(no subject)
The band was playing Gloomy Sunday when they walked through the door, and that should have been her first warning - all the warning she needed, really, because the evening had scarcely begun and it was already turning out to be much too strange. The club was lovely, of course; all soft lights and warm air, the music gentle and lilting, the dance floor full of sweeping couples. The food was better than any she’d had in a very long time (she hadn’t lived alone long enough to become a competent cook). She was feeling prettier than usual, which always put her in a good mood, and if there was any nervousness in the air, any tension - well, she would write that off to Calum’s inability to sit still when buttoned into his suit.
She wouldn’t have noticed, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Calum hadn’t owned a suit last week. And she wouldn’t have been at all concerned - really, it wasn’t her business - but she also knew that Calum’s funds were too tight for him to be out purchasing clothing (expensive clothing!) he wasn’t going to be wearing on a regular basis. He had less business in that suit than he did taking her on such a fine outing, but she wasn’t about to upset him by pointing that out.
Minerva wondered why she wasn’t more surprised when he managed to slip the phrase, “I think we should get married,” into the conversation taking place over the main course.
She still choked.
When she had finished all the water in her glass and she was done coughing into her napkin, she looked up at him with watery eyes and said, “I beg your pardon?”
He laughed a little, leaning over the table - on his elbows, she couldn’t help noticing - and said, “Married. You and me.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment and he took his elbows off the table as he settled back into his chair. “I’m not sure what to say,” she answered truthfully, putting her napkin down.
“You could say yes,” he suggested, eyebrows raised hopefully.
She shook her head. “No.”
He frowned, and dropped his fork on his plate, leaning forward again. “Why not?” he asked, his voice blissfully devoid of the reproach she was certain she would hear. “Think about it, Min.”
“I am thinking about it,” she replied, her voice gaining, at least to her own ears, just the slightest hint of panic. “I’m thinking about how awful it would be.”
“But I love you,” he offered, that stupid, hopeful look back on his face.
She had to stop herself from cringing, but even that couldn’t halt her response. “You say that as though it changes things.”
Calum sat back again, and slouched down in his chair, folding his hands over his lap. His shoe hit her ankle under the table as he stretched his legs out, but he didn’t apologize and she didn’t mention it. He blinked at her once, twice, and then asked, “Doesn’t it?”
Her gaze settled, just for a moment, on the chandelier above the dance floor, and then she was shaking her head. “No,” she said decisively. “You’re still a slob, and I’m still afraid of commitment. We’d make each other miserable.”
He nodded in acquiescence, shrugging as if to say it couldn’t be helped. “I think we’d be all right,” he argued.
“You leave wet towels on my bathroom floor,” she pointed out gently.
“Only sometimes,” he countered, laughing quietly.
“And you never wipe the mud off your shoes,” she went on.
He nodded.
“And you still whistle every time Eliza Nye goes walking in that terrible dress.”
He laughed at that, but had the decency to blush. “It’s a lovely dress,” he said rakishly, waggling his eyebrows at her.
“It’s a lovely blouse,” she corrected, her mouth twisting into a sour grimace. “And you hate my family.”
“Your grandfather’s all right,” he insisted, sitting up and regaining a little of his composure.
She shook her head at him again, the beginnings of a smile on her face. “You can’t stand Mysie, and the feeling’s mutual.”
A little furrow appeared in his brow, his eyebrows drawing down. “Did she tell you that?”
“She tells me every chance she gets. The first thing out of her mouth is usually something about how thin I look, and then she goes off on “that McAfee boy” and how he's not proper company for a woman of my upbringing.”
Calum stared at her for a moment, and then a small smile broke out on his face. “She hasn’t figured out that you only keep me around her annoy her and Josephine?”
A ripple of laughter passed through them after a moment's pause, each wanting to linger on the old, familiar (safe) topic of the general disapproval of the elder McGonagall women, then Calum put a hand of the lower half of his face and rubbed his chin briskly in thought.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose I expected you to say yes.”
“You didn’t,” she assured him, reaching for her fork again. “You can't have. You didn’t buy a ring.”
