Posters hang on the walls, the lost art of Pub signs found. No wall is without them. History told in bold lettering. And the wooden interior feels like the holds of a ship. By design. Enter through the red door, and you come into the close space that exists between the long bar on the right and the row of booths on the left.
But you know, it's not as small as it seems, Black Jack Davy's. The bar curves to the right and the space opens out into a wide and comfortable area filled with tables, tellies, a space for darts, and in the corner a staging area for the live acts Davy's hosts.
The proprietor of Davy's is most often tending the bar himself, that'd be Kelly Morgan, and Davy's Girls, all dressed in black t-shirts with the winking jack and black trousers, serve the drinks. A grin and a wink for all.
I'll warrant that the last time Black Jack Davy's saw this much of its Guinness sucked down was when Dublin's footballers were in town, fresh from their victory over Manchester U. and roaring for more conquest. There's less Guinness in all of Ireland than there has been down his throat this e'en. And the empty glasses pile up, even as they're carried away.
With a swallow, that makes lucky number 13. He's going for a bloomin' record...
He's glad she hasn't called. He's not sure what he'd have said. Especially now. Shite, let Guinness do the talkin'...
Davydd's sitting in his usual booth, the furthest back, out of the way, under a cloud of filtered cigarette smoke, his bronze hair brass-fire under the glare of smoke-tinted lights. He's clad as dour as his expression, he's back to the black and grey. Looks quite sharp -- charcoal grey sweater, leather shoreman's coat, black wool trousers. Docs on his feet. He doesn't even remember getting dressed.
Dark green eyes are on the cigarette as he stamps it out upon the dead bodies of its former-smoked kin. It's been a fucking slaughter.
"-last layout was really smashing, you know, really!" It's five well-dressed but rather rumpled looking individuals, definitely white collar and a bit upper-upper. The two in front are both male, leading the way with tired grins on their faces, white shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow, collars undone, ties loosened, jackets slung over their shoulders as they look back to the three women behind them.
The women are similiarly rumpled, two coming slightly ahead of the last, looking slightly deferential to her. "...have to agree, definite improvement since last issue, should really impress the board..." THe one on the left is slightly plump, motherly-looking despite being barely twenty if a day, clad in a grey pants suit with bright red scarf at her throat, and the other is in a tan skirt with white blouse, and jacket that matches her skirt.
And behind them, entering last and looking around with a faint smile and muted oceanic blue gaze, her long oak hair down about her hips and slightly mussed, is FIona. "I'm glad you've a high opinion of me, but let's wait for the actual public response," she offers with cynical good humour to the would-be sycophants. She brushes an imaginary bit of lint from the folds of the hunter green shirt she's got, the top buttons missing - popped while bending over a layout three hours ago. The cuffs are similiar to the men's, folded back - those buttons popped six hours ago. She's got a pair of tailored black trousers on, the thin legs tucking into comfortable boots, proving her wiser than her two female companions, who are clad in heels. "Right then, so where shall we sit?"
The lady and her retinue, fresh from some tiring success, come to celebrate. It's going to be a collision, surely.
Despite better judgment, Mary's just been keeping that Guinness coming. Lord only knows what hell would break loose if she actually tried to cut him off just yet. Extreme concern knots up her usually smooth forehead, causing lines of worry to pile up almost as much as the discarded fags in the tray before him.
When serving other patrons at the bar, her gaze keeps flickering back over to his smoky corner of the room. Jesus, this isn't like him. Something's wrong. The other customers are still served with that usual warm smile and pleasant demeanor of hers -- something that's known of all of Davy's Girls in here -- however when she looks back, that pleasant smile gets twisted up into a wince.
Six of the "dead soldiers" were just carried away from the table by her just a short time ago, and already she eyeballs the others piling up before him. Christ, is that another seven done already? The Girls just keep bringing them, all of them afraid to say no... or perhaps just out of pity. Something's bviously wrong.
Mary's attention gets pulled away as the new group of patrons walks into the bar. That smile is back, and so is the hospitable demeanor as she's already getting ready to see what they want to order.
