la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

Eighty-Three

"I'll get it right this time."

Minerva felt every cigarette she'd smoked in the last century in her trembling breath. Exactly the way inhaling that last puff before the filter, just before it was ready to meet the bottom of her boot, burning and unsteady, cutting off just before the tobacco ran out. Everything felt too warm, too much, like the paper had burnt off, leaving her charred and diminished, crushed. God, she needed a smoke.

"From.. from the top." Carlisle started softly, "Minerva— I—" He laughed weakly, a desperate kind of sound she hadn't missed in his voice. She couldn't bare to meet his eye. "I've just learned the darnedest thing.." He stepped into her field of vision, head ducked the slightest bit to seek her gaze. A barely there smile tugged at the corner of her lips, eyes bleary and darting between hers, "and I was wondering if you might tell me why?"

"Oh gee," she whispered, wiping a sneaking tear with the harsh brush of her hand's heel. Her throat felt like it was closing over, face crumpling and smoothing over just as fast. If he'd just gone— if he'd walked out the door, this wouldn't happen. He wasn't going to believe her— if he'd did, it still wouldn't click. Carlisle would finally turn and leave if his own volition. It wouldn't be for any fib, no misdirection, no stupid misstep. No, he'd have the truth and then he'd take it with him. He'd put it in his pocket for a while, run it through the wash until it was unrecognizable— and get on with it all. "Thanks for asking."

Porcelain rippled over knuckle, fist clenching tight at his side before it relaxed. Relaxed and reached. He stopped her hand as she turned her face, already in motion to angrily dash the evidence of her anguish. Instead of her clammy palm smooshing into her cheek, the careful swipe of a freezing thumb brushed it away. A breath compressed from her without her permission. It felt like the way he spoke, gentle, not asking to be heard but leaving you little choice but to listen. Just the curve of his thumb rested on her shame flushed cheek, the barest touch of his ring finger curling under her jaw forcing her to look up at him. The space he left, palm hovering, felt like a cold magnetism— she couldn't tell if it was attracting or repelling.

Oh, who was she kidding. Attraction, just barely holding apart, dying for connection that couldn't be. Though she knew it to be a grace given going, he wiped away a fresh stream of tears she'd only been dimly aware of shedding and let his hand cradle her cheek other coming to join it on the opposite. "I'm sorry, Min." He breathed out.

Oh, beautiful, simple, sweet Carlisle. All she could do was shake her head a little. Opening her mouth and then closing it again. He was only apologizing for the misunderstanding, the oversight. I'm sorry. There wasn't a doubt in her mind— that would be the last thing she'd ever hear from his mouth. Maybe not this moment, maybe five minutes, maybe a half hour but sooner or later, he would utter out I'm sorry and go.

Her jaw tightened, teeth trembling under the pressure, tongue pressed tight to lock in a humiliating sound that rattled in her throat for freedom. "Hey," he whispered, ducking his head a little to get closer to eye level, forcing foggy grey to meet honey yellow, "It's okay." So gentle, so assured— she'd never wanted anything more than to believe him. Her eyes clamped shut, trying to shut off the faucet in her skull, shut off the excruciating vision of him so gentle when she knew that it was only a matter of time before his patience waned. An arm slipped around her back, hand sliding from her cheek to cradle the back of her neck as he closed the last shred of distance.

She took a shaking breath, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne as her cheek pressed into his still damp jacket. Warm, earthy and clean, something bergamot and citrusy that was very distinctly him. Her shoulders trembled, eyes squeezing shut as her body reacted of its own accord. Arms anchored around his middle, hands closing into fists in the canvas of his jacket.