"Who's there?" she calls out from the backroom, hearing the door open and the bell chime. Nightshade Florist has closed, wood slats brought down to cover the open walls that normally expose the shop to the world. Even the green shade was lowered on the glass door, secreting her inside.
     "Davydd?" she wonders, coming out with her apron on. Her pile of copperish hair appeared first as Sandrine peered around the door facing to see the main room. "Is that you?" She is a little more skittish after the vandalism of last year, scissors in her hand.
     "Oh," she sighs, "...it is you." Relief. She puts herself into the doorway fully and grins to see you. "You are back early?" she queries, turning wrist over to see her watch. "I am not quite done yet."

     He is grinning, the madcap grin you know so well, the streak across his features like a comet, bright. And his hands are up, gloved, and he chimes his keys. Put the scissors down, killer, it's just your lover boy. "Oes," he half murmurs, half-growls, a wink following as he lowers his hands, "... easy to make an early night of it when you're telling folks to sod off." Davydd laughs, he can laugh about it now, and as he heads in, a quick pause and check to see he locked the door behind him, his dark green eyes take in all the life. "Besides, I wouldn't miss a chance to visit the happiest spot in all England. Take your time, sweet..." And then he's right by you -- hey, the shades are pulled, who cares who sees? -- smiling, bending just a little bit -- he doesn't have to bend much -- to place a kiss on your ear. And he lingers there, closing his eyes as his arms go around you, interrupting your work, smelling your perfume. "And how is England's prize flower? A good night?"
     "Oh, before I forget," he says, "I'm playing tomorrow night at Davy's. I promised Kelly a raincheck and it rained today." He winks at his eyes sparkle in it. In fact, he's rather sparkly tonight. You've seen him thus before. Well, you see him thus all the damn time. Around you, he is always thus. "If you come, I'll serenade you," Davydd says, "...at least there will be one person clapping..." Riot. As if. Davydd chuckles, hands settling at your waist.

     Sandrine laughs, setting the scissors into her apron pocket. "The orchids are fine," being the prized flower, "...and good that you will be public tomorrow. You should sing more. When you sing, you get all that energy out and then you're normal again..." whatever that means. She laughs at the notion, touching her nose to yours and placing a kiss at your lips.
     "Here, let me finish," she wriggles in your hands, "...and then we can go home. Frik is probably hungry by now...I should have brought her to the shop," she muses, wishing she'd thought of it earlier. "And I cut something for you," she murmurs, turning around to lead you into the back of the shop proper.

     It's an incredulous look you're given -- Normal? -- but it's followed by his laughter. Earthy, issuing from the gut -- visceral, as everything is with him. And his eyes echo it, flickering brightly no matter how deep the green, the forests and its shadows. "That's not the flower I was speaking of," he rumbles at your lips, grinning and waggling fiery brows. "You know it," he murmurs there, and then he kisses, gloved hand lifting to your face, to hold you to it.
      But you wiggle, and he lets you, backing up even... to watch you. "Normal, bah," he says, the old Dragon, but then you take him...
     ... How easy it is for you to take me...
      ...and you lead him back to the shop proper. "I'm sure she's alright. Bwci's taken quite the shinin' to the Young Miss," as he calls her. Rhyddid's still making up his mind. Ah, and the way you mother that cat. I wish I could give you my children. You feel his touch at the small of your back, and the arm that starts to circle you round.

     "And tell me what flower were you discussing?" Sandrine asks, shaking her head as you reach for her again. Tonight, she is in blue shirt and blue capri pants. It makes for easy getting around and blue covers up any messes. Her hair is pinned up, as oft is when she is working. She crosses to one of the large tables, currently in a state of organized disaster, and retrives a five petaled, deep pink flower. "Old rose," she murmurs, "...one of the Yorks'..." she whispers, peering at your lapel where it'll be placed. "I know, I know," she adds, "...it's not Welsh. Well, it's not, but as I am working on a party for the Duke of York..." you get to reap a pretty benefit.
     "I am glad she and Bwci get along," hands at your shoulders she loves so well. "In a few months, she'll be able to take Rhyddid," Sandrine teases. "Well, maybe not."

