la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

69

"It was Minnie before."

"What?"

"When you introduced yourself, it was Minnie. Not Minerva." Carlisle explained as he released her hand, relief flooded through him when she smiled. It was something he'd thought about more than he needed to. He spent a lot of time replaying his time with her behind closed eyes, as near to a dream as he could get.

"I don't remember that at all." Minerva admitted with a slight laugh, "Are you lying to me?"

"No!" He placed a hand over his heart, "Scout's honour."

Her eyes rolled, "Cause you're such a Boy Scout." She said sarcastically, turning her gaze to the darkening tree line, "I really did, then?"

"Oh, yes." He assured following her eyes, "Alice told me it was Minerva when I got home."

Minerva kissed her teeth, "Can't trust you Cullens with anything." His eyes shot down to her face to find her already smiling, a sight which made the sudden jolt of anxiety dissipate instantly. She nudged his shoulder lightly, "too easy."

"Shut up." He chuckled shaking his head, "Was it an impulse thing, Minnie?"

It always is with you. Looking up at him, shoulder to shoulder, was entirely too close. Nearly debilitating. She'd forgotten just how transfixing his weird fucking eyes were; a deep ochre, like he'd trapped the sun in his iris. Her own eyes darted back to the sky as she took a shaky drag off her cigarette.

"I don't even know." She admitted honestly, letting out a puff of smoke, "Maybe I felt like reinventing that day. Minnie does sound a bit softer, takes the edge off." She could feel him observing the side of her face. An unwelcome need was blossoming in her chest, something that had taunted her for the last few months. A need to be known. Carlisle had a way of stirring that up. Her lips pressed a little tighter together, as if it would be something physical to spill more than she should.

"Would you rather be Minnie?"

Whether he realized it or not, it was a fucking loaded question. Her mouth twitched ever so slightly toward a smile. Would you rather be soft? That's the question she was hearing. Is that who you want to be? The answer to that, unwaveringly, was yes but the fact of the matter was that she wasn't soft. Minerva wasn't sure she could be, even if she tried. All this aside, she answered the question, neglecting her internal nuance. "No." She replied decidedly, "Can't imagine getting cussed out by someone named Minnie."

"Me neither." He resolved with a chuckle, "Minerva it is, then." Another thing she'd forgotten. Good lord, why'd he have to say it like that? All the bite, all the hardness she felt her name occupied was absent when he said it. There was the softness.

"Minerva, it is." She agreed, pressing what little life was left in her cigarette out against the holy brick and flicking it off to the grass. "I need a drink."

Carlisle followed on her heels, breath still held like a vice in his useless lungs. He wondered what she might say, if she knew how her blood sang to him? She certainly wouldn't turn to look at him the way she did, just to make sure he was still there with her tinted lips turning up in a light smile. Literally and figuratively, Minerva took his breath away.

It astounded him that she didn't have the faintest clue the effect she had. Beyond the temptation of her divine ichor, the simple temptation of her. Though he hadn't been able to form the words to tell her, she looked astounding; the kind of beautiful that invoked the instinct to drop to his knees and pray.

She'd been right before when she teasingly remarked that the least of God's concerns was his cursing. In fact, there were quite a few things on the docket ahead of cussing. One in particular, that Carlisle was certain was highlighted, underlined and tabbed on the list was his complete and utter infatuation with a witch. Probably directly underneath his own status as a bloodsucking, creature of the night.