la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

Eighty-Four

"Good god— get out of the dining room."

Carlisle's run home was troubled but he felt lighter than he had when he took his leave. She was still there. How he could have been so stupid, he wasn't sure. His memory didn't let him forget an instant of the evening, replaying it back; examining every micro expression, every hesitation, every heartbeat, every breath.

His questions still swirled but when the sky began to relent its starry abyss to give way to a crest of cloudy purple and orange, he practically started out of his chair. "Oh, you must be exhausted." He realized, more to himself than to her. It was nice to see a glassiness in her eyes that was solely due to fatigue, rather than his complete idiocy.

Minerva just shrugged in her idle way. It looked to be a ware that went well beyond this evening, a weight she'd been carrying for too long that he could only now see pressing on her shoulders. "There's much to discuss." She replied neutrally, though her eyes never lingered on his long.

"And lots of time to discuss it." Carlisle had replied rather reluctantly. "You need to sleep." There it was again. The tick in her jaw, so very slight. Teeth pressing together like something was trapped, the soft click of it never falling on deaf ears. It was never more maddening than it was in that moment. Even now, she wouldn't let herself be completely candid with him. All the same, he'd wait. He'd wait for the day she didn't let her words die in her throat.

"I suppose." Minerva muttered wearily. He'd grown accustomed to her fidgeting, identified a nervous habit he'd never noticed. The frantic rub of the pad of her thumb against her forefinger. He'd noticed her do it with a cigarette before, rolling it between her fingers until the end was hardly round by the end of it.

Carlisle had been reluctant to stand though she mirrored him and led him back into the house. "Shall I call or will you?" He asked thoughtfully.

"You can draft up your inquisition and give me a call when you've got it sorted." Minerva decided with a sigh. "I'll answer."

Two little words. Pronoun, verb, noun. So simple.

I will answer.

From anybody else, Carlisle wouldn't have felt something striking him deep in the chest. Minerva and all her secrets, her indirect subterfuge, her tangents and red herrings. I will answer.

"Lovely." He'd breathed out, "Until then." and— like a fucking idiot— extended his hand.

Minerva stared at his outstretched palm, caught somewhere between smiling and frowning. "You're so annoying." She exasperated, "You want me to shake on it?"

"No— er— I—" fuck. "Panicked."

"You panicked?"

"Yes, well, it feels more appropriate to give you a hug after all that hut I wasn't sure and then I thought—"

He ate the last of his words when Minerva stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his middle in a firm grasp with a mutter of: "Just shut up."

And boy, did he ever. His arms came naturally around her, cheek resting atop her head. The warmth of her was so different than the air, than the sun even on one of their rare sunny days. The air and sun were now just things that were warm, not things he experienced as warm. Nothing could lift the cold of his condition.

How wonderful it was to be so enamoured with a woman who's very being resisted absolutes, even if she tried her hardest to tend toward them. Every point of contact, her cheek just over his solemn heart, her arms around him, the fists her hands curled into at his back, ignited something that spread through him. Not like the fire she surrounded herself with, not at all; more like the way the sun creeps into the room, slowly lighting everything dark. His love was a walking contradiction.