You know, I bet they think I'm staying. A full month in London. A visit non-stop. I bet the prince is getting a little twitchy now. Surprised I haven't gotten a phonecall actually. But I'll tell you the secret of it, it has nothing to do with making Tattinger sweat and knock his knees together. It has everything to do with a Welsh winter. Rainy, snowy, icy, windy, foul and dark. Though old Powys Castle's a charmin' place to weather out the storm...
...Still...
London's not a bad place to spend Yule. It's certainly... different. Well, maybe I'll head to Wales for the actual holiday with Sandrine. Maybe we'll just spend it in the city. Bah, I can't make up my mind and so...
...I'll have another drink!
Davydd sits back in his Usual Booth, the best one in the house with the fullest view of the room at-large. He's only on his second drink -- Black and Tans tonight -- and he's into his second cigarette. The pack's on the table, and the lighter. And a book. Yes, he can read...
Dark green eyes flick upward, a surveying glance given now and again -- to the bar, to the doorway. Tonight, there are no surrounding friends, no clamoring mates, no loitering waitresses. He's passing a quiet early evening.
It's a very quiet Fiona that comes in, and even her fashion sense seems to reflect that. Pale, pale pink stretchy cable-knit t-shirt sweater paired with faded, washed out jeans tucked into a pair of clunky, beaten up boots. It's close fitting, all of it, but it couldn't be described as alluring, or overtly fashionable, as such - the only things to make it fashionable are the long dark overcoat hanging from her shoulders, and the fact that her hair is as impeccably clean and shiny as ever, twisted up into a neat pile on her head witha long ponytail dangling down to midback from it.
Dulled eyes from less sleep than normal and from more than a few tears glance again, washed of any colour save a pale, frosted blue. She observes her surroundings with the disinterest of someone who's just not got enough energy to care, just yet. Maybe after a drink, and some food. Eh. Maybe just after some drinks and a food. Or hang on, let's skip the food.
Hands in her pockets, Fiona moves through the doorway and into the pub proper. "Mm, donno," comes her quiet voice, when she's asked where she wants to sit. "Guess anywhere'll do. - No, no, I don't care if the air's clean or not." It's ... sort of a hybrid, the words falling somewhere between what Fiona would say, and what Drancy would have said. The accent though is still purely Fiona, if a casual, tired one.
She's been crying, and her eyes have that slight hint of puffiness - but the most recent tears were enough ago that maybe it could just pass as exhaustion. Maybe.
Oh the things you do not know and would not understand, little Fiona. I heard your signature steps outside the pub. I knew you when you came in, for I remember the smell of your hair. Things a mortal man would miss. Things a mortal man doesn't even know exist.
As you come in, Davydd leans out of his booth, a twist and a turn, a cocking up of a fiery eyebrow, and he blows out an 'O' in smoke, piercing it with an archer's care -- pointing the cigarette at you. "No sense in wasting a perfectly good booth," he calls out, "Why don't you come and join me, Miss," as if he never saw you before. A glance of green to the waitress, "I could do with a Ploughman's, ah and a refresh of the black and tan," he lifts his near empty glass, motioning with it.
He can tell you've been crying. He actually rises from his booth, like a proper gentleman, opens his arm and waits for you to join him.
Clad with the best of British sensibility. High fashion, luvs, with a vintage longcoat of leather, straight from WWII. Beneath this, an olive green sweater, mock turtleneck. The pants are a woody sort of color, not so rich as chocolate, not so dull as earth.
Blink. She's not in shock, but she is surprised - both at the politesse and at the offer, the polite lack of recognition. "...Sure?" It's half a question - by turns wary and suspicious, 'what are you up to NOW, Davydd' and by turns cautiously uncertain, Are you sure you want me here. But ... she'll accept. She's tired of being alone, right now...
Fiona approaches the booth with a glance at the waitress, as if both to say He's mad, I've never seen him before in my life and Don't worry, it'll be fine at the same time - not that she would know about dualities, would she? She takes the seat, murmuring, "Cider and Ploughman's as well, thanks."
Settling back, she looks out at you before you sit, waiting though until you do. "You look ... good. Better than I'm dressed, today."