The more inebriated he gets, the more quiet he becomes. It's a business it seems, this business of getting drunk and giving the middle finger to cancer. He can't die, so fuck it. But there is some hope on the horizon maybe. He seems to at least be slowing up. The 13th Guinness is going down pretty slow and he's not up to lighting another cigarette. Not yet anyway...
Wait for it...
It's all there under the surface, roiling like a Welsh volcano...
Davydd exhales the last cloud of smoke and leans over slightly. A motion to Mary, hopefully she sees him. Otherwise, he'll whistle and half the bar will lose their hearing...
...And then he thinks he sees someone he knows. He has to blink -- maybe it's the smoke, maybe it's the beer. And keen eyes lock onto the oak-gold hair. And Davydd sighs a soft groan. Shite. I can't catch a break...
Maybe she didn't see me...
Davydd settles back in the booth, head knocking softly against the back of it, varnished wood. He half-thinks of turning into a picture on the wall. Or becoming a fixture on the table.
Davydd reaches for the pack of cigarettes and takes the last cig. So much for taking it easy...
The group of five deliberates for a bit, before allowing themselves to be led to a table and settling into chairs around it. Promptly, the two ladies-in-waiting rise for a trip to the loo, while the men order drafts of Guinness and Fiona picks up the menu. She's never, even as 'Drancy', been terribly interested in beer...
So it seems Davydd's cover is safe, for the moment, a lull of people who are tired but celebratory, who have not yet gotten past their own exhaustion to begin anew. The alcohol might provoke that, depending on how much is passed their way. "You're putting yourself down, Lady Fee," one of the two says, leaning forward on an elbow. "You've been working yourself into the ground, everybody knows it. And that interview you brought in? Amazing."
It takes a bit of willpower for Fiona not to respond cuttingly, even as she flips the menu closed with a great deal more speed than was strictly necessary, eyes going momentarily chill. "Please don't call me that." but her smile warms slightly, and she adds in a more conciliatory tone, "Just call me Fiona. Never Fee, and there's no need to call me 'lady'. You two eating, then, or just going to be drinking a liquid diet?"
Something prickles faintly, under her skin, and she casts a quick glance around, diverted then by the two women's return. "Hullo," she says to them, amiably. "Know what you want to eat, then? Or lost your appetites?" The motherly one declares, "Oh, I'll definitely eat something. Wouldn't do to let myself get run down, and I feel as though I could eat a horse!" Her companion nods, then says, "I must say, I'm a bit disappointed it's not more lively. Could use a few more good-looking fellows in the place... and girls," she rolls her eyes as the two token males begin to protest. "And girls, of course."
No shortage of good-looking women at Davy's. But they all work here...
This Girl has been part of Davy's staff for a little while now. She's grown accustomed to trying to keep her eyes on all parts of the establishment at all times -- or most times, at least. Some of the other waitresses even tease her about having eyes in the back of her head, to which she merely grins.
The motion in the back, smoky corner is noticed and a quick nod is given in that direction. No need to deafen everyone, right? The group seems to be taken care of by one of the other waitresses for now, so she has a moment. She'll pop by that table in a few...looks like one's looking at a menu. Better prod the cook shortly.
Grabbing a tray from behind the bar, she then slips out from behind it and across the room toward the back. Brushing aside a strand of dark hair that's managed to escape her ponytail, Mary approaches Davydd's table and asks, "What d'ya need, luv?" By all rights, she should cut him off, but she just doesn't have the heart.
"Who's on the mike tonight..."
That earthy voice rumbles smoky from the many cigs and the bit of beer. Held in his chest, deep. With it, the fleck of lilting syllables and the drag of throaty vowels. There's a welshman in residence, in the back corner.
Davydd leans forward, elbows on the table, a swagger to his motion, and his eyes are glassy keen. "I feel the need for an exorcism... if no one's on mike, that is. Who's on this week? Lucille?" A folk singer from Kent. One of the few 'Easterners' who grace the western stage. Usually, it's a congregation of Irish and Welsh. One or two Scots. And even the occasional American. Davydd turns the glass in his hand, then lifts it, and finishes the 13th Guinness in a swallow. Impressive.
