No celebrations, this time - just an ordinary night, getting out of the office late, it seems. Fiona is clad in russet jacket and trousers, with light grey-green high-collared shirt. Her hair's rolled up and pinned into place on top of her head, though by the way she's massaging her scalp, that's not going to last much longer...
     Sidling in, she looks around, blinking to adjust to the change in lighting. Oh, there's a table, that's good. "I'm starving," she sighs to herself. Too long a day, and no lunch break - at the rate she's going, she'll be taking even worse care of herself than when she was immersed in the London underbelly of the punk scene.

     A waitress eases up to your table not a half moment after you sit. "..'allo, luv," she recognizes you. You've become an Old Faithful. A regular. A comrade. Just shy of being on first-name basis. "Here's a menu," her voice has to rise above the music, an acoustic guitar amplified, "...give it a ponder, I'll be right back!"

     It's already crowded. That's how Friday nights go around Davy's. It's Old Faithful night, where one of the Usuals will be at the mike. And when you enter, there's no doubt of who it is tonight. You'd know that earthy voice anywhere, even if it's singing the blues.
     The song is rough, and it suits his voice. And the mundane children of the earth don't know the power behind it, but they know they like it. No one packs it in like Davy at Davy's on a Friday night.

I look at here and she looks at me I don't see what she sees in a man like me... Her eyes... yeah her eyes... her eyes are a blue million miles...

     There's an empty table to the side of the stage. His jacket has claimed it, and a pack of cigarettes. But the woman, the woman is nowhere to be seen. But then, does she come to see him perform?

I look at her, she looks at me... In her eyes, I see the sea... I can't see what she sees in a man like me... Her eyes are a blue million miles...

     It's slow, but it's driving this song, and it's full of last week's sentiment. Hell, he's not sure what she sees in him. Even though he didn't write the ditty -- an American did -- it could have been born from his lips and his experience, sure enough.
     Where the song ends and the applause begins as it fads is blurry. And, in fact, the song just morphs. His voice falls quiet, maybe to rest it, maybe he just doesn't feel like singing, and something from the Andalusian plains of Spain erupts from the acoustic guitar. Yes, he can play classical Spanish.

     Settling into the chair, Fiona opens the menu. Keeping it simple tonight... Cider, ploughman's meal, and a side dish of pickles. Her bag's placed on the table, her legs crossed, and she gives every indication of planning on getting very comfortable before the night is out.
     And she turns her head towards the stage - now there's a face, a voice she recognizes. It makes Fiona's eyes warm from cool jade to something coloured like spring, new leaves and grass. And she listens, with muted attention.
     The song, well - it grants insight, in part, perhaps, but there's hesitation paired with it. No jumping to hasty conclusions, here. When the song morphs, she smiles faintly, though a troubled expression still holds on her face. Maybe, maybe tonight, she'll tell him.

     "You got it, luv," says the waitress, swinging by just long enough to take the order, she leaves the menu with you for now. Just in case. You never know. And even though the place is jumping, by the time the Spanish song breaks for something sweet-sounding, but nevertheless broodingly Celtic -- a song called Waterloo about a dying soldier's lament -- you have your ploughman's, your cider, your pickles. "Just give me a holler if you need anything else, it's Delilah," she says, by way of introduction, and she's one of the more experienced waitresses. Sort of their matron in a way, though she's only thirty-three.

     There are a few who know him, who come watch him. Were William still in town, you might see him, but he's jetted off to ...wherever it is he stays this time of year. Did he say Scotland? Could you hear it in between the lines of his French? But tonight, for Davydd, it's just the anonymous faces of folks he's met between cigs and swallows. He plays like he doesn't even see them. He plays like he's alone. And the energy pings off the walls. And he feeds off of the inspiration he himself instills. It's a cycle that keeps him young.
     When Waterloo ends, there's an interlude. A moment to tune. And he speaks to the group right in front of him, but he's miked so everyone gets to share. "I haven't worked up enough spit to sing in Welsh yet, no... maybe later," his accent, unchecked, lilts lovely strange, and he chuckles at something shouted up to him in Welsh. A couple of people get it. But Davydd doesn't translate it for the Brits in the house. "I'm going to give your ears a break and gather some Welsh by drinking an Irish drink." Pause. "Or two. So... talk amongst yourselves for fifteen." A nod to someone, and the mike's killed for a bit.
     Davydd stands, setting the well-used, but well cared for guitar aside, and with a grin, waves to someone waving at him, and he bends to hear something a woman is telling him. A nod.

