What time is it anyway? Not that late, is it? Hard to tell in winter, the nights last forever. Not that that's a bad thing. Just easy to lose track of hours in the night when there are so many of them. It's before midnight. Late enough that the traffic hereabouts is minimal. The sound of an auto to sharp vampiric ears all the more apparent.
     Big car too...
     Not that Valan hears it. Or if he did, not that he cares. He has a blanket wrapped around his waist, draped over your legs too, and that is all he wears. Well, that and the ubiquitous silver chain. There is a smile at your mouth, a laugh into the kiss, a breath for the pausing.
     For you and he have lorded over the sofa for the past, hmmm... perhaps two hours now. And now, he sits straddling your lap, his arms around your shoulder, his fingers in your hair, and his mouth unstoppable.
     Of course...
     And the SUV, for that is what it is, slows in its approach. Yeah. It's him. Who else?

     "I love winter," Edward groans, rather pleased with himself. "Have I mentioned that?" He laughs, arms tight around your waist. "Blankets, pillows, long nights. I hate the rain, but I've learned to love winter..." now that you're around.
     "Ah, God, I'm ready to go upstairs," he complains, hand staying at your back while other bends so he might see his watch. "But, it is rather early. Do you want me to see if I can get us into Gerard's for a late seating?"
     Then, he frowns. Did you hear that? If we ignore it, it will go away...

     Hear what?
     Valan stretches and then spreads upon you, like sugar on the tongue. "Mm... Je voudrais aller Gerard's," he pipes up suddenly, lifting, looking to you. A smile. A bend. A suckle of your chin. "We have not been there in a while. At least a month, oui? I should like that, ami," he breathes. "And the nights are so long, when we get back, then we go upstairs. I will give you a massage so sweet it should make you, even the great Edward Meurelle, shed a tear."
     But you know it is true, even as it is boastful...
     And then there is the sound of a car door closing. The sound of an alarm being activated. The sound of dog's bark. A small dog.
     So it is not William...
     Valan sighs, smirking. He heard that. It is a salesman, he will go away. And so his soft mouth plays upon your own again. Ignore it with me, they say as they brush and pull against your own.
     But then the doorbell rings. Once. Twice. Three times...

     He would have let you start the massage right then and there, his head tilting to sink into the kiss. But the knocking door reminds him.
     "Mmph," he grunts, patting at your hip. "Door. And with the sound of dogs, it tells me it is Llewelyn." Edward both sighs and smiles, "You want to go upstairs? I won't let him stay too long..." and you don't have to dress.

     Valan smiles, warm affection there for the man on the other side of the door. "He will think I do not like him, oui? If I am always upstairs...but..." green-gold eyes smolder and he grins. "Surely you will make him understand that my absence is not do to lack of love." He makes a big production of lifting from you -- that is for your benefit, every blessed inch of it -- and then standing on shaky legs he grins, wrapping the blanket around himself.
     And what shall you wear if not me?
     "I will see you ...upstairs, Edward..." Funny, when he pronounces it 'Edoowaard' it sounds good. When William does it, it never sounds like that. Of course, William's never straddled your groin...
     The doorbell ringing halts at three, and as Valan heads for the stairs, blanket dragged behind him like the cloak of a prince, he calls out: "Un moment! Edward needs to get dressed!" And he laughs, and runs upstairs...

     Edward snorts and rises from the sofa. He reaches for the gym pants he keeps around, elastic at his waist and ankles. "Yeah, yeah," he says, voice closing to the door. Shirts and socks are tossed into a neat pile, and one of the sofa pillows thrown on top for good measure.
     And the door opens. Edward stands, shirtless, with grey sweatpants. "I should have known," he groans, turning around to give you his back. He saunters back towards the living area and to the bar.

     "Seems to be my night," is the rumble. And the clickety-clack of corgie nails follows behind him until tiled floor ends into carpet. Looks like he's had a rough one too, but he's sober. "Mind if I pull up a bit of sofa for a while," a glance at the sofa and fiery eyebrows lift, "...or some bit of furniture without ode du Edward... or... did I interrupt something," he says blandly. "Lads," a gloved finger points to the two attentive corgies. "No chewing. No piddling."
     A glance to a chair, looks unmussed, and Davydd plops down in it with a heavy sigh. Elbow on the padded arm, forehead resting on his hand. You haven't seen the brooding dragon in a while. "She's going to leave me, you know," he begins by saying. Helluva segue into his evening. "She actually used the words: Davydd, I've been very patient." He snorts. "She may as well have said: Davydd I want out. It all means the same bloody thing. I've heard the speech before."