What else is a Celt to do when heartbroken and brooding but sing? Hell, we invented the lament. No one sorrows like a Welshman. Not even an Irishman...
The table's crowded, certes. And everyone's ordering, now - the men receiving their Guinness, grabbing up the mugs thirstily, the women deliberating over snack foods and meals. "I'll just get some meat stuffed into a bun," declares the woman in grey and crimson, and turns nearly as crimson as her scarf when her companions burst out laughing. "Oh, you're awful!", she complains. "Give me a glass of sherry with it, please."
The men shake their heads at the offers, then change their minds - one opting for fish and chips, the other for the shepherd's pie. The other 'lady in waiting' declares, "Oh, I'll just have a bit of yours," to the man ordering the shepherd's pie - evidently an item, for her to be so confident. "And a Pink Lady, please."
"Give me a platter of pickled veg, if you've got," Fiona says, once everyone else's ordered, "Cider for now, and once everyone's done eating, bring out a bottle of champagne, my treat." Management has certain responsibilities as well as rights, after all. But it's annoying, that prickle under the skin, and transfers to a restlessness as she adjusts her chair.
Leaning the tray against her hip as some folks might carry a laundry basket one-handed, Mary leans her weight on her left leg, bending the right a bit to rest that foot. It's a trick many people use when they have jobs where they're on their feet a lot. Do that for a while, then switch legs.
Mary's head tilts a bit, her chin jutting a bit more toward Davydd as she looks up at the ceiling. "Umm....let me think," she replies. A brief moment later, she turns her face back toward him with a definite nod and quips, "Yeah, it's Lucille. You've been here too long I think, luv...you know the schedule better than I do." A grin and a wink are tossed in his direction.
She casts a quick glance to the crowded table and sees they're all ordering. Mary will need to go and mix drinks in a moment, by the sound of it. The other Girl taking the orders will prod the cook. No need to do that now. Looking back at Davydd, she asks, "D'ya need anything else, luv? More fags?" with a glance down to the empty pack in front of him, "Or more to drink?" She really shouldn't offer, but he'll just order anyway if he wants it. While she speaks, she reaches out, adjusting her stance now, and begins loading up empty glasses onto her tray.
By the pricking of your thumbs, something fucking drunk this way comes...
"Bah," Davydd rumbles and then there's a mighty exhale. "I guess I'll have to make do with caterwaullin' in the street. Thanks, darlin'... no... no... nothing. Well, maybe a bit of whiskey. I'm off beer. I think I've made myself sick of it..."
"Irish whiskey," Davydd counters. "No scotch. If I top off Guinness with scotch, I'll start rearranging the furniture." The old-fashioned way: by throwing it in a bar brawl. "Just one glass. Then I guess I'll pay my tab. Busy night, and I'm hording the back booth like a fat dragon..."
He's not fat, but he's covered in dragons...
And he can't sit around here much longer. He's absolutely kinetic. Jumpy. Electric. Giving off humming energy for those around him who might take note of that. Just about to bust. You can see it in his mannerisms. There's tension there that just needs to explode...
"Give Lucille my greets though...if she wants a drunken duet, tell 'er I can manage..."
It's starting to drive her insane, really, picking up on all of that energy under the surface. The other four don't seem to notice, but Fiona does - and sliding up from her chair, she mutters an apology to the others. "Be right back, think I heard a voice I recognize." And, well, that's certainly true enough, in its own way.
Fiona pulls her too-long hair back into a quick knot, heading towards the booth, smiling quizzically to Mary and then to Davydd - a slightly lopsided smile, but genuine enough, as she peers around the edge of the booth to see if it's him, or ... someone else, some thing) else. "...Hullo?"
The seventh glass is perched atop her tray as Mary nods and replies, "Whiskey. Irish. Gotcha. I'll getcha a glass, luv." Thank god...he's stopping on his own. She won't have to worry about trying to argue with him on it later.
Her deep chestnut gaze flickers up from Davydd to the approaching woman. She offers a friendly smile in greeting to her, but looks back and forth between the two...ah, better not get in the middle, Mary.
