Thank you for your reviews on this 'one-shot' or, at least, it was supposed to be. My usually absent C/J muse bugged me. I hope you enjoy. Please review again.


She finishes in the ballroom, making her way up the stairs as if she is pained beyond all reasonable measures. Her conversation with him has upset her, and she has failed to make any selections for the place setting – tonight she has failed at everything. She thinks that, tonight of all nights is when she needs a nightcap. Sometimes he sneaks into her suite under some security pretence, and pours them both a nightcap, and she rests her head on his shoulder in the most intimate of fashions. That is as far as they go, but the promise of something else is enough to sustain her. And she thought, it was enough to sustain him. She has frayed that very tired rope to snapping, apparently. But that is what you do, she reminds herself in a cold fashion. You are the woman who frays everyone's ropes.

No nightcap. Not tonight, she thinks rather bitterly.

The maids have been in, so the light is on and the bed is turned down. She throws herself down on the suite and kicks off her shoes. On the table in front of her there is a glossy magazine. It's one of Mia's; called something innocuous like 'Hi!' or 'Woman'. She fails to see what her granddaughter finds appealing, but right now, it really doesn't matter. The page at which it is lying opened has caught her her eye.

What Kind of Partner are You?

She snorts with derision, with furious anger, at this trivial article that is mocking her so right now. Why Clarisse, she thinks to herself, are you such a martyr? Because, her conscience answers, because you like it. Because it's the easiest way out. The first question is; 'Choose one word to describe yourself.'

If she had to describe herself in any word, she would use ice. Ice is the perfect metaphor for what she is. She is cold, she is hard but even more so, she is brittle and fragile. She is thin ice, stressed and stretched over the surface of some deep, unfathomable body of water than is much deeper than she cares to plunge. And like ice, in his arms, she melts. She comes up against his heat and she is thawed.

She has always been so relentlessly cold, even towards him. She casts her mind back to her children and wonders what they think of her. Her hand lingers on the receiver of the phone for a while, and she thinks to call Pierre, but eventually her hand moves away.

She heaves out a sigh, highly unladylike, and in an unusual show of aggressive frustration, thumps both fists against the plump cushions that rest below her hands. She bites her lip, until it tingles with pain, against the scream that is pressing against her larynx like a dead-weight. This is where she is brittle, brittle to the point of breaking – test her, she bends so far then she snaps, cracks, fragments into nothing. She is broken right now.

And she is fragile.

Fragile in the way that ice is – when it breaks, it comes out with lots of sharp little shards and edges. Not smooth like it should but embittered and vengeful.

She tips her head back and closes her eyes. There is nothing but the sound of her uneven breathing filling the air. That and the feeling of utter sorrow, made tangible, which she thinks she could feel and touch and mould if only she reached out her hand. It has expanded forth from her chest, flooded its way to the very tips of her fingers where it pours out and turns the neutrally coloured room a desperate black. That's how she pictures it in her mind anyway.

The fact that the sorrow is an opaque black is a symbol she has not failed to miss.

She finally opens her eyes and is genuinely shocked to find that the room, her chamber, has remained the same. It is unaltered by the intense feelings that are coursing through her. She stands up, realises she is wobbly on her feet, and grips the side table to steady herself. Then, in a sudden moment of spontaneous delusion, she grabs the decanter and 2 crystal glasses and makes her way out of the chamber.

She can't help herself, because like ice, she is so set in her ways. She thinks to herself, as she winds her way through the bowels of the silent palace, that the staff quarters are indeed very sparse and poor looking. She has never been to Joseph's room but she knows, because Charlotte has told her, where it is. The funny thing is that the footmen on duty and the men in the control room don't blink an eye as she passes, her heels clacking on the tiled floors.

She doesn't give anyone that works for her enough credit. She has never given him enough credit. Like ice, she is unyielding.

She raps her knuckles efficiently on his door and after a moment of no response, does so again. This time he opens the door quickly. He is wearing, to her surprise, a soft grey robe and there is a towel around his neck. He just smiled sadly and steps back to let her in. she knows this is the end; because the fire has gone out. No more fighting, she thinks, and breathes a sigh of relief. Like ice, she has made her choice to take the one form.

The room is larger than she imagined, and is more like a studio apartment than a bedroom. She wants to take in the details, but she can't. She simply sits on the black leather couch and kicks off her shoes. He silently takes the decanter and pours them two glasses. After a sip he grimaces, because she knows her hot grasp has warmed it, and goes to the freezer.

"Ice?" He asks.

"Yes," she answers it and in her head, she hears all the subtexts.

He lets the cubes clink into the glass.

"One last drink?" She tips her head to the side, rests it on his shoulder. And melts.

"I suppose," he holds up the glass, "I know I couldn't watch you forever."

And as brittle and as fragile, as unyielding and cold as ice is, she knows it has to return to its natural state.

She lets tears trickle from her eyes and enjoys her last drink with him.

And he watches as she cries.