     "Who's leaving? Sandrine?" Edward asks, clearly already at work behind the bar. "What are you talkin' about?" he adds, not making mention of sofas. Two pint glasses come up to the bar and Edward's quickly opening bottles with his bare hands. The cuts will heal.

     "Who else?" he gruffs, shooting a look over to you. "I'm talking about the woman being fed up with me and my life. Two years, what? Or less. I think that may very well be a record." Davydd scowls at nothing, at everything. You've seen this before. He rails at God, at country, at fate, at himself, at everyone, and then he finds amends another night.
     "You wouldn't think I'd have a complicated life, would y'?" Davydd snorts, eyes twinkle, his lips twist. "Backwoods Davy, the Green Man, living out in the country, unknown by most, forgotten by others, kicking back without a bloody care in the world. But that's been work... seeming that carefree..." he finishes that rant in a whisper, eyes drifting to the carpet, to the space between you and him. His expression becomes the definition of sorrow, subtle and deep.
     "It's been a life's work, seeming like nothing. Trying to be overlooked, with very very few exceptions," like the thought of princedom here. "I have used you and William like shields. I mean, who's going to spot the Welshman behind that French train?" Sighing, he closes his eyes, he leans his head back against the back of the easy chair. "But Sandrine... Sandrine knows the folks that pop out of the woodwork," literally, "... it's more than she bargained for. And my duplicitous existence... well... she knows a little more than you or Plantagenet know. And she doesn't like what she sees. So..." A shrug.
     Come to think of it, Davydd never does talk about himself... that's perhaps the most he's said in a century when it comes to the Truth and Things That Matter...

     Something dark and foamy is poured from bottle to the pints. "Davy, you're fuckin' not makin' sense. Start at the beginning, huh? She found out something?" A thud of the bottle on the table, "You shaggin' someone else?"

     "No," he says shortly, irritated. But then he mollifies. It was a fair question, given history. "Let me show you what I mean, Edward..." He does not shift in the chair, nor does he rise. The air gets still. The air gets thick. The air is full of him. In a second. Not even that long, but being a vampire you can feel it just as you can see all the motions contained in the blink of an eye. And a glass that was sitting on the coffee table explodes. Green eyes lift to you. And with a whisper of something Welsh, something old, the glass is whole again. As if nothing had happened.
     The energy begins to dissipate. "I'm not like the rest of you. I'm not even like the one who Made me," he says, speaking of Mithras. Is he the last of Mithras' children left? Has everyone forgotten that he was the last Made? Did anyone ever think to ask why. "I talk to trees, they talk back. And water, and earth, and wind and fire. I told Sandrine... what I have told no one else, not even you, not even William. The whole story when she came in and saw me naked for the first time, tattooed head to toe in blue dragons," no wonder Veronique called him The Blue Cock. Now it makes sense, "...spells, like that one," gesturing to the glass, "...scrawled into my skin for all time. Which would be enough, you know, for someone like her... for almost anyone to deal with. Without the Strange people... coming in and out of my life all the time. Fae..." he smirks. "... with no respect to vampiric law, they speak whatever they wish to speak. They're fucking everywhere I turn these days."
     He has to close his eyes. Yes, in an effort to calm down. First the glass, who knows what the hell else he can break. Suddenly, perhaps he's as scary as a Sixth Generation Ventrue Childe of Mithras should be. "Sandrine doesn't understand the... " he sums up, opening his eyes. "And I'm no longer able to ignore it ...or hide it... or pretend it away. Anyway."

     Edward paused after he finished pouring, silent and staring. No funny quips come, no lashing out in insane questioning. But on the other hand, Edward does not fall into deep profundity that would reveal his true wisdom and intelligence, oft held behind some mask of bourgeois hooliganism.
     "Shite. That...fuckin' blows."
     "Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" Suddenly, odds and ends make sense. Well, not really. Just that thing a few weeks ago with the blimey girl on the Strand. "We woulda listen'd, me and Will. And I don't think Sandrine wants to leave you...I mean, I don't know the woman, but all says she's a straight up picture."