He waits for you to sit and then he takes a seat opposite. A model of Temperance tonight. You only notice one empty and one nearly empty. Two cigarettes gone. And a paperback book, open-faced against the surface of the table to hold his spot. A book in Welsh -- they actually sell those -- a history, concerning the maritime habits of the Welsh, Irish and Scots during the "occupation" of the Romans.
A great hand picks it up, dog-ears the page and stuffs it in the inside pocket of the vintage coat. He does look ...spiffy. It suits him. And as you compliment, Davydd grins, a comet-smile lighting the expression, leaving stars and dust of humor in his eyes. "Aye? Well, occasionally I'm fashionable," actually, he's fashionable all the time. The Briton of britons. Davydd fishes out another cigarette. "Just having a read, passing the early evening. Thinking about taking dinner somewhere fancy, maybe go to a smoking room and talk politics. You may now yawn," and he waves at you as he lights up, he grins as his billows smoke. But the grin is tempered. You look like shite.
"Looks like you've had a hard one. Wanna use my shoulder a while?" A quiet offer. The offer of a friend to a friend.
That gets a slightly watery smile out of her. "And me, all set to ride to the hounds this weekend," Fiona quips. Actually, her parents keep pressing her to rejoin their local hunt. She might even consider it, too, if it weren't likely to be turned into a hunt for a husband for her, as opposed to chasing down a fox and then backing off of it. "I won't yawn, but let me get some food in me so I can stay awake."
She props her elbows on the table's surface, resting her chin on her hands. The offer ... she's silent for a moment, but it's not a refusal. How does she say it? Answer : the only way she knows of. Finally, it comes out. "I called things off with Huw," she says softly, with a glance down to the table. Mm. Wood. Fascinating.
Good. I mean, I'm sorry. But good. Sorry in a good way. And it's for the best. Davydd holds his tongue for the moment. His face showing understanding and acknowledgement.
And the waitress comes up with her hands full. "...'ere you are, luvs. Two ploughman's... a cider... a black and tan for you Black Jack Davy," she smirks at him. Few actually know how right that is. But who's he to correct her?
Davydd sits back, a cockeyed smile on his lips. "Thanks, hey... I'm feeling peckish for coffee actually. I'll keep the black and tan, but could you bring me a cuppa..." he opens his mouth, but she beats him to the quick...
"...cream and sugar, aye... I'll bring it." And she leaves to do just that.
"I think I've made myself sick of beer. What's the world coming to," he purrs. But then he exhales, and he looks to you, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, half-frowning for your sake and breathing smoke like the dragon he is. "I'm sorry for your sake," he says after a moment. "But... I will tell you true, as a friend, you did the right thing. Best cure for a broken heart?" He asks, as if plucking it from your brain. Eyebrows lift in a fiery arch, like the rising tails of falling stars. "Time, good food, friends, Guinness and Time."
She smiles faintly at the waitress, and makes room in front of her for the food by lifting her elbows and leaning back and placing her hands in her lap. "Thank you." And Fiona's silent again, until the woman's gone away again, nothing to say.
"Coffee? You?" One golden-pale eyebrow quirks upwards, summer's ripened wheat. "I'm amazed your liver hasn't given up - or tried to reach up and throttle you, really, but hey, I can't really talk. After I ... did the deed ..." MacBeth's wife, or MacBeth - such comparisons she makes. "I polished off a bottle of '69 Petit-Rosseau burgundy by myself." Which isn't what she'd had the wine out for, but...
Silence, again, and she stares hard at her food, as if suspicious it might turn into a musical television ad, get off her plate, and begin singing and dancing. "I know," she says finally. "I know I did the right thing. What I need, what I want, he couldn't give me. But it doesn't change the fact that the feelings are there, were there, and that he even ... cared for me, at least a bit." Her voice almost breaks, and Fiona looks for a moment, forlorn. That's been the rare thing. "I'll ... get over it, I imagine. Just ... right now, it hurts rather a bit."
Aye, coffee. He chuckles with Knowing and smirks. "I have hearty innards," and he widens his eyes at the pun. Aren't I just clever? But then his expression calms again and he taps the ash of the cigarette. There's something... right about him breathing smoke. It's good for symmetry. Davydd taps out the cigarette, bored with it really, and there's food about now to keep his hands occupied. And that's really what it's all for. Keeping his hands occupied. A focus. A prop for conversation.
