"Do you curse where you come from Do you swear in the night Will it mean much to you If I treat you right Do you like what you're doing Would you do it some more Or will you stop once and wonder What you're doing it for Hey slow Jane -- make sense Slow slow Jane cross the fence..."      He opens his mouth near the microphone, his eyes are closed and his fingers move, not needing him to pay attention. Unlike other Friday nights, it's not a roaring fight song, historic or otherwise, up with Welsh or Irish or Scottish freedom. It's several degrees more mellow, his voice lightly accented even with singing. And lovely. Do you feel like a remnant Of something that's past Do you find things are moving Just a little too fast Do you hope to find new ways Of quenching your thirst Do you hope to find new ways Of doing better than your worst Hey slow Jane -- let me prove Slow slow Jane -- we're on the move..."      Davy's is full, but the telly's off, there's no game blaring. The conversation is quiet, and even though the music is more like a backdrop to the evening and to the lives of those congregated here, there are some who have let the conversation drift and pints go dry. There's no band tonight, just him on his guitar. Kelly, the proprietor and sometime musician, is playing the violin. Weird. Has anyone ever told them, one wonders, that they look alike? Like brothers...

     Mary, like the other serving girls, is usually seen flitting from table to table, taking orders, serving pints and removing the empties away. But even now, she stands with her tray lowered before her, held by the mere edge pinched between the fingers of both hands. Her head tilted to one side, she listens, even if her eyes wander the crowd, ever mindful of those patrons who just might want another brew before the song is over.
     Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail off her face. She's dressed as the others in the team of Davy's girls, in the black jeans and black t-shirt with Davy's infamous logo and slogan. Though Mary speaks to no one at this very moment, her nearly ever-present smile still remains as a hint on her lips.

     Is it any wonder that Fiona's drawn into Davy's tonight? Not by work, but rather, by an escape from it - she's still trying, after all, to reconcile her warring selves, and throwing oneself into one's work only works for just so long before one needs a moment's peace. Which ... means she probably should've gone somewhere else. She's slipped into the pub some time ago, paying no attention to anything which wasn't the monitor of her laptop, until the music started.
     And then - well, then it's Davydd singing, and has she ever heard him sing? Probably not, but it's tugged at her senses - hearing and something else, with a hint of memory flavouring it like thyme or basil or something else, something crisper and cooler and more remote and yet regretful or regrettable all at once - and Fiona's turned round in her seat, ignoring the laptop entirely. She's got both forearms leaned on the back of her chair, chin sunk onto her wrists, blue blouse tucked into black trousers tucked into black boots, cornsilk hair almost brushing the floor in her current posture, eyes blue to match her blouse, tonight. Talking? No. There's music.

"Do it for you Sure that you would do the same for me one day So try to be true Even if it's only in your hazy way Can you tell if you're moving With no mirror to see If you're just riding a new man Looks a little like me..."      For some, it's reminiscent. For others, it's nostalgic. For still others, there's a longing that can only truly be expressed in the winter, for what other season so lends itself to longing if not winter? The dark half of the year, when Celts all over the world turn to wistfulness and brooding. If they had the sense of trees, they'd all hibernate.      For one, maybe a rare two, in the audience, there is magic. Real. Tangible. Thick. An energy that comes off of him like charisma from a movie star. Maybe he's as enthralled as anyone. Davydd's eyes remain closed for most of the song, only opening at the last turn of the verse's phrase. "Is it all so confusing Is it hard to believe When the winter is coming Can you sign up and leave Hey slow Jane -- live your lie Slow slow Jane -- fly on by..."      There's a shock of green, and in the middle of the bar, the Oak King is sitting on a throne disguising itself as a barstool. Fingers press the steel strings of a modern guitar on one side of reality, while in the other the strings are made of horsehair and gold. There's no smile as the song begins to wind down to its conclusion. Davydd glances over those around him, but it is as if he doesn't see them -- even as he has, for some, faded to the background. The sound of the violin is the last voice heard.      And then the song is done. There is applause after a moment, and Davydd nods to it, the smile hinting, but even the applause is part of the background noise. He tilts his head, looking to a book at his feet -- set notes? -- then starts another round...

     Shoving her tray beneath her left arm, bracing it with her elbow, Mary joins in on the applause, clapping wildly. That hint of a smile which played at her lips only moments ago explodes, going full nova in the blink of an eye. It lights up her face, adding a spot of warmth in the pub, perhaps. She has always enjoyed Davydd's performances, and this is no exception.
     Then, a moment later, she stops clapping and glances around. A patron signals to her and she's off, flitting between the tables again, taking orders as people spot her and flag her down.

     It's like a fireplace throwing off sparks, in some ways, isn't it? The magic in the song is as real as the song itself, rolling through the room, even if most of the room can't sense it. The break between songs at least gives her the chance to shake herself into minor alertness, lifting her chin from her hands, glancing back to the laptop. The low power warning's flashing; she holds herself aloof from the energy long enough to shut the machine down, then turns round again, focusing her gaze onto Davydd.
     But it's not really Davydd she's looking at, is it? She's looking at someone else's past, which has tangentially broken off in her. It's been a couple of years now, since she was smeared with the blood of a tree with iron as a conduit. There've been changes. And - well.
     The more things change, the more they stay the same.
     With a slight sigh and shake of her head, she lets herself drift into half-dreaming, watching the patterns of the magic in mute awareness and mingled passivity and frustration as she listens to the music. Well, why not? Her own energy, though, is tightly contained - locked down, for the time being, aside from occasional pulses and flares that she's just not trained enough to contain. But she's gotten better! One hand lifts, signaling for one of the pub girls' attention.