"I'll get that whiskey for ya. And I think Lucille's at the bar now. I'll pass along the message," she says to Davydd with a smile. She reaches down and gives his shoulder a quick squeeze, balancing the tray on the flat palm of her other hand. Then she nods to him, and then to the woman, "Hello, luv. Hollar if you need anything."
Feet are already in motion as she begins to maneuver the tray of glasses back toward the bar.
Shite...
"Hey," comes the voice, deep, lifted, coupled with a look midway between Oh shit, she's found me and Hello. He looks to Mary, tipping back his head, "You're an angel, surely... I owe you one, my Mary..." All the girls are called My This or That. They are Davy's Girls afterall. Some of them, literally....
He finally remembers the unlit cigarette in his hand and lights it, a hand shoving away the now empty pack. "You're a bit dolled up, aren't ya?" he mutters. "Bit swank for Davy's..." That's as conversational as he's been all evening. Apart from asking for drinks. And, yes, the quiet demeanor overlays a volcanic energy underneath. Like the littlest thing could set him off. But he seems in control. Surprisingly.
Green eyes glance about the bar, taking survey of Mary's trajectory. Giving a nod to Lucille, a little wave. Trying not to scowl.
"Huh? Oh... that's because I just got off work," Fiona explains cautiously. She can sense that roiling tension, even though she doesn't know what the cause is. "We stopped in for a celebratory pint, and all that."
She looks around, at the girls, at the rapidly departing Mary, then back over at Davydd, one poised eyebrow sliding up a few degrees. "You're looking ... " Well wouldn't be accurate. The truth would be impolite. "Like you've been thirsty," she summarizes. She turns, giving a little wave to her companions, who, in the arms of free drinks and food courtesy of the management, are not loathe to see her no doubt temporary departure.
"I like the jacket. It's very you." No bite, no sarcasm - she seems even to be telling the truth, not as an insult. "How've you been, Davydd? It's been a little bit, hasn't it?" And so much has changed...
"A few nights," he says back. Pretty simple response. A hand rakes through short bronze hair, and he doesn't hold your eyes much. Flickers you get, Drancy. Nothing lengthy. His cigarette pulled on, he breathes fire and smoke, and the cigarette crackles. So does the air. He's all static. "I think," he rolls large shoulders. "Feels longer. You look... good. You look... almost happy," he smirks, "...though I hold my shins cheap and my life in the hazard for making such a ...positive statement. And no... I'm not trying to get you in th' sack." Or keep his voice down, not that he's yelling. But your friends probably heard that.
Davydd flicks away some dead ash. "Anyway... thought you worked at night covering the worst sort of news. You know... God Save the Queen, and all that. Slow music night?'
And he looks for Mary again. I need that whiskey, woman...
"Last time I saw you, you were studying with my woman...." he reminds. That was the last time, wasn't it. "That was a fucking great night," the earthy voice pulls with sudden sardonic wit. Caustic, even.
And Fiona blushes, looking distinctly embarassed by the comment. "Actually, I've changed jobs," she says quietly, "I've ... changed a lot of things." She glances back once, over her shoulder, where four subordinate employees are suddenly -very- interested in the conversation and trying not to be.
The gossip will be making the rounds, tomorrow...
"Err, I get the feeling you're angry with me, and I don't know why." She lowers her voice a notch, as if by contrast to the foursome. "I'm sorry if I've somehow offended you already," she just got here, after all, "but thank you for the compliment. And I didn't particularly think you were trying to get me into bed, why on earth would you? I know perfectly well you'd have no interest."
Shaking her head a little, with another slightly nervous glance over her shoulder, she turns back. Lifting her chin slightly, a peremptory gesture, she adds pointedly, "May I sit? Or would you rather I just ... leave you alone? I was just ... trying to be friendly ..." And was going to apologize, for older sins, but... maybe that should wait.
It takes a few moments, as there's a sudden rush at the bar, but Mary does get that whiskey poured. She turns and says something to one of the other Girls behind the bar, who nods at her and makes a waving motion with her hand.. as if to say, Go on... I've got it here.