He eyed her for a moment, and she choked again when he reached into his pocket, but when he pulled his hand out there was nothing in it but a handkerchief.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said, grinning lazily at her as he shoved his fork into the cooling piece of meat on his plate. “You would be a terrible wife.”
Minerva refrained from telling him that he would be a terrible husband, and kicked him under the table as she reached for her wine glass.
She wouldn’t have noticed, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Calum hadn’t owned a suit last week. And she wouldn’t have been at all concerned - really, it wasn’t her business - but she also knew that Calum’s funds were too tight for him to be out purchasing clothing (expensive clothing!) he wasn’t going to be wearing on a regular basis. He had less business in that suit than he did taking her on such a fine outing, but she wasn’t about to upset him by pointing that out.
Minerva wondered why she wasn’t more surprised when he managed to slip the phrase, “I think we should get married,” into the conversation taking place over the main course.
She still choked.
When she had finished all the water in her glass and she was done coughing into her napkin, she looked up at him with watery eyes and said, “I beg your pardon?”
He laughed a little, leaning over the table - on his elbows, she couldn’t help noticing - and said, “Married. You and me.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment and he took his elbows off the table as he settled back into his chair. “I’m not sure what to say,” she answered truthfully, putting her napkin down.
“You could say yes,” he suggested, eyebrows raised hopefully.
She shook her head. “No.”
He frowned, and dropped his fork on his plate, leaning forward again. “Why not?” he asked, his voice blissfully devoid of the reproach she was certain she would hear. “Think about it, Min.”
“I am thinking about it,” she replied, her voice gaining, at least to her own ears, just the slightest hint of panic. “I’m thinking about how awful it would be.”
“But I love you,” he offered, that stupid, hopeful look back on his face.
She had to stop herself from cringing, but even that couldn’t halt her response. “You say that as though it changes things.”
Calum sat back again, and slouched down in his chair, folding his hands over his lap. His shoe hit her ankle under the table as he stretched his legs out, but he didn’t apologize and she didn’t mention it. He blinked at her once, twice, and then asked, “Doesn’t it?”
Her gaze settled, just for a moment, on the chandelier above the dance floor, and then she was shaking her head. “No,” she said decisively. “You’re still a slob, and I’m still afraid of commitment. We’d make each other miserable.”
He nodded in acquiescence, shrugging as if to say it couldn’t be helped. “I think we’d be all right,” he argued.
“You leave wet towels on my bathroom floor,” she pointed out gently.
“Only sometimes,” he countered, laughing quietly.
“And you never wipe the mud off your shoes,” she went on.
He nodded.
“And you still whistle every time Eliza Nye goes walking in that terrible dress.”
He laughed at that, but had the decency to blush. “It’s a lovely dress,” he said rakishly, waggling his eyebrows at her.
“It’s a lovely blouse,” she corrected, her mouth twisting into a sour grimace. “And you hate my family.”
“Your grandfather’s all right,” he insisted, sitting up and regaining a little of his composure.
She shook her head at him again, the beginnings of a smile on her face. “You can’t stand Mysie, and the feeling’s mutual.”
A little furrow appeared in his brow, his eyebrows drawing down. “Did she tell you that?”
“She tells me every chance she gets. The first thing out of her mouth is usually something about how thin I look, and then she goes off on “that McAfee boy” and how he's not proper company for a woman of my upbringing.”
Calum stared at her for a moment, and then a small smile broke out on his face. “She hasn’t figured out that you only keep me around her annoy her and Josephine?”
A ripple of laughter passed through them after a moment's pause, each wanting to linger on the old, familiar (safe) topic of the general disapproval of the elder McGonagall women, then Calum put a hand of the lower half of his face and rubbed his chin briskly in thought.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose I expected you to say yes.”
“You didn’t,” she assured him, reaching for her fork again. “You can't have. You didn’t buy a ring.”
He eyed her for a moment, and she choked again when he reached into his pocket, but when he pulled his hand out there was nothing in it but a handkerchief.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said, grinning lazily at her as he shoved his fork into the cooling piece of meat on his plate. “You would be a terrible wife.”
Minerva refrained from telling him that he would be a terrible husband, and kicked him under the table as she reached for her wine glass.