     It's a bit of a surprise, really, seeing him so comfortable. Not that he's never been, but ... it's been a while, hasn't it? Hesitantly, Fiona lifts a hand, then sets it back down, closing her eyes for a moment. She can pick up on that energy, herself, and it's somewhat heady - the moreso for her being so unused to it.
     I wish I understood things better...
     It's not the same fierce driving burn that it used to be. Things are more fluid for her now - change is a part of her, and she can accept that things change. But that doesn't make the process easy, particularly.
     After a moment to adjust, Fiona tries again, lifting her cider in one hand, bringing it to her lips for a long, thirsty draught, then raising her other hand in Davydd's direction.
     Will he see me... ? Will he respond if he has... Nothing stays the same.

     There is a brief time when you can study him and he doesn't know you're doing it. There's an easiness, a normality about him. As if he were just any guy with a guitar on any night in any pub in England. You know he's not, or you know he's not average anyway. But for a moment, there is absolutely no pretense. And for that moment, he's a handsome devil. Best when he laughs.
     When he rounds the bar, with the first free Guinness of the night in hand, he sees your hand raised and fiery eyebrows cock upward in a "Well isn't this a surprise" sort of motion. But if you were expecting distance, you don't get it. Nor do you get the very deadly anger, he has a wicked temper, that you half viewed the time before the last time you saw him.
     Davydd takes a swallow, sets the pint on your table, then twists with a "Shite, I left my cigs. Delilah," he calls out, and he motions to the table by the stage. Bring my stuff to me? She seems to understand, for as soon as she gets the rest of an order, she's heading that way. Davydd looks back to you and settles at your table. "Fancy meeting you here," not really. He chuckles, "You're here almost as much as I am. You better watch that. It can lead to a life of trouble. So," he rumbles, quieting, going a bit more serious, "I never thanked you for the cabbie the other night. Let me buy you a drink to repay you."

     "I'm just glad to see you made it in one piece," Fiona rejoinders, glancing to Delilah and then back to you, reaching up to massage her scalp again for a moment. "If you like. I'm having cider - sweet, rather than dry, tonight." Not vodka, apparently.
     She's relieved, really, to see no sign of that fierce anger to throw her off her feed. "You don't owe me anything, though, I hope you do know that." You probably do. But she has to say it as well...
     "Actually, I'm glad to see you. I was hoping I might find you about - sometime, I really ought to talk to you, as I've something I'd like to tell you..."

     "Well, I'm a captive audience tonight... apart from the occasional half-an-hour's worth of vanity," he quips, "...ah, you're a doll," he says to Delilah as she brings over his cigs and jacket. She sets the leather coat on an empty chair and heads off. He takes out a cigarette and the lighter. "Eh...always... I've been more lit up, trust me. But it was good on you not to have me arrested betwixt Here and There."
     As you talk about owing, he gives you a weird look. Somewhere midway between Huh? and You don't say. But he waves it away a minute later, along with the smoke from the first inhalation. "Not sure what you mean, but alright. We're square," Davydd nods. Settling his bulk back in the chair that barely looks to hold him, he now wears an expression of open curiosity. "I think I can stretch my fifteen minutes to thirty... want to start?"