He takes one of the bits of bread and butters it. Liberally. How does he keep so fit? "Eh, faerie men. They're a fun lot, but... not exactly stable," he murmurs. A glance given to the crowd as he does so. Looking for eavesdropping vampires. Thankfully, it's an overly mortal crowd that lingers in Davy's. Mostly because Davydd's here so frequently. It's his turf, you know. "I'm sure he cared," he notes. "But then, you're an appealing lass," he mentions, and he eats. "And not just because you're attractive, which you are. But you're ballsy. Myself, I like that in a woman. A little rough and tumble, but beneath that, very soft. You will," Davydd concurs with a nod, then polishes off a small square of cheese. "The world's a big place, darlin', and you've only seen a corner of it. In a way, it's good you're not entangled. The road's yours to walk without having to worry about tagging someone along. It'll happen for you, trust me."
And she's back with the coffee, the cream and a little caddy of sugar. "There you are now... anything else...?"
"Nah," Davydd rumbles, "..we're fine for the now. I'll give a whistle, sweets..." And with that, he sends her off, giving her a pat on her behind as she turns. "I'm such a twat," he notes for the record. "And
even I can find someone to love me..."
"Fine, thank you," Fiona acknowledges as well, with a slight lift of her cider glass. "You must've," she then adds, dryly. "You were so damnably drunk, that one time, I thought you were going to end up under the taxi rather than in it. You had me worried." Moving quickly along.
She sighs a little. "I know, it wasn't ... stable. It wasn't - even, he could not be here out of his time, and - well, here I am. Not like I can cross that gulf, and I'm not like that, not able to kiss and be casual about it. If I were to give myself up, I'd be giving myself up entirely, and ... well, I know it." There are some things she still does not do by halves.
Fiona reddens slightly, and she shrugs. "Thanks, I suppose." She brushes it off. Again, moving right along. "I don't know. Maybe it'll happen. I rather doubt it, myself - I seem ... very particular in my tastes, which is why when Hwyll made his flirt and tickle, I didn't even think of it." Not even an option, and if Hwyll were any less flighty, that must've been a blow to his ego.
"You're not a twat," it comes out primly, there, "but yes, you're lucky. You and Sandrine have something special going there, it makes me almost jealous, if I weren't so glad for the two of you." It falls under the heading of heapings of coal. Fitting ... seeing as you're Welsh ...
"Aye well... that's a work in progress. That's the secret of it. It always is, I think. In the stories, it always seems so easy, even when the lovers die at the end. It's such shite, all our notions about what love should be. In the end, it's about trust and faith. And trust me... it will. I say this, even though it's like wishing someone ill." Davydd laughs. "For what is love if not a sickness?" he winks. "If I really cared for you, I'd wish you a long, happy and healthy single life, eh?" And then he shrugs. What can you do...
"Well, no need to beat a dead horse. If you want to use my shoulder you can. I've got a hanky in my pocket just for such an occasion. "You're better off without Hwyll. You're on the right path without Huw as well. Fickle as the Welsh day is short," he snorts. "I have a bias," he admits and he lifts his hands. "Can't help it," he mutters, and he downs an apple. His favorite.
And now, the coffee...
First the cream, and then four packets of sugar. He drinks his coffee like a girl, but who's going to tell him that? "Don't be jealous of me an' Sandrine," he mutters. "I'm still trying to figure out what I'm doing, let alone anything else. She's a great woman, aye. So...poised and elegant..." And dating a rough and tumble man who's about as elegant as a horse's ass...
She snorts a little. "Davydd, nothing I ever do will be the easy road. I've come to terms with it as best I can. It doesn't ... make it easier ... but at least I know. And that pretty much precludes you wishing me singledom. Singlehood?" Fiona frowns a little, the literati in her struggling to parse the state. "Anyway."
A shrug of her shoulders, a half-smile denying the handkerchief. "I'll probably cry more later, but right now, I'm just ... sort of numb. Which is better, for the moment, than it hurting, anyway..." A tilt of her head. "Bias? Why's that?" Maybe it'll help, to hear. Maybe it won't, but it'll distract her.
Fiona fixes a stern eye on you, then, ignoring the coffee entirely. "You're putting yourself down again, on the inside, aren't you." Not such a huge leap of logic, it's happened often enough when Sandrine comes up as a topic. "Don't, or I will have to break your nose, Davydd. I mean it. I can sit here enumerating your wonderful qualities all day long, though you wouldn't believe me anyway, and let's face it, I'm not the one you want to hear that talk out of anyway. So don't. Get over this notion that you're second-rate, all right?"