Glancing over toward Davydd's table, she loads up the glass of whiskey onto her tray and emerges from behind the bar. The other waitress will deal with the orders at the bar. When a man needs his whiskey, you shouldn't delay too long.
He exhales and there's a frown. "I'm not angry with you," he says, and there's a bit of a genuine touch there. Not affection, just... apology. "I'm just an asshole," he rumbles. Will your friends chuckle? He motions at the seat across from him. The usual gesticulations. Like an Italian. "Sure... have a sit down, pull up a bench..." Davydd exhales smoke again and flicks away the ash. When his green eyes at last land, they're lightning bright, keen, dark and give away nothing. In fact, if he's upset, there's only the alcohol and cigarettes as evidence. His expression, apart from that one brief frown, has been as even as the flat of the table.
He's not wearing his heart on his sleeve tonight. He's drowned it in Guinness. It won't get up for hours yet. "So... new job." He takes a pull on the cigarette, holding the smoke briefly, he frees it through his nose. Fire-breathing dragon that he is. "What are you doing these days? I mean... this is brand new, right? It hasn't been a week..."
That gets a faint smile out of Fiona, and she waves a hand to the people still at the table. Go on without me ... taking care of some - old business ...
She slides into the seat, pushing one sleeve up absently where it's unrolled. "Well, yes. I decided it was time to jump off a bridge. This is where I landed." Literally. She accepts the apology with a slight duck of her chin as she settles into the seat, studying the Welshman opposite her with slightly too-wide eyes, as if there's a membrance nictating with each pulse of emotion and power coming off of him.
"I'm a managing editor at M." The Magazine. She landed in the river, and came up with a prize trout.... A little shrug of her shoulders, minor tension, uncomfortable with the question. "And it's Fiona, by the way." Fifi... so that's where it comes from. Sudden changes in element, indeed.
"Are you ... all right?" She asks it hesitantly. No, clearly he's not all right, judging by that underlying 'feeling', by the armies of the dead marching to and from the bar, the ashes, everything. "And if you'd really rather I kept my bloody nose out of it, I will, but ... I'd like to know, you know."
"Your whiskey, luv... Irish. Straight. You going to want more?" Mary's voice asks, even before she really gets to the table. And more...do you want the bottle, basically. She'd rather ask, than leave you having to hollar in the mood you're in, Davydd.
As she makes those last few steps up to the table, she adds, "Sorry to interrupt... but it's what we waitresses do, unfortunately. Can I get your drink sent to this table, love?" This last is directed to Fiona now, as the dark brown gaze focuses on her now, even as she places the whiskey in front of Davydd.
Green eyes go between the glass his fingers toy with, rotating, and you. He reaches over and stamps out the cigarette, last of the smoke leaving his mouth and nose. "Peachy," he says, "I'm fucking grand actually," he rolls, stamping out the cigarette. "You know, letting a bit loose, bit of a boys night," only he's the only one at his table, "...going to put breeze up William. He's in town, I hear. Probably grab him and Edward and start a jolly fight somewhere. It's been a long time." And he fiddles with the glass some more. And no... he's not alright. But he's not going to talk about it.
He's an old man, he's not going to a girl half his age for advice. Besides, what could you possibly tell him? You've never been in love. You've never lost it.
He looks up and sighs, a bit relieved at the arrival of whiskey. "Aye, leave the bottle. Ah, the McReedy. Kelly loves me..." he says of the ruddy-gold liquid. "I'd bounce you on my lap for it, but I fear I'd knock you to the roof. Thanks, darlin'..." Awfully friendly, aren't they...
"Anyway... you've a crowd of your own, your new pack... don't let me keep you..."
That gets a bit of the fisheye from her. She's not gone soft. Just ... softer. "They're not my pack, Davydd. They're coworkers, yes. We just put the magazine to bed, so it's customary for the new manager to treat the shift to dinner and drinks after, is all." She turns to Mary, smiling genuinely enough despite her sudden irritation. "Yes, please, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. And ... whatever they're having over there, it's on me? Just keep it coming, they've earned it." They did work hard for her, and she appreciates how good they made her look. Even reflected glory can reflect back to the source, after all.