     "Sure, I guess. I don't imagine it'll take that long." She's embarassed, and trying hard not to be, fiddling with her plate, then her mug, gaze moving restlessly round the room. "Well ..."
     Something to do while she talks. She pushes her food away, largely untouched still, to give herself a bit of room, closing her eyes as she finds the pins holding her hair in place. "Partly, I wanted to talk to you in order to apologize. For the way I've treated you in the past. I know I wasn't ... the easiest person to know or deal with, and ... all things considered, you were very patient." There's a brief flash of humour, and she reopens her eyes to add, "Mind you, I'm sure you deserved at least some of it! But not necessarily from me."
     There's more, but she's taking it slowly, by stages. "I ... figured you'd want to know. There's a reason for it all, of course."

     He flicks away dead ash and smirks, "Was I? I suppose I was," he quips. "Not really known for it you know. But you're right... I'm sure on some level I deserved it. We can... let it be in the past, you know. My knickers aren't in a twist over it," well, not any more. There was a moment where I wanted to kill you. I got over it.
     Davydd takes a swallow of Guinness, chased by a drag of some French brand cigarette. "Thanks," he says finally, and seems to mean it. "And I know I was an ass on more than one occasion too." But you start in again and he listens. He can do that, you know. A reason for it?
     Huh...
     A bronze eyebrow cocks up, wondering. "I thought I just had a target on my ass..."

     Fiona reddens a bit, and finds the empty stage singularly fascinating. Mm. Plywood. "Well, it's just that... God, this is really fucking embarassing," she says finally, frankly, with a wry twist to her mouth. "Bear with me, all right? I'm not very good at confessions, I wasn't raised Catholic." Just Anglican and Jewish.
     "I've always - ever since I got out of school, before going off to uni - pretty much tried to block out any chance people could hurt me. It's a long story, and it's safely in the past, so I'll not go into it. I'll just say that the person the most responsible for it ... well, he's the one whose nose I broke." The pins start piling up in front of her on the table as Fiona speaks, gaze slightly distant as she focuses on it.
     Eventually, her hair tumbles slowly down from on top of her head, down her back in loosened waves. "Ahh," she sighs. "That's better. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is ... uh. You got past my defenses. You weren't trying to, but you did. And I ... panicked."

     "Being raised Catholic doesn't help. Trust me," he interjects. He was sort of raised Catholic. The Welsh were actually pretty damned devout Catholics in their day, being a spiritual lot. But his father wasn't so much and he... Catholic because he needed to be. Not necessarily out of any connection with the God in question.
     He's quiet for the rest of it though, and he doesn't make faces at you. He just listens. Stamps out his cigarette even and peers at you, dark green behind the smoke. Davydd nods once, accepting that, not that he's any god who needs to be asked for forgiveness. "You got a chance to punch his lights out. Have you... taken a moment yet," he wonders, lilting, "...to celebrate that?" And then Davydd grins, a comet streak. "I mean, those chances don't come along every day. Have you had a chance to chuckle about it yet. Shite, if I had known that, I would have kicked his ass for a man down your stairs and tossed him out to the street. Well, just as well...you did it yourself."
     "As for defenses," he murmurs a moment later, "...that's the problem with them. They can always be breached. Some just take a while. But all walls come down eventually. Don't feel bad about any of the yelling, punching, kicking or what-have-you. Water under the bridge. I didn't take any of it personally."

     "Maybe not, but ... well, my family's been Catholic, in the past," Fiona grimaces with wry amusement, "The Arundels go way back, and I rather get the feeling we've been on most sides of given conflicts, which is why we've come down this far through the ages. My father's always tried to make sure I know exactly what I got myself into by being born." She's wryly humourous about it, now.
     Celebrating? That makes Fiona's eyebrows go up. "I don't ... know. I didn't really think about it then, you know - I was too miserable. And now, well, there doesn't seem much point in putting myself back in that misery enough to feel glad about it - it happened, it's done, all right, let's move on already. Though," a slight smile tugs up one corner of her mouth, "if he falls under a bus tomorrow, I won't shed any tears. I just won't be the one to shove him. Why give him that power over me?"
     There's a slight, slow nod, about defenses, and her cheeks tinge pink. "Ah. So you heard, then. Water under the bridge, indeed..." Fiona sighs a little. "Anyway, the point is that you got to me, Davydd, enough that I wanted to be around you while at the same time hating you, and myself, for it. It's why I fell for Huw the Hardly Ever Here." She lifts her mug in a cynical salute. "Dead in the water - bad joke, sorry."