     Davydd chuckles, half-shrugging, eyes tending down. "I guess. But... it puts you in a weird position. You know... I was hunted," he looks up, head tipping back. "...after I was embraced. Embraced in Glastonbury Abbey," he snorts. "I had to run, my sire had a lot of enemies. And I ..." he shrugs, "... went underground for a while. I do not know if... well, if it were known, the things I can do... how long I would be on this world, Edward-bach... that has been the worry of a near-on thousand years. So... I didn't tell anyone. Didn't say one bloody word. Not that I was immortal before I was embraced," a flicker of deep green to you, "...not that it is not blood that feeds me. Not that I am responsible for ....some things that happened in the clan, one big thing," Mithras, "... not that... I don't have any of the usual Ventrue shite... but can fake it... really really well. I'd be ... mince-meat, boyo. Scewered and ripe for the barbeque..."
     There is a frown when you mention Sandrine. He's pretty convinced. Has he so little faith in her? Or is it himself. "Ah well... I don't think she wants to leave me. I just think that... my life is not as ...quiet as it seemed on the outside? She thinks, I think, that there is something between me and this faerie girl... the one who possessed the addict, and the other little girl who's been nipping at my heels. The spirit of the same fae magician who gave me these," gloved hands reach down, lift his shirt. You see the marks, vibrant, damn near living, cobalt blue dragons on his gut. He lowers it, he looks withdrawn. "She got a bit more than she bargained for, didn't she," he whispers.

     "Look, Davy, I could care less about your sire or the rest of that bunk," Edward moves around finally, offering you a pint. "You're Davy, and that's all me and Will would care about. But yeah, you're probably right not t' tell anyone about it, ever. And maybe we shouldn't even tell Will. But, you should maybe talk to your girl about this. I mean, she knows, but maybe explain all of it. Slowly, over a long evening, during a walk or two. And then talk about it again and again, until it's her story too."
     Edward glances up the stairs, then takes a seat on the sofa. "It won't leave this room, Davy, just so I'm sayin' it. But, it seems that you want to say something to her and you haven't yet. Not really. Cheers," Edward adds, lifting his drink and taking a long swallow.

     There's a wry smile, one that does not quite reach his eyes. "No... I'm not ready to tell William yet. He and I... we have... a long story. If he knew that the spirits of England were rising up to defeat him and had chosen me as their champion to beat his family into the dust ..." Davydd chuckles, true affection for William showing now that the barriers are down, "...I'd never hear the end of it. The tree-hugging druid shite..."
     The Welsh are prone, even as the French, to passion, and to passionate tears, though they have to squeak out of the corners of his eyes, his near-on forty summers showing. He takes the pint and with a tight voice mutters, "You're m'best friend in all the world, Edward-bach. You're a good man. Cheers," he says finally, then takes a long drink. In fact, he drains it and sets the empty pint aside with an exhale. "Maybe you're right. I mean... I tried doing that, but... she's so... I don't know... fragile's not the word. She's like a dove," he looks at you, hand lifting and wiping against high and freckled cheekbones -- the freckles are invisible until he gets upset. "...easily frighted, I think. I'm trying not to scare her off. And.. you know... it's not like I'd ever told anyone before. Rose never knew. After two hundred years..." Anyway. Davydd presses fingers against the bridge of his nose, exhales.
     "Anyway, I didn't mean to just blow in here with all this shite and unload. I need to ... learn how to speak gradually...aye?"

     Rising up to defeat him? Edward doesn't like the sound of that at all. His face blanches at that, but he isn't in the mood or position to get into detail. "She seems nice," Edward reaffirms. "But she's a vampire, Davydd," using the harshest word. "She is capable of draining the existence from someone." Just so you remember. "She's survived a while. She isn't stupid." And shouldn't be treated, maybe as fragile as you seem to.
     "Wanna stay here tonight?" Edward asks, knowing someone is waiting. "I should see to Valan, and then maybe we can talk more later, unless you fall asleep."

     "I'll... stay for a while... she may call. But at least I'll stay for a while... aye... you're a good one, Meurelle." He nods. She may call. He wants her to call. But... maybe she needs time to herself. Maybe Davydd does too. He takes in a breath at the word 'vampire', holds it and nods. "Aye... go see about your ami," he calls him. "I owe him so much. Every time I come over here...there's always some," hands wave, "...shite drama." Suddenly Davydd grins. "He's going to make me pay for it someday, isn't he...."

     "Okay," Edward says. "Drink's there." The sofa squeaks as he lifts, leather leaving skin. "Just call if you need anything. Valan won't mind, he likes you a lot, Davy-bach." His hand pats your shoulder as he passes by. "Oh, there's some food in the kitchen too. Cake."

     A voice sounds from the stairwell. Maybe you heard Montague's steps in all the glass-breaking hub-bub, maybe not. Airy, lending a sultriness to his invisibility. "Eduard, is everything alright?" He heard the glass exploding. Soon he may be seen, wrapped in a sheet, nothing else. Valan smiles, but there is a little bit of a worried look. "..'allo, Davydd." He looks to you, Edward. I thought I heard glass breaking...