Turning back, she adds pointedly, "If you want to get rid of me, say so. I don't understand why you'd be shy about it now, after all. Anyway..." She resumes, not waiting for a response - he can tell her if he likes, after she's said her piece. "I saw William a few days ago, so yes, I know he's in town. I rather enjoyed myself," she sounds surprised - she is surprised, she didn't expect to, "but if that's where you're off to, please do give him my regards. And tell him the magazine will be out in three days."
She won't ask. Not yet. And not when there are ears which might tell tales - though those ears are rapidly getting past the 'cheerful' stage, and into 'inebriated'. "You're not keeping me anywhere I don't choose to be, though, so don't treat me as though I'm still back in school. If I didn't want to be here, talking to you, I wouldn't be."
Davydd's comment about knee bouncing causes a flush of colour in Mary's cheeks as she tries to laugh it off. "Oh you.. right. I'll get the bottle for ya, love," she replies, still chuckling a bit.
Seeing that she definitely interrupted something that perhaps she shouldn't have, she merely nods at Fiona and says, "Sure." Her gaze flickers back and forth between the two of you a moment before she turns to leave, lowering her empty tray as she goes.
Shaking her head a bit, she resolves that not-getting-involved is likely the best tactic here. It's not her business and Davydd can handle himself. As she passes by Lucille, she stops and engages in an animated, and obviously pleasant conversation -- likely just briefly catching up with each other. Tossing a thumb in Davydd's direction, Mary says one last thing to the folk singer and then moves to go get that bottle. Lucille looks toward the back, then smiles brightly and waves.
There's animation to his expression at the blush, and then at the wave from Lucille at the bar. A wave given is a wave returned. He thinks of calling out: strike a tune and I'll do it with you, but he thinks better of it. Davydd shrugs a bit then fishes around in his coat pockets. Despite the poor-ass attitude and the obvious inebriation, he's looking damned fetching. Well, you know... just in case she calls...
His hands check for his cellphone for the tenth time. He glances at it. No messages. No calls missed...
There's a quirk to his mouth, downward. Not a frown, but a moment of disappointment. No call. Tucking it back in, eyes to ... empty space above your head...he slips the phone back in the pocket, shrugs the coat back in place and pops his neck. Nervous habit. "No, no reason t' leave. I'm just not ... feeling all that social. You can stay or you can go. If you stay, don't say I didn't warn ya..."
And I'm out of cigarettes. Fuck.
Davydd fidgets in his seat, resettling, legs stretching out. In lieu of lighting up, he lifts the glass -- finally -- pops his neck again and then downs it. A swallow of pure, smooth fire. Fiery eyebrows cock up at it. Nice burn. Just what I needed. Forest eyes trace Mary's path. Yeah, I'm going to be needing the full bottle.
"So... what inspired the change of scenery for you..." Yeah, let's talk about you.
Now she's put on the spot, and it makes her squirm, visibly so. Fiona glances over at her co-workers - the couple are getting up, coming over, so she waits for them before she begins to answer things said, painting a smile onto her face for them.
"Lady Fiona, thanks again for dinner," the woman smiles. "Even if I did just eat off his plate, the food was great." Her companion grins, patting his girlfriend on the shoulder. "She always does that," he confides towards Davydd before turning to his boss again. "See you at the office, eh, not til after noon or so, right?" The custom, the day after it goes to press. "And Lady Fiona, don't let 'em get you down. That interview - aces. Just aces."
That brings a more genuine smile to her face - who, after all, doesn't respond to praise? Even if it's just office politics, which it might or might not be. "Thanks, though a lot of the credit for that goes to the subject. He helped a lot. I'll have to start casting around for other angles. You two take care, now - grab a cab, all right? And I'll see you whenever, you needn't come in tomorrow if you don't feel up to it, I've a feeling it'll be a slow day."