     "I have that effect on women," he jokes himself, and it's true, a wry smile for himself and his own issues and a shrug. "So what can you do. As Catullus said: Odi et amo. I hate... and I love. Sometimes it's a very thin line..."
     "Did you say 'Arundels'?" he mentions, eyebrows knitting and he gives you a look. Shite, that explains a lot. High strung to the last. But he doesn't linger on that. He just makes a mental note. He may tease you about it another time. Not now. Now, he looks at you with those dark forest eyes and he listens. You fell for another man because of me? Ah, me.
     "Heard? Nah, nothing," he murmurs, "...just a figure of speech. I don't listen in for gossip much. And you're right not to give him anymore power over you. Live your own life. Sod him." He exhales, green eyes flitting about. He gives a signal to the bar, I need more time.
     And he takes another swallow of Guinness even as he sits back. "I think you should live your life, find a nice bloke," one who isn't weird, has bizarre eating habits or can turn himself into animals and trees, "... just a nice, average fellow who treats you right. When you're ready. Don't do anything else because folks expect it of you. I think you've gone around that block before, aye?" And he sounds like a man who's almost forty. There's a lot of seeming years between you -- let alone the eight-hundred you don't know about. "I know it's hard to let someone in... I'm horrible about it. So take my 'old man on the mountain' schtick with a grain of salt. I know it's easy to say, and hard to do."

     Almost, she rolls her eyes at that. "Yes, yes, thought you noticed the other night, but I guess you'd had a few too many." Lady Fiona isn't inclined to toss title around, even now - and she could be a different Arundel, theoretically. Untitled - one of the common herd. Sure.
     Her own leaf green eyes glance around for a moment, then return to your face. "Oh, you hadn't heard? Good." There's relief, there. It'd be so hard to explain. Oh, yes, I jumped off a bridge because I had to change my life. And it worked.
     "Davydd... I appreciate your advice, but I've tried looking at 'nice blokes'. I'm not -interested- in nice blokes. They're, well, nice, but they don't wear well - I'm not a nice girl, whether I'm being Drancy or being Fiona." And there's a hint of steel under her eyes, aimed at anyone who tries to make her do something she won't do. "I'm not that anymore, and that's never been all that and a bag of chips in any event. What I want, what I need ... isn't that." Her face reddens slightly, and she pauses to moisten her lips from her glass, my that cider's gone down quickly, before continuing.
     A sigh. "I know what works for me, now, better'n I used to. It might not be a matter of what happens after the lights go out - I still wouldn't know about that - but I know what it'll take for me to ever get there, and ... it's not what you've just described, sorry. If it doesn't sink into my blood - I don't want it. But I appreciate your wanting me to take the easy road. I just can't."

     "There's no such thing as an easy road," is all he says to that and he cocks a slantwise smile. "I have a tendency to dish out a lot of shite. I'm the last person in the world to give out advice on love." And he laughs, a hand coming to the table and he sits back. A roll of green eyes to himself, a look around the room, a shake of his head.
     I'm so full of shite. I don't even know if I know what love is, and I presume to tell other people. I should just shut up. If I were mute, how happy would the world be.
     "Well, you'd bite off more'n you can chew, then... like the rest of us," he tilts his head, looking to you. "Like me, sure enough. Never easy. Hard to live with. Impossible to understand. Messy man, messy life. Deceptively complicated. Or... like William... wicked and decadent, soul-rending, heart-searing, high-maintenance." He fishes for another cigarette as he snorts a short laugh.
     "I had a night of too many by the time you saw me... and another one the day after...this is the first I've been sober in two days." He doesn't say why. "Well, Fiona," he says, using the name you give, Drancy-act nowhere to be seen, "...sounds like you're off on the right start at least. You know what you don't want, what you don't like. That's half of it. The rest is compromise and trial and error anyway."