"Who said anything about being second-rate?" Oh, have you ever heard the Welsh inflection when impassioned? How it always tends upward, even as English always tends downward in sound? It clips and it lifts like thrushes taking to the wing. "Bah, no..." he rumbles throatily, "... that's not what I'm saying. We're... just an odd couple is all." And he smirks. "I know what I am and who I am and all that. I'm fine with it," the inflection lifts again as he spreads his hands. "I don't need an enumeration. It'd only make me big-headed, I'd lose m' balance and fall to the floor. It wouldn't be a pretty sight," a sip, finally, of coffee. A snort of laughter at the brim. "Jesu, can't a man be humble without everyone thinking he's at odds with himself?" He smirks. Between you and Edward and Sandrine, you'd think I was bound for some shrink's sofa bemoning about my low self-esteem. Shite.
But there's a sensitivity where Sandrine's concerned. And an unease. It comes out sideways like, sometimes may seem like he's hard on himself -- when he just doesn't know if it's going to work or what it all means. If anything.
"Numb is best," he notes, cradling the mug, elbows on the table, crouching like a gargoyle. "Hell, I live that way most nights. Awareness is good. In moderation." Davydd twists a smile and takes another swallow of the blood of the bean. "Anyway, let's talk about something else. I read your article." And the earthy chuckle echoes in his chest.
She looks a bit skeptical still, reluctant to let it go - there's that British bulldog-terrier thing going, just a bit, it's what makes Fiona a good reporter - but she slowly does, settling back into her seat. "We're all odd to someone," she comments dryly.
And as odd couples go ... well ... look who she's tried, with. Dei, and Huw ... still, they say third time's the charm - if she lets herself try a third time, at least.
"You did?" Well, she did give you a copy of the magazine, after all. Fiona sits up a bit, picking up a wedge of Stilton. "What'd you think? You called up William to give him a hard time, I'm sure..." And won't you just do a doubletake, if you ever see the painting, once it's hung in her home...
He laughs, eyes bright at that, the laughter a rumble of warm sounds. "Aye well... he says he's in the dog house. I tried to be sympathetic." Not really. Dark green eyes sparkle in a wink. "Apparently, his ...lover... name's Ian, by the way," Davydd whispers, "... and he's a little... hmm... underage?" Oh scandal. "It's caused quite the scene in some circles, even the most aristocratic. To which he, of course, belongs. Myself included." Did you know that? You had to know that. "Anyway, it was really amusing. But the article was good. Well-written bit. You got him to say a lot, actually. He's usually not that mouthy. Though you'd think it. Man like that, probably talks about himself in the third-person," he winks again and sits back. "I have nothing but love for the man, you know. He's a good egg. Solid, really. As solid as English Oak. Even though I sometimes act like the contrary's true."
One eyebrow slides well up at that. "You do?" Oh, well, that's flattering. "Really? I had no idea. You must know my father, then. Wait a mo, he didn't - no, he couldn't have. Could he?" Fiona glances up at you peculiarly. "No, he'd have said something by now..."
She grins a little, at the mention of underage lovers. "Don't tell me too much more without specifying it's off the record, Davydd," she teases. "You're handing me my next six paycheques, and while I'm not a greedy soul, you can't expect me to always turn my reporter side off." The artist featured has an underaged, male lover - that'd sell a few issues.
"It was more enjoyable than I'd expected," Fiona admits, though suddenly turns a bit red. "I think it helped that I'd ... worked my issues out first, so to speak..." Of course, if she hadn't, she wouldn't have been working there...
Davydd grins. It's a simple grin, really. Nothing incredibly remarkable, and yet it conveys so much. Wickedness. Mischief. Delight. He raises his hands. Mum's the word. And he says no more. Well, that is until you turn red.
Eyebrows ease upward and the look is pointed. Mouth forms a smirk and he lifts his coffee for another swallow. "Enjoyable, hmmm? In what way?" he asks. Perfectly innocent. Even blinking with a slightly vapid motion. As if. And then he grins. "I've heard that about him. Enjoyable. It's his reputation, you know." And he can't stand it.
