A/N: If you were looking for a lemon, this is not the place. I'm sorry. The rating is merely for things implied, not actually seen or done. Not beta-read. :P Title is from the Sigur Ros song of the same name. I listened to it the whole time I was writing this on repeat. Go listen. Now. :D
"He never came."
It wasn't a question. She could only vaguely nod her head, not looking at him. It didn't matter how he had found out; he knew now. Minerva McGonagall was a very private person indeed; she wasn't about to disclose the fact to anyone who would listen that she finally was going to see her husband after a year of absence. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much if it had only been once, but it had occurred over and over again…Minerva lost count after ten. This would be at least the eleventh time he had stood her up. Despite herself, she was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her…
The fact that Dumbledore had somehow let himself in when she was at her weakest didn't help much. She certainly didn't want him to see her this way—it was so unbelievably stupid to act like this. Of course, Matthew got busy—didn't everyone who had a job get busy now and then? But she had cleared this weekend specifically for his presence; for their getaway. And he had promised…he had promised her that he would—
"I'm so sorry."
His words meant nothing; there was a professional distance separating them. Telling someone you were 'so sorry' was something a Healer said when nothing more could be done, when the person you loved was going to die anyway; when there was nothing they could do to stop it. It shouldn't have mattered, but the fact that he had decided to address her so impersonally stung.
She finally whirled around to face him, her eyes rimmed with red because of her tears. "I'm glad I have earned your pity, Albus," she snarled. "I suppose that's all that needs to be said? You can go on now; save other damsels in distress—"
It hurt that after all of their years of friendship, this was all he could say to her. She thought they were more than that at least; the easygoing banter that tiptoed so near to outright flirting—she could hear some of the staff gossip about them being involved. Minerva had always turned her nose up at them, daring them to say any foul thing they were thinking about her directly to her face. No one had the courage or the stupidity yet to do so. Perhaps because when they were together, that's all they really were; a byproduct of rumor. The great Albus Dumbledore would not settle with such a hag anyhow; it wasn't how powerful wizards did things. No, they required the services of the most elite. The most potent. The most beautiful…
After her thoughts, she could finally see his face again, and glimpsed the pain she had caused him. She knew he would save anyone within his power; even at his own peril. She hadn't really meant it. He just needed to understand that a simple sorry wouldn't fix this, would not fix her own stupidity. No, the harshness was for herself alone. She had just thought that this time, maybe—
"You are the only one in distress at the moment, Minerva," he said quietly, striding toward her. Minerva turned away as she glimpsed a hand accompanying his approach. If he touched her now, she'd be lost… and if Matthew were the vengeful type, he would take it out on her, saying it was her fault and that she had done the cheating. She figured he must have plenty of time to acquaint himself with dozens of mistresses. It was stupid of her to have placed so much faith in him…
She shook her head. "I don't—I don't think you can—help me, Albus," she said just as softly, pleading with him in her mind to not touch her, to not remind her that she was still very much a woman, and perfectly capable of loving two people at the same time…
The hand came down on her shoulder anyway, and she could feel her trembling from the weight of it. Or perhaps he was—she couldn't be certain. "At least let me try," he breathed into her ear. "There is nothing to be ashamed of…when we love, we can't help but believe the best of a person in contrast to what our other senses may be telling us. It only proves what a forgiving heart you have, my dear."
Her eyes filled with tears. Why isn't he you? "Why do you always say things—like this?" she choked out, trying to control her tears, trying her best to subdue the impulse to turn around and let him take her in his arms. She still had Matthew's ring on her finger…
"Are they not the truth?" Albus questioned, seeming to ignore her earlier desires to have him leave. When she didn't respond, he rubbed her arm in a gesture of comfort. "My dear, turning away from our problems isn't going to change anything… if anything, it makes us blinder to what we are avoiding."
"It is better to avoid something one cannot control, like an involuntary reaction," she countered weakly, her voice still raspy, but her intent there all the same. She didn't think Albus suspected she was talking about herself; how she was so desperate to be shown love by any man, but most especially him. She had been lonely for so long… after Matthew had promised and then consequently ignored her each of those eleven times, she began to doubt herself as a viable woman; perhaps he secured his pleasure from elsewhere. It'd be far too easy for him—she always thought he looked striking…
…but the man behind her had been there for even longer than Matthew had, and seemed to know precisely what she was thinking, even now. "Love is not involuntary," his voice rumbled right through her and she selfishly closed her eyes to experience the sensation of it. Even so, her left hand was inconspicuously clenched at her side; it was becoming harder and harder to resist.
She couldn't ignore the last comment though. She turned around and breath was lost to her as she looked at him—he looked as distressed as she. She could only guess he would harbor this expression because he was in as much pain as she was.
Her resolve broke. "Oh Albus!" she cried, collapsing into his arms and crying the tears she thought were already long ago spent. Albus stood there and consoled her, rubbing her back and telling her things that she knew weren't true, but helped to ease the sting of feeling unwanted. She had given everything to Matthew and he had taken everything away… "It's going to be alright my dear," he soothed. "Matthew will come back, you'll see… He probably had another unexpected assignment and you will be in contact with him soon…"
Her sobs slowly became less heart-wrenching and more controllable. Now she was merely gasping, trying to regain control of her breathing as well.
"Minerva," he said quietly in warning, but he didn't have to elaborate—she got the message. She let a few more silent tears go before finally heaving a sigh in his embrace.
Albus stepped back from her, but grasped her arms a moment as if he did not want to leave the sense of connection; his old eyes looking so pained to view her in this state. She thought she was going to lose control all over again by looking at him, so looked at the floor.
"I'm sorry I—"
"There is nothing to be sorry for," he reassured quickly, his hands finally finding hers before he squeezed them. "Why, a woman of your strength should not be questioning her value because of what someone—"
"—messed up your robes," she finished.
It took a moment for Albus to catch what she had said, but when he did, he chuckled, and Minerva met his eyes briefly and smiled before looking away again.
"That is the least of our worries now," Albus said with a smile, squeezing her hands again before finally releasing them. Minerva glanced at him and it looked as though he wanted to do more but was restraining himself—God, how she wanted him!
She said the only thing that made sense. "Thank you."
It seemed he couldn't keep from touching her again. His hand found her shoulder and squeezed it for the briefest of moments before he said, "You know I would do anything for you Minerva, don't you?"
At her terse nod, he smiled and stepped away, finally leaving her to her own mechanisms for defense. At her door, he turned around and waved the tips of his fingers at her in a gesture of goodbye.
She couldn't help it and snorted. "Get out of here, you old coot!"
As Dumbledore shut her door and lingered in the corridor, he said to her door, "After all, what else would I do for someone I love?" And he turned and ambled down the corridor, taking a right as to what would surely be the direction of the kitchens—for a few dozen, now surely cold cookies.