     "Mm..." Fiona sets her empty mug aside, pulling her plate closer again and picking up a wedge of cheese. She gestures to the plate in silent offering, one eyebrow going up quizzically as she chews on a bite.
     Swallowing, she shakes her head a little. "I ... don't think I'll comment, there, about you," her face reddens slightly, and she moves on in haste, "And William's ... I wouldn't go there. Sex on cake, certainly, but you can't live on cake alone. I couldn't let myself fall for someone like him, entirely aside from the fact that he is, after all, taken." Thank god.
     "I only know beginnings of roads, not middles or endings, Davydd," tit for tat, you call her by her name, she calls you by yours, meeting your eyes squarely again - a little glint of mischief behind the pale green, "but I'm glad you're sober enough to talk to. I was going to talk to you the other night, but I decided it'd ... be a bad idea. And," she adds lightly, "I still haven't told you everything. Some things, you just get to wonder about. I know it won't keep you from your sleep."

     "Well, we're even. Besides," he says, sitting forward to take one of the wedges of apples, "...no one should know the whole story but God. Whichever one you worship. No matter how much one wants to unburden one's heart, one can't make the burdens one carries the burdens of another." And maybe that's a little clue of how his last week or so has been. Course, he has a lot more to unpack than you do.
     But Sandrine doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want to know. Maybe it is unimportant. Maybe his need to tell his story, to share his past, to explain his tattoos and what they enable him to do was a selfish desire. What's it to anyone but him?
     Fingers break the apple wedge in half with a snap, then pop it into his mouth. Soon decimated. Sitting close to you, there's a little humanity about him, that same easiness you saw from across the room is about him again. He's shaved today, well...still has the goatee, but the stubble from the other night is gone. There are tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. The Old Veteran has lines where grinning, laughing and squinting at the sun have forged them. He has freckles across the short nose, impossible to see unless he's got you in his shadow.
     "No comment necessary, I know myself," he mutters with a smirk. "And Gwilym," he says, eyebrows opening outward and eyes on you, "... has a good heart underneath all that shite. He's more than cake. Never gets credit for it, mind you, because he is as he is. But I should tell the truth. I love him like a brother and I trust him with my life. You're smart to keep your heart in check, as the love would never be returned. I've seen a lot of women go down that road," he takes a bit of cheese, a bit of bread. "A lot of women. And a helping of men as well. Why give yourself to someone who can't give the love back?" He snorts suddenly, "I've done that a time or two. Had a woman named Rose up until last year or so. We were together for a while, not out of love, I couldn't fucking stand her... but you know.. habit's a bad thing. And loneliness too. Sometimes it can lock you into something that's not even fulfilling. Worse than cake for every meal. Just...emptiness. It sucks." He pauses to eat. "Excuse my Francais."

     Her cheeks flush slightly, and she lowers her face to the table again for a moment. "Yes, well," Fiona ventures as her silence ends, "I make a point of trying not to fall for the inaccessible. Sometimes, I've even succeeded... And yes, I've seen a little of his good heart, now, so I think I understand what you mean."
     A slice of apple is placed atop a slice of cheese, and the coupling placed atop a piece of bread. Geometric artforms with food. "I've kept lonely instead, and sometimes that's probably not much better. There's nothing wrong with your French, Davydd. D'you ... want to talk about it?" And there is that to her. She's genuinely curious, genuinely wanting to know. Even as Drancy, she was curious, but didn't know how to ask.
     "If I'm prying, or being a pain in the arse, of course, just tell me to shut it," and that's a Drancyism, but said with a smile, indicating borrowing almost from a foreign language, "And I'll leave you alone. But we all lose things, and well, I'd like it if I didn't have to lose you, just because I've changed."