Davydd sets down his cup and belly laughs...
He's glorious when he laughs. His dark eyes are glinting bright. White-toothed -- ah, the miracles of modern dentistry -- hearty. He laughs like he sings. And you know what that's like.
Wiping his eyes, Davydd instinctively backs up, expecting some slug across the table or kick in the shin. "Well, alright. Off the record then. He's not... that underage. He can get into a pub...he's legal." He winks. "And I should shut up. William is the only man I know who can kick my ass..."
Fiona turns brilliantly, tomato red. "Oh, stop it. I'm still a virgin, you know." That came out a little louder than she'd intended, and she glances around quickly, to stave off further embarassment. Who said that? Not her!
She tugs absently on the sleeve of her sweater. "I'm never going to sleep with him, entirely aside from the fact that he ... y'know ... prefers men ..." She makes a slight gesture with her hand, vaguely sketching a masculine figure in the air. "We understand each other." Or so she thinks.
The colour slowly recedes again, and she nods, with a slight roll of her eyes. If she's disappointed at the story going away, she doesn't show it. "Can he? I'm surprised... I'd have said you were evenly matched. Just ... different aspects, is all. You, of course, are much cuter," Fiona feels compelled to add, with a wicked grin of her own.
That gets a double-take of comic proportions. And then he smiles slantwise. "I'm the rugged, handsome sort, aye. Manly," he rumbles, sitting back, making the universal sign for manly, ending it with a slap on his olive-green chest. Then winces, as if he hurt himself. All that, just for a laugh. And a wink. "And hung like a stallion," he adds in a quip. As if. And even he goes a bit pink at that. Red at the ears. "When d'Angevin and I have dick-waving contests, you better stand back or you're liable to get a concussion," and he collapses in the booth, dying of laughter.
He thinks he's funny...
His hand comes up and waves. Continue on? Call for help?
She rolls her eyes again, and in a sweetly sarcastic tone of voice, says, "Fine, I'll stand to one side with the measuring tape. Or invite you both when next I'm at a Scottish formal affair and do the kilt checks on you both. Don't think I won't." Fiona isn't Drancy, but she has her moments...
"You're sturdier than that," Fiona says unsympathetically, at the slap. "I ought to know, I've been slung over your shoulder once. You and Huw. Pirates in another life, no doubt." She smirks as you go red, and with great deliberateness, says, "I wouldn't know what d'Angevin looks like in the buff, but I'm sure if I asked, he'd oblige... Fair's fair, after all..."
He struggles back up, wiping away tears again. "Jesu...I -kill- me..." Davydd murmurs, then with an exhale the laughter is cleared. "Eh, he'll win," he snorts. "That's what makes it so fucking funny. Sorry, inside joke. And I don't wear skirts," he says of the kilts in a quip. "The Welsh are men's men, but have nothin' to prove by puttin' on a dress. Besides, he's not even Scottish. He just sleeps with them. Course," Davydd snickers, "... when was the last time the French had to be talked into wearing dresses." He winks.
William would so kick my ass if he were here...
"Ah well... I'll just keep the boys in my trousers, thankee...Besides, it's a wee bit cold. What's this about fair's fair?" he catches onto that and peers at you, bright green glimmering with a waggle of brows.
"I haven't really dated any Frenchman," Fiona drolls, "to know what they wear ... or what they wear under their skirts ... But I'll keep that in mind, about Welshmen, if I ever decide to just - get it over with. Though I could always offer to pay William to do it."
Now she's being deliberately outrageous, the wicked glint firmly in her own eyes, teasingly. "As for fair's fair ... that's something you'll just have to wait and see about. Let's just say more goes on in interviews than gets published." Him, she can tease this way.
"Hell of a way to enter womanhood but..." Davydd finishes his coffee and reaches for his cigarettes with a smirk, "... I hear it's like climbing Everest. Everyone wants to do it. Puts you in an elite club," he mutters. Well, not -that- elite, but follow the metaphor. "He'd probably do it." And then he laughs. "For free. Like he needs the fucking money. Eh," Davydd shrugs. "You could pick worse."
Wow, quite a turnabout from before. Maybe he knows now that you can take care of yourself. "Fair's fair, as you say... hmm... sounds like someone ...got more than a byline...he's good at that. Funny how he's gay and yet women can't seem to keep their clothes on." Davydd chortles. "And he's not that gay. Gay men don't hold tits in their hand and make waitresses squirm. That's denial, that is..."
