la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

54

It was a rare sunny day for Forks, Washington. The gloom had lifted from the sky and settled into the hearts of Carlisle Cullen and Minerva Amata. Though miles apart, the two were having simultaneous panic attacks of the conversation to come.

They'd agreed, though reluctantly on one side, that the evening would be a good time to talk. For that, Carlisle was thankful. He didn't need to arrive glittering like a disco ball to remind her of the secret he'd been harbouring.

Minerva hadn't had a chance to work through everything that had happened yet. When she got home, she found she had about forty missed calls from Charlie Swan concerning a breaking and entering at the flower shop. Luckily, one of the Cullens had the foresight (Alice, probably) to take her bag and car home so it didn't look like she'd been abducted or something.

Even still, coming up with a believable excuse off the cuff was a pain in the ass. She had the brief luxury of forgetting the mess she'd left her regular life in. She peddled some bullshit story about a family member's illness and hoped he bought it. It wasn't like he could say anything even if he didn't, who would question the validity of that?

It was suspicious, though. She couldn't deny it, even if Charlie didn't see it. Minerva just happened to drop off the face of the earth the same night Bella fled Forks, only to return the day after Bella went into the hospital? It was lucky she wasn't a suspect.

It'd been a solid forty eight hours since Minerva had returned home. In that time, she cleaned up the shop, commissioned for the window's repair and sat with her anger. It festered inside her, burning in the pit of her stomach. Nobody had made the mistake of pissing her off this bad in a long time.

The problem, really, was nobody she'd even liked half as much as Carlisle had ever pissed her off like this. She was self aware enough to know the anger was born out of sorrow but they just pissed her off more.

He'd deserve a medal really, maybe an ironic tombstone keychain that read: here lies Carlisle, the only man to piss me off and live to regret it. If they were ever friends again, it'd make a good gift.

The phone call to make the plan was hell for them both. Each so familiar but so distant, one desperate to put it behind them and the other disillusioned and reluctant. It made for a lot of long pauses.

At six pm, Carlisle would darken her doorstep. He spent the time pacing, rehearsing his explanation down to the syllable. There was no room for error. One more misstep and he'd lose her forever. The thought of that alone made him feel something he hadn't felt in a long time.

The last time he'd felt it had been in a cave, miles above England as he eagerly awaited his impossible death. There was life before Minerva, life with Minerva, Carlisle didn't want to know life without her. His old fantasies of self destruction weren't viable anymore, he had a family now. What kind of monster would he be to create them and leave them to fend for themselves? It wasn't an option.

He'd live a long and miserable life, waiting for the day her scorn had faded; If that would ever come, anyway. Before the secret was out, Carlisle was constantly enveloped in the worst case scenarios.

In his daydreams, he walked her out to the waterfall off the trail behind the house. Carefully stepping from shadow to shadow while she pestered him for answers. He'd have sat her down, bared his heart and soul and stepped into the light. He never claimed not to have a flair for the dramatic.

He'd never know how she might have reacted if he'd just said to hell with it and told her. If there were ever a time for Carlisle to act completely and utterly selfishly, that was the time. Would she have been even half as angry? Obviously, she probably wouldn't have been happy but it could have been an open and shut conversation. Maybe they could have skipped all the tension, avoided the unfamiliar air that hung between them.