     "Nah, we're good," he rumbles. "And Sandrine and I are... alright. It's just been an interesting week, is all." A pause for eating. Hmm, cheese and apple. Good choice. He copies that decision, but nixes the bread. "We're very different, she and I. And you know me... I'm a bit of a bulldozer." He chuckles. "And in our case, a bit of a bull in a china closet." Sandrine being, of course, fine china. "I no more know what to do with her than a chimp knows how to use a fork. But..." a roll of his shoulders and he sits back. "I love the woman, and she returns it -- though it's no praise to her wit," he clips a line from Benedick and cracks a grin afterwards. His eyes stray over to the busy crowd. They've gone about their evening. No one's knocking down the bar to hear more music just yet. Just as well.
     "She just... wants a clean life. In the end..." He shrugs again. "I know I'm not going to be able to give her that. But.." Davydd takes in a breath and a swallow of Guinness, "I'm going to try to be patient, I guess. Let it go as it should go. Try not to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. She's a lovely lady, she's very sweet, she's very kind to me, she takes good care of things... maybe it doesn't matter much that she doesn't 'get' me." He shrugs again, not out of pessimism...but maybe it really just doesn't matter.

     There's something undefined lurking in the back of Fiona's eyes. "I'm sorry," she says genuinely, "I wish there were some sort of magic wand I could wave, but let's face it, I can't. If there is anything I can do, let me know." She looks away quickly, sending locks of pale hair sliding over each other.
     "I'm ... obviously not in any sort of position to give you relationship advice," seeing as Huw's off doing his fairy godfather trip somewhere, but it isn't here, and I'm not even sure if... "But I can listen. And I even promise it'll be off the record, if and when I do."
     She looks back up, pushing the rest of the food on her plate over to you, clearing a space for her elbows. "Your being a bulldozer ... or a bull ... isn't a bad thing, though, you know. It's you. You're solid. That's good."

     "Oh, I know... there's no changing it. I'm set in my ways. It's not a bad thing... just not sure if it will be a good thing for the pair of us..." Dark green shimmers. "Sandrine and I. Just because you love someone, doesn't mean it's going to work out." He recites 20th Century psychobabble. It's not like he knows that from experience.
     Davydd grins, madcap laughter follows. "Off the record. Like anyone'd give a shite to read it." Ha! He laughs again. That amuses him. But he knows what you mean. Sitting back, Davydd stretches out his legs and his arms fold over the broad chest. "Being a bull isn't the problem, I know. I'm happy with who I am. I mean, what choice is there." Eyes widen and eyebrows lift in his grin. "I'm stuck with me as long as I wear this painted skin upon these bones. But... thanks..." he nods once, "...the gesture's appreciated. Unfortunately, there's not a spell in the world, nor any magician powerful enough to take on Love or fix it. If it were that easy, I'd have done it by now. Ah, don't know what more there is to say, really." The Guinness is drained a moment later, empty glass shoved slightly to the side with a finger. "I don't know. I'm still a little... " Uncertain. Then he shrugs. "It'll be as it'll be. She'll have to get used to it. And I'll have to stop picking at it." Which I'm doing now, I know... I just can't stop. It's like a scab.
     "So... anything exciting happening with you?" Let's not talk about me anymore...

     She recognizes some of the psychobabble, and it makes her roll her eyes slightly. Not like she knows, either. "Well, in any event, I am sorry. You've both been kind to me, in your own ways."
     Fiona grins briefly, resting her chin on her hands, and shakes her head. "Exciting? I jumped off a bridge, I landed here. I'm still - settling into all that... being the envy of half of my team at work because I got that interview with Guillaume d'Angevin," she lets the name roll off her tongue, with an amused lilt, "and dealing with them asking me if I slept with him..."
     "Apart from that? Well, I saw an old friend last night, and realized we're probably not going to be friends any longer, which was sort of sad. And I'm here, now. Life's been - rather dull, really. I'll have to do something about that."

