carlisle hadn’t lingered on what drew him to Charlie, but he hadn’t lingered on what drew Charlie to him in return either. He assumed, rightly or wrongly, that it was the same thing that drew most humans to him, it would have only mattered to his ego, and to hurt that small part of him that would always fail to find peace with it. Most look at him like falling in love with him was a possibility. There is a reflex, a gift from nature to the predators they are: the parasympathetic nervous system triggers vasodilation and Norepinephrine works its magic. Skin flushes, heart rate increases, pupils dilate. It is physiological, subconscious: a moth dancing its way to a fiery death. It is a reminder of what he is, that is to say, the same type of monster that killed Charlie’s friend. Long ago he had learned to force back the resentment that came with it, ignore it. And yet…
… he can’t bring himself to resent or ignore it now. Charlie has always been more sensitive than most, no matter the front he puts on. He is more responsive too, whether he knows it or not. His glances always last a fraction too long, his cheeks flush prematurely from the weather; a softness lingers around his eyes when he looks at him, almost succeeding at hiding. He looks at him like he is imagining what they could have been if he were attracted to men, and is mourning it.
It is amplified and altered by his grief. Wires crossed, pathways rewritten, because rather than looking at him like he is a little in love with him, Charlie looks at him like he is failing to soothe a heartbreak Carlisle couldn’t tolerate causing him.
"Charlie, I’m sorry" he responds, and even when empathy is second nature to him, he still surprises himself by just how sincere it comes out. Like he is talking to the family of a patient he could not save. Like he is responsible for it. Caused it even. Perhaps he did by simply failing to be proactive about the hunting in their territory.
He takes several measured steps forward, placing his unnecessary doctor’s bag on an empty desk on his way, and reaches out to him. His fingers press gently against the thin fabric of his uniform, feeling the rush of blood beneath as he closes them on his shoulder—muscle, bones, the knots of hard work and memories of life.
Touches between them are nothing special, a handshake or a hand to the back. Casual intimacy. But this time Charlie is an open wound, tender and weeping. He might not squirm under the pressure, but his blood pressure rises. Carlisle can smell the moment it floods the capillaries closer to the surface; he can practically taste it in the air around them, more so than if he had him on the operating table, hands buried in his chest. He has always smelled good, but like this, he smells divine. Metallic and mellow, and addictive.
It had been centuries since the last temptation to bite had reared its ugly head. Charlie makes imagining it easy; the hot wetness of it, the heady flood, the pounding heartbeat echoing in his ears. Charlie looks vulnerable, and vulnerability makes for good prey. Charlie more so because he knows and trusts him fiercely. His body refuses to forget, no matter how hard he trains it. The feeling is like an old friend. He wishes he could say it brings relief, but all he feels is dread. An old friend, yes, but an old friend who arrives with secrets long thought burned and an inclination to overshare; the paranoia, the mortification of being known by the sum of your worst moments… something that could shatter the illusion of humanity.
Suddenly, holding his shoulder isn't enough. He wants to bury his face in his neck. He squeezes as lightly as he feels capable and imagines the wet crunch of not even a true use of strength, and listens as the sound of Charlie's heartbeat fills his ears. Sinus rhythm, no arrhythmia. He feels as it shifts from 85 beats per minute to 94, and then to 102. Stress tachycardia; arousal or fear, it make no difference to the muscle itself. Carlisle can’t remember the last time he fought back his uncanny nature, blinked or swallowed, or did anything to justify his humanity to himself or the other, which must be somewhat contributing, since he’s staring directly into Charlie's eyes.
‘I want to drain the life out of you,’ conflicts with ‘I want to keep that precious heart beating for all eternity’, and the shockwaves from the collision rippled out right to the tips of his fingers. Quickly, too quickly, he snatched them away from Charlie before he could contaminate him with it. He’s built from a world of death: an era of it, collected his spouse and children from it, he had sought it out for an occupation when he refused to make it his way of life. It follows him, cloaks him, seeps from his pores... and Charlie is leaning into him as if seeking something amidst their shared, silent understanding. As though he trusts him with his vulnerability. As though Carlisle isn't a harbinger.
Charlie, usually so stoic, cracks. Just a little. His chin dimples and his lips tuck up. He's trying, failing, to swallow down the thick swell of his feelings. He watches Carlisle's hand pull away with the type of reticent acceptance that stoic men unused to comfort or affection often do; he doesn't expect any more than he is given.
"Thanks for coming down. I... I-I want– just–" he pauses, shaking his head as if it will clear the static enough to find the words. Carlisle recognises where Bella gets it from. The struggle builds on his face. Too much wants to come out, it tangles on his tongue.
He wants to sink his teeth into the beating flesh of his neck. He could tolerate his screams for a while if it meant he could take and keep the devastation off his face forever.
"We're going to figure this out," he supplements, far too soft.
Charlie nods. “Right.”
He can see the reassurance weaving its way under his skin. The slow but steady uncoiling of tense muscles before it reflectively tightens again, the fight between his bodily processes.
That should be it. So, it catches them both off guard when Carlisle's hand returns to his shoulder; in place of that familiar squeeze, he pulls him in. Hands trail down his shoulders until they come to a natural rest on his wrist, encircling fragile bone, feeling that rhythmic pulse fluttering away under his fingertips.
It’s barely a hug, even by the standards of the current era; Charlie's arms remain at his sides, all but retained by Carlisle's firm grip. Except, Charlie’s head lolls forward into his, pressing their foreheads together, noses a hairs-width from brushing.
With his senses, it is rare for him to miss much, if anything at all, but distracted by the sound, and smell, and feel of his heartbeat jumping against him, Carlisle misses the way Charlie's brows furrow and his eyelids flutter as they close. What he doesn’t miss is the stutter of his breath or how he tries to disguise it by needlessly clearing his throat.
“You’re cold,” he says in way of an explanation. Hollow, exhausted words. Painfully insincere. Charlie puts as much effort into distancing himself as he puts into his excuse for giving into the tactile manifestation of the comfort he has found in Carlisle for years. The warm forehead against Carlisle's presses firmer, rocks minutely, and does not relent.
Carlisle thinks ‘if you were dying, I would change you without thinking', and because Edward isn’t around to hear his thoughts, he lingers on it. He thinks it again and again, allowing the easement in that fact to become comfortable, honest. ‘If something happens to you that I can’t save you from, I will never forgive myself.’
“My apologies," he says instead.
“Didn’t say it was a problem," Charlie responds on a breath, low and conflicted.