     "Ah well, if I have to tell you..." he drolls, but then his eyes are all on the rose. An Old Rose for an Old Man. And he grins as you catch history yourself, "It's alright," he whispers. "By the time of the Yorks, the Plantagenets were Welsh cousins. Shhh, don't tell anyone. We decided to conquer them from within...ah, oh... the Duke of York?" Then the mischievous smile, "Who is that nowadays? I've lost track. And are we invited?" As if. He laughs before he can even continue. As if I'd go. "I look half proper with it on, oes?" he whispers.
     And, your hands at his shoulders, he leans in. A kiss given to your lips, and then to the side of your neck. Hair pinned up and out of his way, he lingers there a half moment. And more. "Rhyddid's just jealous," he says. "As I would be if I were kicked out of your bed for the pleasure of a new companion..." You feel his mouth at your ear, you feel him smile there, that fond smile he gets. "Well, first I'd be right royally pissed and someone would have to die..." A chuckle and a kiss is placed just below your ear. Davydd straightens, an exhale, the closing of his eyes, and one last kiss at your forehead. "I love you, you know. Even if I'm not invited to the Duke's party..." Said 'pah-tee'.

     "I love you," Sandrine murmurs, closing her eyes to enjoy your lips at her skin. "Ah..." she sighs, falling into you, face turned to the ceiling. "And we are invited," she thinks to add in such distracting moments, "...so...I think we should go. Two nights from...now..." voice trails off as her head tilts lazily askance.
     "I am not done," she dreams softly, "...but I think I am ready to go home." Something in that suggestion.

     You... what?
     You... love... me?
     It's all he can do to not blurt out: Really? Go on! He's still for a minute, and then that smile spreads, creeps upon his expression. His fingers make their presence known and he looks at you, trying not to seem shocked. That's the first time you've said that. And it sets my world ass over tip. I shut up for a bit so I can savor it.
     And I have to fight the urge to pick you up and lay you on your counter and ravish you right here in Nightshade Central...
     "Fancy that," he murmurs, "I have a car outside and was just heading home. It's your lucky night, miss." How that voice rumbles, holds in the throat and lives in the chest and gut. Earthy, particularly when soft and intimate. "And we'll go," he says offhandedly about the party, already dismissing it. We should go. We should be seen...

     She grins, knowing what you must think. But she won't belabor the point. "Interesting," Sandrine smirks, looking at her mess. Normally, she would not think of leaving the workbench this way, but tonight is different. "Good that our schedules coincide...not to mention we have the same...interests." A come-on if there was one.
     Sandrine folds her arms behind her, untying her apron. "I miss Frik...I wonder what she's been doing..."

     Hey, wait... isn't that my line?
     You have to be enjoying this, aye? The look that you've quite shocked him. And pleased him. In fact, pinch him and he might explode. First she tells me she loves me, -then- she throws a come-on line that I'd use. I might cry with pure love and pride, were I not so damned anxious to get horizontal...
     t lives in his eyes, and he parts with a tugging kiss, letting you untie your apron. In the meanwhile, he's taking out his keys, getting them to the ready. "Probably playing in her sandbox again. She's going to force me to learn how to vaccum," he quips. Watching you ... get yourself together. Smile wandering.
     You love me...

     "True," Sandrine mumbles, lifting the apron above her head. "Mm," she grunts, tossing the apron aside. "Lessee," she says, reaching to pick up a pile of stemmed flowers and tossing them into a nearby box. "They can go back to refrigeration until Martha arrives in the morning. She can finish this arrangement." Hand points at a silver door. "Can you put those in there for me, Davydd," she asks. "Be careful of the finished arrangments. The Duke's staff are picking those up in two days...."
     "Davy..." she wonders, moving down to brush a wad of leaves and stems into the trash, "...do you think...we're doing alright?" Together, that is.