     He waves his hands in a gesture that can really only be translated as: wait a minute, go back, what the hell was that?
     ...And he ain't talking about the bridge...
     Davydd leans in, narrowing his eyes, cocking up an eyebrow. "Who?" he quips, but he knows who you're talking about. His mouth twists. "You interviewed Guillaume d'Angevin." William, of course. He knows who you mean. "For the magazine." As in, in print. William. In print. "So..." leading tone, "...what about? And don't give me any of this 'you have to wait till it's printed' shite," Davydd continues, pointing his finger to you.
     "I'll buy a copy, of course," he tacks on at the end. Of course.
     Oh, this is going to be priceless. I gotta hear this. Using that name in print. Oh sure, he can rationalize it to the average person on the earth. It's just a surname. Just.
     For those of you who don't recall history that is. The family name hasn't been used in a long.... long.... long...LONG...time. Sebastian's going to chuckle. Edward's going to shite...
     "We'll get to the bridge in a moment," I heard ya...

     A blink. It's plain Fiona really doesn't get what the big deal is. "Err? About his art, of course." Well, at least nominally. "It was an interview, what'd you think we talked about? I'm hardly going to ask him for in-depth information about his sex life. If you really like, I can give you a copy, it's on the stands already, so it's not as though I'm giving anything away." Except the magazine itself.
     One eyebrow goes up at a cynical slant, eyes slowly shading from their present green hue back towards something more diffuse, cooler, blues entering the picture. "It was a good interview, I thought," and her cheeks suddenly flood with colour, "but I'm not sure why you're so shocked. He's an amazing painter, I really have to admit. Very thorough. Very ... " She gropes for a word, "Captivating..."

     Thorough. Now, that's a word for William...
     Davydd laughs, from the gut. "Oh aye... he is that... I mean, I don't know anything about art. I'm not one for it really. But he's definitely thorough. I'm sorry," he tacks on. It's just the word. Thorough. William. "Well," he drags, laughter fading but still clinging to the edges of his words, "... I'll buy it. Maybe I'll get him to autograph it for me. "He's just a touch infamous, is all," Davydd adds. "Did you know it was William when you went?" I can't imagine that. "Or did he shock the shite out of you."
     He's good at that...
     "I'm going to call him and read it out loud to him." He laughs, oh riot! Look at what you've presented me with! A golden opportunity to give William shite. My favorite thing in the WORLD to do.
     Davydd winks and takes a bit of cheese. "Anyway, back to the bridge. You... jumped... off a London bridge... you're lucky I didn't catch you, I would have spanked you. Have you grown anything... odd on your body since landing in The Thames? Any corpulses?"

     For a moment, Fiona rummages around in her bag, until she comes up with a copy of the magazine, sliding it across the table. "Towards the middle. It's not the sort of thing that we put on the cover, so you'll have to root about for it, first." A shake of the head, then, "No, I had no idea it was him. But we were even - he had no idea it was me." And there's the byline. Mirrors, and photographs, and Lady Fiona Arundel herself, in the editors' list.
     "I damn near dropped my coat, but caught myself in time. He ... well, it was ... interesting." That shock of mutual recognition, the wariness, the politeness, the final admission. "It worked out all right in the end."
     Her cheeks redden again, and Fiona says tartly, "You'd have had to catch me, first, or d'you imagine I'd let you turn me over your knee willingly? Hmf. Besides, you didn't catch me, and no, I'm fine. Went to the doctor the other day, just to be sure. As for anything odd growing on my body, what difference does it make to you? You're not going to be seeing it." There's that peremptory little lift to her chin again, though she's fighting back a grin.

     That takes him aback, his tips up his chin and then he chuckles. Aye, well...you have me there. Davydd raises his hands, "Just a question to your general welfare, little miss," he teases, and green eyes sparkle in a wink. "Glad you survived... I'd have been right pissed if you had killed yourself..."
     You scoot the large folio magazine over to him and he heads to the centerfold -- easy to find, no rooting necessary. And you see him jerk back a little in the shock. "He looks different. Jesu...how is it that the man can walk around like that," he mutters to himself. Not understanding it at all. What it must be like to be his best friend for a day. In fact, he's sure he wouldn't want to. "Huh... interesting. Looks good though. Looks like Ian finally cleaned him up," he teases, knowing Ian didn't have anything to do with it. William does as William does. And moves as he moves.
     "Mind if I keep it? I'd like to read it... looks interesting. You're good," he says, eyes lifting off the page. And he smiles. And part of that smile is for William, too. He hasn't seen him photographed since World War II. What a mug.
     "If only I were talented," he mock bemoans. "I, too, could find myself on the pages of a magazine. Well, this should sell a few copies. I'll get the word out..."

