Part 7
It's stranger coming home now than it had been.
Before Carlisle had existed in his world at all, and before Carlisle knew what he'd meant. Any meaning he'd once upon a time been trying to ascribe to things is faded even further before a not-quite-promise. As though he's looking at them, any relevance they should have, down a long hall.
He'd let ( Read more... )
(He's spending a lot of time around Edward. And the TV.)
A text message later:
How's work?
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His first word is predictable. Tedious.
It's only a minute hesitation before he writes after it. I assume.
At least it's all in one message.
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Out loud to nobody in particular.
Want to come over? Too bright out for me.
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To try and collect his thoughts. Pull some sort of cohenerency into light and sound and solid objects that is not the piano music echoing through his thoughts. The past and present. To get up and put himself through a shower, which got him both clean and more in his skin.
He chose a pair of nice jeans in the pile of things Alice left from her after-Christmas shopping, wonderingly barely how much of his money had been spent but not really, and then flat cashmere sweater in grey, with a button up under it. Far more presentable than anything he'd been wearing or not wearing since waking.
He left his hair to its resolutely shiny mess.
An hour and half later sees him knocking on the door.
Traffic isn't always anyone's friend.
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Carlisle dispenses with pleasantries rather quickly. He doesn't sound offended; just noting.
While wearing an apron.
Something smells good.
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The other part of his thought is possible either five years old or simply five centimeter's tall. Carlisle is cooking. Again. Something Edward had made himself swear he wouldn't ask for or talking about, except in self-reference, after being so incredibly stupid about the lengths Carlisle had gone to for him.
He'll do his best to restrain the urge to smile. It might work.
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Edward looks pleased, and surprised - two nice reactions, if Carlisle is allowed to have an opinion on things.
Specifically, there is a chicken breast cooked with garlic and lemon, with dirty rice and broccoli.
Carlisle hangs back after taking off the apron, trying to remain clinical about reactions in case it turns out awful.
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"I haven't eaten anything." Isn't the sentence actually in his mouth wanting to come out.
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"You don't actually have to if you don't want anything."
Yes he does.
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It takes a long second. "You cooked it."
The obvious rebuff to Carlisle's words.
As well the reference it can't not be.
Pleased...but absently apologetic.
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"Do you want anything to drink?"
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"Any specific place?"
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Like every other time he has to eat, he doesn't add.
He snagged the leg of a chair to the dinning room table with his foot and tugged it out. Using his free hand halfway through as well, careful casual things the slowly appeared across time that he wouldn't do under the view of public.
Like asking, "Why now?"
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