la belle dame sans merci | carlisle cullen

Eighty-Five

Minerva spent the following two days trying to anticipate every possible question Carlisle might return to her with. It was a hopeless endeavour. For all her efforts, all she came up with was questions for him; namely, why do you care?

It was an anomaly in the way all things Carlisle tended to be. How he could stand to cast his eyes on her, she couldn't guess. How her company was worth the complete disrespect of everything he stood for, she had no better hope of knowing. She wasn't exactly in a position to shirk good luck, nor was she selfless enough to send him away herself. So, now, here they stood: Together in the grey.

When the call came, she thought she'd have a little more time to mentally prepare. Instead, she was neck deep cleaning the oven for something to do when her phone rang. Perhaps a slightly frivolous use of her magic brought the device to snap open and cradle between her cheek and shoulders, fingers covered in goop and grime she very well could have dealt with as easily.

"Hello?"

"Is my favourite witch busy?" Carlisle's voice came through, a light-hearted tilt to it that settled her nerves.

She smiled softly, reaching for a rag to wipe her hands. "You only know one." She accused.

"So, naturally.. anyway. Are you busy?"

"Not really—"

"Oh, good."

Three knocks rapped against her front door.

"You better be joking." Minerva said with a barely restrained laugh.

She could hear that shit eating grin through the phone, "You'd better answer the door."

Minerva gestured vaguely and the door swung open. "You're so annoying." She said when she finally laid eyes on that self-satisfied smirk for herself.

"I thought it was funny." Carlisle said snapping his phone closed, leaning over the counter to look down at her. "So, you can open the door with your magic— but not clean the oven?"

She threw him a look as she got to her feet, an awkward manoeuvre to avoid laying her grimy hands on the tile. "Would you mind?" She asked, glancing toward the carefully balanced cellphone. He took it gladly, cold fingertips brushing her cheek before he did, snapping it shut and laying it on the counter as well. "I hate to be bored." She explained, nudging the kitchen faucet on with her wrist.

"And the oven was the most exciting you could think of?"

"It was something to do." Minerva replied as she scrubbed her hands.

"Well, next time you're cleaning the oven levels of bored— I wish you'd call me." Carlisle mused, moving to lean on the end of the counter instead of opposite to her. Minerva couldn't bring herself to tell him that it was much less boredom as it was clinical insanity.

With the dish towel in hand, she leaned her back against the sink as she wiped her hands. "You're being freakishly normal." She informed him.

"Am I?"

Her eyebrows flew up, "Am I?" She repeated back to him in her best British accent. It earned a laugh, "I mean.. you found out I moonlight as-as a murderer a couple days ago. I'd expect a little more reservation."