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The Confession on the Terrace

He was smirking at her over the rim of the wine glass, lips slightly pursed, but the delicate webbing around his eyes crinkled up and his eyes had warmed to a stormy grey.

"What should we do tomorrow?" She took a delicate sip of her wine.

Severus hitched one shoulder carelessly and leaned against the edge of the balcony. "Whatever you like."

Elaine tipped her head back and looked up at the sky. "I had thought we might go to the Eiffel Tower, but—"

He arched an eyebrow and shifted his weight off of his bad leg. Her eyes caressed him, moving up from his boot-clad foot to his hip. "I can walk, Elaine," he said quietly.

She flushed slightly. "I know—Severus—I know. I just—does it hurt? Does it get worse after a long walk?"

He took a step towards her, his hand cupping her elbow gently. "Elaine, it's alright. It's not a glamorous story; I fell and shattered my hip and it didn't get attended to for over a week. Even with surgery, it was somewhat irreparable." He was very close to her and she noticed the two buttons at his throat were undone. She could see the beginning of the scars around his neck, hidden by a thick fall of his black hair.

She swallowed. "And your neck?"

"Does it repulse you?"

"No—but I've never quite seen it."

He pulled his long hair over his shoulder and cocked his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She reached out, expecting him to stop her. He didn't, and her fingertips, cool from the condensation of her glass, gently brushed against the thick ribbing that marred the column of his throat.

"I was attacked by a giant snake."

"What? Are there snakes in England this big?"

He licked his lips and she retreated. "No. It was imported."

"Imported?"

"Illegally," he muttered and seemed to fight a shiver as she spread her fingers over the old wound. She withdrew.

They were standing so close that Elaine could feel his body heat through his shirt. She took a sip of her wine to cover her flustered state. He was so close she could smell his familiar spicy scent.

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I have a lot of old scars." His hand was still warm on her arm.

She drained the last of her wine in one deep swallow. "It sounds like you have lived a treacherous life."

He took her glass and turned back to the low table where the bottle sat.

"I'm not lying to you. I would never lie to you." His voice was low and dangerous.

Elaine laughed then, realizing suddenly that the thought that he could be dishonest had not crossed her mind. "There are things I don't understand—other facets to the story you can't—or won't—tell me. But I believe you—completely."

When he handed her the now full glass, his smile was wide, crooked, and glorious.

Grey, #10