     "Oh, aye," he says and he jumps to do it. But he has a tender touch, as you know. A nice surprise for someone who seems so rough on the outside. He takes the flowers to the silver box, and carefully goes about setting them in. A crouch even, well-balanced to do so. Davydd pauses at your question, and seems surprised by it. But not unpleasantly so. Just that it was plucked from the otherwise quiet and mentioned on the edges of other things...
     "I think so," he says quietly. "Better when folks leave me be," he mumbles, turning back to the box and getting everything settled. There, and no damage done. The silver box is closed and he rises, straightening. "I think we're doing as well as... any. Love's not always a smooth road." He pauses and flashes a grin. "So they say. I wouldn't know. This is my first trip, cariad. But..." hands go to his pockets and he exhales as he wanders over to you, "I think we're doing well. You told me you loved me. I shall hang on that for weeks." And then it's your turn and his expression is serious, but not gravely so. Just... interested. "And what about you," Davydd wonders. "Are you happy?"

     She nods, almost shyly, eyes going downcast. "I am. It is..." Sandrine's pale brow furrows, "...just...different. I am...well, every night, there is some new feeling." A change. Emotional states moved through. "I guess, I am learning." To be a friend. To be a companion. A lover. A wife.
     "So," she grins, brushing her hands together once the major portion of the greenery is brushed into the rolling compost box, "...all done. Shall we?" she asks, moving to reach for her coat on a hanger by the door. "Maybe we could go for a very long drive..." she begins, then stops. "Oh, you are driving." Not a chauffeur. "That is alright then. Home is better."

     "Ah well," he murmurs fondly, a fond bit of a rumble that, "...we both are, aye? As long as you're happy, well... then I'm a happy man." The grin is a comet-streak again, the trailing tail of it lighting his eyes. "I could drive if you like," his keys are to the ready in his hands once more, jingling as he holds them aloft. But he'd rather keep his hands free. Or turn them over to you. Even better. "You know, I haven't really told you I don't think... how ... marvelously I think you're doing. Have been doing... with the little... oddities... the way things have been of late. I ...appreciate it, you know." God, just the patience, the lack of nagging. "I know you love me," he protests before you can, grinning, "...and it's all part of it, but I'd be a poor man for a great woman if I didn't recognize it, hmm?" Davydd extends an arm out, "Let's go home..."
     "I have an idea," he says suddenly, "...instead of a long drive tonight, how about a little... picnic in our greenhouse. A little wine, some fruit, pillows, blankets, a little music, warm arms to hold y'..." Forest green goes smoky with the thoughts.

     She gleams faintly at the appreciation. Sandrine nods and slips her arm around yours, moving towards the doorway to the front room. "I like it..." she whispers, hand reaching out to send the back room into darkness, "...but can we do all that...in bed..." smile upon her lips.

     The grin that had streaked across his features, gave fire to his eyes and deepened the color of them with smoldering smoke broadens, lingers, threatening permanence. Davydd leans in toward you as he walks you out, he even does the courtesy of locking the door, his free arm circling you and holding you close. And at your ear, he whispers, "Oes," you're beginning to pick up the Welsh he speaks, and God and Yes are frequent words, easy to learn. But it continues, the soft drag of vowels, the light lilt of consonants, "... all that and more..." And he can't help the laugh, soft though it is. And he can't help the guilty look after it, though it's edged with tenderness.
     The shop locked, Davydd pivots and presses on a key chain. The Jaguar sports coupe, 1965, beeps, front lights switching on. Revamped, reborn in the modern age. Just as he has been.
     And I won't even toss Frikka from the bed. Unless she crawls up my back while we're making love. I draw the line there...

Posted by rowan at May 26, 2003 08:42 PM