     "Be my guest. And don't be ridiculous. If you want me to put you in an article, I'm sure I can." Fiona starts casting a glance around Black Jack Davy's, critically. "I wouldn't want though to ruin the ambiance here, but if they wanted the publicity, it could do. But only if they want." A sensitive magazine editor. Who'd have thought such a thing could exist...
     And then she glances up, with a curious gleam to her eyes. "Davydd," Fiona declares, "You do sell yourself short, you know." And she reaches up, as if to grab a handful of those short strands of copper, to tug lightly. "Seriously. I'd tell you how far, but that'd be incriminating myself, and I don't have to."
     She settles back in her seat. "Glad you like it. By all means, spread the word - more copies that get sold, the more chance of me keeping my job." Not that I have to do it for the money, but ... it's a direction, and I haven't had one of those in a long while, now. "You know how it goes - last hired, first fired, so. You'll have to come see my new place sometime, it's ever so posh."

     Well, it's there to grab and he makes no move to stop you. He chuckles and shrugs. "Maybe I do. Only to be a shite. I know where my talents lie, and on those... I am not as humble. And not to take anything away from Gwilym, he's a true talent. I'm just not of that cloth."
     You've noticed it, too. Davydd raises his hand for another beer. "Sandrine's pointed it out too... maybe I shouldn't be so damned humble. I just... don't like talking about myself. Not like that. Sounds insincere. William has that down to an artform. The ego on that man. It's size proportional."
     To his wallet...ha... what were YOU thinking?
     "I'd like to see your new place," he says, eyes drifting back to the magazine. No, he doesn't like talking about himself. He's genuine like that. Humble. Or worse yet, maybe he's a touch shy about such things. Except for the fact that shy ain't manly. He can talk about nearly anything BUT himself. "Maybe tomorrow evening," never during the day. You've never seen him during the day. "...early evening," he corrects.

     A moment's consideration, while she tries to think what's on the agenda for then. "Should be all right," she agrees cautiously, "can't swear to it. You should call first, I can give you my cell number," Fiona's not sure still, if she's coming or going, "but don't expect too much in the line of furniture, such as, oh, say, places to sit. The place is ten times bigger than my old place, and, well..."
     She pulls a card out of her bag, sliding it over - it's got her name, title, numbers - the works, all paid for by the magazine. "And that's William. You're not William, you're you, and you're better for it. Sometime, I'll try to get you drunk enough to talk about yourself," she teases. "Still off the record..."
     She climbs to her feet, bringing her back up to her shoulder. "You've got an audience waiting on you, though, and I've got to pay and get home and into my cold and lonely bed. Tomorrow's another day, and it's getting late faster than we realize. Take care of yourself, mm?"

     He takes the card and he taps it. And he grins, green eyes shining. "Alright, I'll call you... and... if you can get me drunk enough to talk about myself, I'll crown you Queen..." Davydd is standing in the next minute, rising full lordly as only he can do, hands on the table he leans in and he whispers.
     "Confidence looks good on you. You wear it well," he says. And maybe he needs to remind himself that he's more than a foil to his friends. Maybe he just needs some focus of his own. He has none. What is he? He's an immortal with no need to work. But that's a double-edged sword. With nothing to apply himself toward, no immortal or mortal station, he just floats, unable to speak the truth, moving from thing to thing. It's been more than fifty years since there's been a real war. What's an old veteran to do?
     With a wink he lifts and straightens and with a shout of Welsh stirs up the crowd. They've gotten a lot of drinkin' in since last he took the stage. The party just started...
     And the word he shouted?
     Freedom...
     Of course...

Posted by rowan at June 10, 2003 02:09 PM