They wander off, and Fiona gets her wallet out from her carryall, sliding a credit card out of its envelope and signalling in Mary's general direction. "I'll stick around. But I don't think you'll find my ... changes, all that interesting, Davydd. I mean, it's not as though it's important. D'you really want to know?" Some things take longer to get over than others. She's going to need her drink, for this - more than one.
It's only a few minutes before Mary's returned again... this time with a fresh drink for Fiona, as well as the bottle of scotch, as requested. She offers a friendly smile to both of you, but doesn't seem inclined to interrupt as she did before. Perhaps there was something she picked up on... despite 'just being a waitress', she's a pretty sharp lady. She's been doing the job for a while now, and seems to have figured out when it's not a good time to just butt in.
Waiting for a pause in the conversation first this time, she sets the glass before Fiona, then the bottle in front of Davydd and leans back. Holding the tray flat against her chest now -- a very casual stance as she crosses her arms over it -- she then asks, "Anything else? Or should I just go away for a bit?" It's meant as a joke, as indicated by her lopsided grin and wink, but it's also her testing the waters to make sure all is well.
"It's just one day I see you going over herbs with Sandrine," there's something to her name, he almost winces when he says it. The thirteen pints of Guinness stirred the feelings. The whiskey's leeching it to the surface. The tension bursts on the air around him. "And now you're going by Fiona, nice name, better'n Drancy at any rate." I fought in WWII. I wept at the horror. It cured me of my 12th Century antisemitism. "And you're working at the posh mag in town. In a matter of a week." His eyes widen into a wildwood look. "That alone would kill a few cats of a curiosity overdose." But then he quiets.
"If you don't want to talk about it, don't. Just... I find it rather remarkable. I guess you didn't need anyone looking out for you afterall. Not Hwyll. Not Huw. Not Davydd. Good show, and good on ya. You're smart," he nods at you, "...for doing it on your own. Sorry I treated you like a glass kitten. I'm good at that apparently," there's a frown for that and he sighs, looking for the bottle of whiskey. And lo! It appears.
But he was so certain it wouldn't be there, that he actually starts, surprised when it materializes. "Shite... pennies from heaven. And no... have a sit. It's time for your break anyway. Mary, this is Fiona... a young lady of my acquaintence and sometimes annoyance. Fiona, this lovely dove is Mary..."
"So," he leans forward, as if forgetting all the depressing serious shite, "...who was your interview and what's the story, or are you going to make me wait and pay for it...?"
Her face flushes slightly, but she doesn't respond angrily in the slightest, sliding over instead, making room for Mary and turning to offer a hand. "How d'you do?" Even her accent's slightly different - Oxonian, rather than the put-upon London street punk. "Any friend of Davydd's, I'll take under advisement."
Fiona turns back to Davydd with a slight shake of her head. "It's what my parents named me, but I'll be sure to let them know you approve. And I was trying to learn about herbs from Sandrine because I was trying to find a way ... out." She almost flinched, at the mention of various names. Huw ... Hwyll ... even Davydd's, it's hit a slight nerve. "I hit the bottom of a long downhill slide, Davydd," she says steadily. "And I got to the point where I had to change, or ..." She shrugs, picking up her drink. "You didn't treat me like a glass kitten, particularly, that I can recall. I don't think anyone did. All the times I got angry, it wasn't you who made me angry. Well," she amends, "Most of the times..."
She chuckles at the question, a slow, feline grin spreading across her face. "I should make you wait," Fiona remarks. "But I'll be kind. It was with your dear friend, Guillaume d'Angevin." And the French trills off her tongue lightly indeed.
Normally, Mary would have refused joining the two of you on company time, but she really hasn't had a break tonight. Not that she'd complain. She loves the job. But, it would be nice to rest her feet a little.
Accepting Fiona's hand in a quick, but firm shake, she practically beams at the two of you. "Good to meet ya, love. And, well, advisement is a good phrase to use with the likes of Davydd, hm?" A wink is offered to Davydd to prove she's joking. With all the moping going on at this table, perhaps her cheerful and friendly demeanor could be annoying. But it's not a 'dumb girl' attitude...just genuinely personable.