     Davydd sits up, twisting in his chair, and there's a softening of his features. Soon, he's standing, with no less gallantry than if Montague were your Lady or Queen. Montague would likely not mind that moniker. "What ho, Montague," he rumbles, but with a touch of affection. "I ... well... I broke the glass. It's not been my night, laddie..."
     He doesn't mention that he exploded it with his mind, or whatever, and promptly put it back together again.

     Edward spins about, not having really paid much attention to the arrival. His mind is elsewhere. "No, no, ami, there is nothing wrong. Small accident, but we cleaned it up." He moves on past Davydd towards the younger man. "Davydd's visiting with us tonight, alright?" The tone in his voice says it all. Space is needed.

     There is understanding, immediate. "Alright, ami... I think I am going to do some reading upstairs..." Request for space given immediately, and without question. But he also tells you, Edward, that he will be up and waiting. There's a smile for Davydd as he begins to recede into the shadows of the stairwell. "Good night, Davydd. I'll see you tomorrow, maybe? I have something I want to ask you... something I want to show you..."
The book. And the end of a year's curiosity...

     He's a good lad, Meurelle. You should be proud of him. I am. That's in the look of green, held in the dark forest groves of his eyes, in the periwinkle flash as he takes a seat again. Davydd sighs mightily, and there's a sulking of his bulk, this mountain of a man. He dissolves in the comfort of the easy chair. "How could I be so foolish, Edward..." he whispers. "I should never have told her. It would have made everything so much easier. And I'm not good at that..." his hands gesture wildly and the freckles on the bridge of his nose, from some last summer, are visible as his complexion rises again. Bending, taking a breath and holding it, Davydd presses the bridge of his nose with his hands and then, after a moment more, rises. Heading for the drink.
     "I tried to tell her... about some of the rest... but she just... stares at me, like she doesn't know what to make of me... I mean, how can you tell someone that you get your animals to mind because you can actually communicate with them, or ... that you're so gabby you can talk to brick walls literally?

     Edward watches Valan go for a lingering moment, until he can no longer see him. He inhales and returns a few steps. "You should tell her, Davy. But not at the last minute. Not in the moment of dustup around it. Maybe you should now really talk about it. Not blurt it out, but ask her opinion about how you should do things? And, I know you," Edward waves, "...you probably don't let her talk, cause you're too busy apologizing. Maybe," Edward's head cocks askance, "...you should ask her for help." He's not sure of what that means, but it's said.
     "I don't know. I'm not good with women or men, Davy. I'll say that. I'm not all that successful with long-term relationships. If you think she's going to leave you, maybe ask her why? Or...why is she with you in the first place, if she'd run off like that? I keep hearing about you and walls and weird shit, but really," hands on his hips now, "I don't know a damned thing about her that I haven't heard about from someone else..." as he thinks of it.

     He pours a scotch, he watches the golden liquid pour. Two fingers worth of straight up sipping whiskey. His entire demeanor is contracted in a frown, the furrowed brow, the downturned mouth, the rise of color to his high-cut cheeks. Davydd exhales, taking a sip before crossing back over to the chair. He shrugs. "I don't know either. She's a might jumpy. I don't know if that's 'cause she's just naturally jumpy, being a Toreador bird, or if I've made her that way with all the magic shite, tattooes, and having weird people show up at all hours of the night. I just don't know, Edward."
     Davydd slumps down in the chair, glowering at the empty space. "Maybe you're right... I mean, I know you're right... about how I am and all that," a lift and gesture with the glass. I was apologizing. Ranting. Seeming mad. No wonder she's jumpy. "I love her. I could live without her, sure. But I wouldn't enjoy it. It wouldn't be the same. She just...." and talking about her makes him glow a bit. No, it's not majesty. Seems like majesty if you don't know any better, or he's cleverly deluded you, but it's not majesty. "... makes me light up you know. But... I'm hard to live with. Even more than you all suspected," he snorts, he swallows scotch. "Anyway."

     "Well, maybe you should actually ask her, Davydd. I mean, everytime you talk about her, it's always what you think or what you imagine of her. That's it. I mean, does the woman drink blood? Does she put her arms over her head to put one of those gowns on? Does she burp?" Edward wonders.

     There's a bit of a blush. "Aye, she drinks blood." And he laughs. Uproarious. Rich. From the gut. "I won't bore you with the details, ami," he butchers the French, even with so slight a word as 'ami'. The cadence is all wrong and the A's far from flat. Davydd chuckles, taking a swallow more of scotch. "I'm just... not good at talking about myself, Edward-bach. As open as I'm seem, I think I'm one of the more 'closed' beings I've ever met." And that includes Dunross.
     Actually, he and Dunross aren't that far off from one another. In most respects...
     "You're right. God. How did you get to be so fucking smart?" The smile is a wry one. "You're right... you're right. I have to slow it down. I feel better," he looks at you. A little smile of thanks.
     Even if he's not prone to Hope....