She rolls her eyes. "I have no interest in ever parting my legs for d'Angevin, Davydd. I know myself too well, and ... well, I can joke about it, but honestly, I suspect I'll just end up dying a virgin." She already nearly has, hasn't she?
Picking up her cider, Fiona takes a healthy swallow. "Eh. None of my business who he fucks. - Wait, what am I saying, I'm a magazine editor. Give me a list." And she puts on a madcap grin, eyes glinting brightly up at you.
"Well, alright... it's a bit of a long list," Davydd seems half-serious and he leans in, lighting a cigarette. "Let's see... I know for a fact that he has fucked the entire royal family of Monaco. Albert included." He can't be serious.
Truth be told, there's no way he could make this shit up...
His shoulders start shaking with laughter and he waves. "It's all shite," he says, and he lights up. "I don't have any dirt on d'Angevin. He leads a clean life." Right. "Besides, I don't rat on my friends to reporters. So anyway," smoke billows from his mouth, "I should probably go see what the little woman's up to. Leave her hands idle and I come home to find a redecorated house. She's so tidy... you know... I think she deserves the kind of man who can put a little ...mess in her life. I think I'm going to corrupt her..."
And he means it. He stares into space and his gaze goes keen.
"So pure. It's hard to think of anything other than out and out defilement." And then Davydd wakes with a clearing of his throat and a look of: where did that come from? "You going to be alright, my dear?"
"I wasn't serious, you know." She doesn't rat on friends, either, and she doesn't take the gossip side of things terribly seriously. Change the names and faces, but the gossip stays the same...
Fiona pushes her hair back, eyeing with bemusement the mention of corruption and defilement. "I'll be fine. You just ... keep a watch on yourself, eh? If she decides she doesn't want to be corrupted, I don't think she'll draw the line at smacking you around a bit." Even if only verbally. She -saw- Sandrine's dragging you off, if only once, but sometimes once is enough.
She slides out from the booth, food largely untouched. "I'll ... talk to you later, eh? I need to go in to work - make up for missing a few days due to being drunk off my ass and hung over. Don't fall under any taxis... if you really need a lift, call me instead, I'll arrange - something."
"Ah, dear heart," he says as he starts to rise. "I'm as sober as the pope." Cigarettes and lighter are stowed, and there's enough money thrown down to pay for your lot and his lot and leave a nice fat tip to one of his favorites. And to words of being smacked around, Davydd glowers. Then grins. "I can take her," he quips. "There's not a woman born that I couldn't put over my knee, you included, little missy," a gesture to you. Don't you forget it.
"You know, I hauled her over my shoulder the other night," he snorts. She fucking hated it. I made her cry. Well, she'll just have to get used to that. "Bah, she's too nice for me," Davydd rumbles, hands going into his pockets, but he smiles. "But she loves me anyway." He winks. And, no, he's not putting himself down. That's just truth, that.
"Take care you... and you know... don't worry about calling...call if you need to. I'm sure Sandrine can give a woman's side to it, if you get tired of bitching about men to me." And hands in his pocket he turns.
He says he's not stately, but he lies. There's a regality to him that's more primal than William's. He's a chieftain among chiefs. He's a lord and he does a really lousy job of hiding it. As he takes off his gloves and gives a wave to his girls -- who all wave back -- it's easy to think him a king or commander.
He undercuts it with humor. He teases with the Truth. He doesn't believe half the shite he says himself. He doesn't expect to be taken seriously.
"What's the point in bitching about men? They're still men. And I'm sure you could, but I'd still fight you every inch of the way." Fiona grins without particular rancour, just a touch of narrow-eyed smugness for a moment.
"She's nice to everybody," or so she thinks. "Send her my regards, will you? I'm sure I'll be in touch eventually. Can't hole up forever, you know..."
And she does notice it, the carriage, it's a denouement, of sorts. One pale eyebrow rises, but no comment passes Fiona's lips. "You get going, no point me getting weepy on you now. Go on, do. I'll ... be in touch. Bad penny that I am..." And she slides out, towards the door, to grab one of the evening's cabs.
Posted by rowan at June 16, 2003 02:23 PM