Sliding into the seat next to Fiona, she says, "Well, thank you both.. It does feel good to sit down. But .. I'm not interrupting am I? I won't have that. If you have things to discuss, I can be scarce."
"Nah," he rumbles, "...and even if you were, it'd only be my shite attitude. Fuck it," and he laughs for the first time all night, adding fire to his eyes. Quicksilver green. Madcap. Like the Davydd of old. He pours another round of whiskey for himself. "Guillaume d'Angevin," Davydd snorts. "Quite the coup. I'll have to give him hell for being in the paper. Lay low my ass...course, he's a bit of a slut for the news. Always has been."
Fucking Plantagenet. I love him like the earth. He slays me.
"Did he talk about the monster in his pocket?" Davydd snorts a laugh and downs the whiskey. "Somehow, it always gets mentioned though it has not a fucking thing to do with art. Between he and Ewan MacGregor, we never lack for the word penis in the press. God love 'em."
Oh, he is so drunk. And it takes a lot. He's going to need a cab...at least...
He starts again, thinking he feels his phone buzzing. Probably just gas. He fumbles with his pocket, pulls it out. "Fuck," he whispers. "Nothing..." And then he just surrenders to the fact she's not going to call him tonight.
Fuck it... I'm going to go to her apartment and serenade her from fifteen floors below...
"I need to go... she's going to be pissed... about as pissed as I am," he mutters in addition.
"Davydd's definitely got a lot of ... people around him," Fiona agrees with Mary, the corners of her mouth sliding up in warm agreement. "We're just discussing a friend of his who I did an interview with, for my work," she explains quickly, before turning back to Davydd.
"We didn't go on about his penis, though we did discuss the size of my balls, a bit," she says, with a flash of the old Drancy, even her cheeks redden slightly. She eyes Davydd. This ... is different...
She observes the little interchange with the phone with a slight frown to her face, listening to the underlying commentary. "I should get going myself, anyway. Need a lift? We can share a cab," she shoots a glance to Mary, of the 'let's not let him try to fall under a lorry' variety, "I'll even pay. My treat."
Looking to Davydd as he announces he must go, Mary murmurs, "I can set the bottle aside for you for another night, if you want, luv." Or you can take it with you. Choice is yours.
Chuckling a little, she nods at Fiona and murmurs, "Davydd.. well, I don't think there's a person in this city he doesn't know... and even sometimes I wonder about outside the city." But, she takes her cue from Fiona's comments to slide back out of the booth again. Standing, she pulls back, waiting to see if Davydd needs any help being steadied.
"It was nice meeting you, Fiona," she says, offering that friendly smile to her again. As her gaze slips back to Dayvdd, she murmurs, "If you need anything, just call, ok?" He has more friends than anyone can likely imagine.
"Aye," he groans. "Shite, I'm going to regret this come the dawn. I'll sleep like the dead though." And he laughs at that, quietly as he rises. There's no swaying. No stumbling. No slurring. But he is, indeed, impaired. Straightening, cutting a handsome figure, maybe more so for the little touch of vulnerability, he composes himself. "I..." he starts to protest then, "...sure... I just need to go a bit up the street to Meniwell. To Sandrine's..."
Whether she'll let him in is another thing...
Davydd pulls Mary in for a hug, "Diolch, lass," he murmurs. "I owe you... and tell Lucy I'll catch her Friday...we'll do it proper." He means sing. Surely. Green eyes settle on Fiona and he untangles from the hug of the waitress. "I'll...go out and give a whistle..." and he tosses pound notes on the table. A huge tip. And then stuffs his hands in his pockets and heads out.
Fiona nods, sliding out after Mary and watching Davydd go with decidedly mixed emotions that for a moment turn her eyes quicksilver grey. She shakes her head, though, and moves to pay, then follow. "I hope he'll be all right," she murmurs. "Impossible bloody males..."
"No problem. And sure, I'll tell her," Mary replies, standing back to give him some room. She merely shrugs at Fiona as Davydd wanders off toward the door. "Better go catch him," she comments, just watching him go.
Posted by rowan at June 08, 2003 01:16 PM