     Whatever he's said, he's not sure. Edward blinks, staring at you from his stand. "Oh, well, glad I could help," voice drolls flatly. He makes a tsking noise, to punctuate the fact. A shrug and Edward takes a seat on the arm of his sofa.
     "Look, I dunno if I 'xplained it well. Just...that you're saying she's leavin' and really, it sounds like yer makin' that up, Davy."
     "Don't be a self-fulfillin' prophecy, Davy-bach."

     "Well... you know... I'm worried..." he says, eyes to the glass and the remainder of scotch. Two swallows left. His mouth opened to retort something else, but when prophecy leaves your mouth, he just sits, staring. And then he looks back to the glass. That just sort of nailed him. And he knows it.
     Dark green eyes widen a touch, fiery eyebrows opening outward. As an archer he has to appreciate a good 'zing' when he sees one. He rolls his shoulders, then tips the glass back for a swallow. "A-yeah... well... you've a point. I guess I should call her...aye... before I... fulfill that self-fulfillin' prophecy. You're a good man, Meurelle..."

     "Nah," Edward waves off, strong arms unfolding and folding again. "Jes' a man who wants you to be as happy as I am," he says.
     "Christ. Where am I gettin' this shite these days?"

     Davydd snorts and downs the scotch. "I don't know. Maybe it's the Frenchiness coming out at last," comes the wry rumble of his voice. Earthy, but warm. "Hell, that would have put Lancelot to shame. How is he, anyway?" He means William of course. Surely you've talked to him. "I should call him too. Sometime. Hey... ah... mind if I call? Why don't you go up and give your lad a flourish...you know," he cackles, "...pick up where you left off, you rascal of a man..."
     Davydd sits forward in the chair, taking out his cell phone. He holds it. Stares at it. Dreads it, really. What if it is over. What if she does tell him she can't deal with all of this. What if she moves out and takes all the flowers of spring with her...

     Edward rolls his eyes, pushing himself from the sofa. "He's fine," he waves off, "...at his win'er home. Hey, cut the light off when ya go. And call me later..." he says, already sauntering to the corridor.
     He expects you'll be on the phone a few minutes, clearing a path to go home. Soon, the door will open and close, and he'll go back to his night as it were.

     "Alright... I will..." a promise made for later.
     First things first, though. Fingers dial Nightshade first -- maybe she's still there. And maybe her night with the little fae witch lasted a while. Maybe she hasn't called him already because she's still in the middle of things. And he's already practicing, mentally, his opening line...
     I know I said I'd wait for you to call but...
     And he does something he hasn't done in a while as the phone starts to ring. He bites his nails. He's really proficient at it now, nothing like centuries of practice.

     "Hallo, Nightshade Florist-Covent," comes the phone after the connect. Her voice. There is silence behind Sandrine, suggesting she has finally closed up the awnings.

     "It's me... you done?" Not exactly like he rehearsed it, it just sort of came out that way. But soft. The gruffness is gone.
     He's obviously inside somewhere. No sounds of traffic. He's also alone. No sound of other phones. Or even the dogs. Speaking of which, they're curled up at the doorway, napping. Even the evil have to sleep sometimes...
     "I don't want to interrupt..." Davydd adds.

     "You're not interrupting," Sandrine's Nordic tone shines through. "I was done...closing the shop. I am ready to go home. Where are you?" she asks gently.

     "Borrowing some of Meurelle's scotch." That'd be the infamous Edward. Davydd and his friends. They're quite a bunch. "I thought I'd sit it out here... whilst you finished up there." There's a pause, he downs the rest of his scotch. You hear him set the glass aside. "Meet you at the apartment, then...?"
     If it sounds like he's asking for permission, it's because he is...
     "I don't want to beat a dead horse," he exhales, "... but I think we should talk it over. Well, start with tonight, but... well anyway," he is standing, "... not on the phone. I'm barely competent face-to-face. I can't be trusted with a phone convo. C'mon lads," he murmurs to the corgies.
     And he flips off the light. And the door can be heard to open, dogs and dragon leaving, door closing behind him resoundly. A signal to Edward. You've got your house back, boyo...
     "So.... see you at the flat, yeah?"

     "Yes," Sandrine says, leaving the rest to later. "I will have a driver take me home. I will see you then, Davydd," the v more like an f.

Posted by rowan at June 04, 2003 01:47 AM