     It's a building crescendo of rolling notes, starting slow and folksy and then sliding into a slight blues touch, like the sound of the Mississippi meeting the Severn. Kelly's violin is plucked and then stroked with a Celtic clarion call. Now his eyes are open, looking the audience in the face, and as he sings, there comes the sliding smile...

"Waiting for a girl who's got curlers in her hair
Waiting for a girl she has no money anywhere
We get buses everywhere
Waiting for a factory girl..."
     The energy in the room lifts along with it. It's an instrument as much as anything, inspiration... energy... human hopes and emotion. How right Shakespeare (or was that Marlowe) was when his hero Hamlet asked his friends to play him and upon his emotions like a recorder...
"Waiting for a girl and her knees are much too fat
Waiting for a girl who wears scarves instead of hats
Her zipper's broken down the back
Waiting for a factory girl..."
     And is it your imagination, Fiona, that forest green eyes seem to center on you?
"Waiting for a girl and she gets me into fights
Waiting for a girl we get drunk on Friday night
She's a sight for sore eyes
Waiting for a factory girl..."

     Mary slips between the tables with ease, having done so balancing even the heaviest, most laden trays imaginable for years. Most orders are for pints, but some are for shots, some for wine or fancier drinks. She takes them all without writing a single note down.
     Just before heading out of the sea of tables and customers, she catches one more hand going up. Slipping over to Fiona's table, Mary stops with a bit of a bounce in her step. Leaning down as the music starts again, she lowers her voice a bit out of respect for those performing, and asks, "What can I get you, luv?"

     Way to be reassuring, Mister Llewellyn. Of course, that's neither here nor there, as Davydd himself might say - Fiona straightens up, turning away from Davydd again and towards Mary with a faintly melancholy smile. "Just a pint of cider, please - dry, not sweet. Oh, and a basket of chips, of you've got any on offer? That'd be grand, then." She gives her hair a little shake, pulling it forward over her shoulder, glancing over at Davydd with something between a frown and a smile, as if not sure what to make of him, or of the song.
     So - for lack of a better reaction, or maybe it's Drancy making a brief appearance (and fancy that - isn't that how they fought, with her turning up ready to kill Davydd for the tattoos) - she sticks out her tongue. At Davydd, on stage. But from her chair, where it's safe.

     I see you...
     You stand out like a big magical thumb in a bland, banal world. You and I, here we are, trying to spruce it up, inject a little life in it. Banality is a cancer, afterall. Can't go around having things be all normal now can we? It literally sucks all of the joy out of Life...
     The sound finishes and Kelly bows and grins to the applause and gives Davydd a pat on the shoulder. Yeah, they must be related. It's something about the nose. But it's really noticeable when they're side by side, smiling the same smile. "Diolch, Kelly," he rolls out in Cymraeg.
     He keeps playing though, a familiar song striking up. Anyone who knows anything about American music would recognize Lay, Lady, Lay straight off, but the words are unfamiliar.
     He sings it in Welsh...
     Nice touch...
     The words go:
     Lay, lady, lay... lay across my big brass bed...
     Whatever colors you have in your mind, I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine
     Lay, lady, lay...lay across my big, brass bed...
     Stay, lady, stay with your man a while
     Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile...
     His clothes are dirty, but his hands are clean
     And you're the best thing that he's every seen...

     "Certainly, dear. Those will be a few minutes, but I'll bring your cider out right away," Mary replies to the blonde-haired woman with a bright smile. Nodding, she turns on her heels and slips back out of the crowd of tables and people swiftly, not wanting to block anyone's view of the performance.
     She then ducks behind the bar and into the back for a moment. Seconds later, she re-emerges and begins lining glasses up on the bar to be filled by the golden brews and various other liquids ordered. Her hands move expertly, never hesitating, filling pint after pint, shot after shot, glass after glass without missing a single beat. Yet, despite how busy she is, she pauses to applaud when she can and smiles appreciatively to Davydd and Kelly. She's really enjoying the show.
     With that, however, the tray is loaded up and she's heading back out to the floor yet again.

     One thing about Davydd...
     He's always been able to get her to blush...
     It's never mattered which aspect of her personality she's allowing out, unreconciled as they still are. She's not MPD - just, it's hard to rebel when you're a part of so many worlds at once.
     Right now, though, Davydd has achieved some sort of union. Apparently, considering her past 'jobs', this is a song she's heard before - and her face has gone suddenly brilliantly red as she jerks her face away with a murmur of unintelligible response to the notion of the song. She glances up as Mary returns, cheeks returning passing-slow to normal. "Oh, that looks lovely. You must be run off your feet by the time the night's over, though."
     A pause. What was it that they were drinking, that night? The night which ended in the Gory, after nearly taking Davydd's head off with her teeth for the tattoos, and - all the rest ...
     "Stoli vanil, by the by, for the musician. Tell him..." Fiona considers for a moment. "A libation in offering to times gone by."
     And she glances back to the stage, with Fiona's habitual attempt at distance, and Drancy's sheer impudence as she settles a tenner on the table's edge with another quick smile for Mary.

     Davydd ends the song with a simple chord, a simple smile and a twist to put the guitar in its stand beside him. "That'll be fifteen for now... back for more after a smoke and a pint," he says it into the mic, then motions for the mic to be killed for the now. He spends the next couple of minutes setting the guitar down and retracting himself from standing with one foot upon either side of Reality to standing firm in this one.
     It'll take him a few minutes to get over to Drancy, but there's a look at last for her tongue -- the expression is returned with a wink. Though the singing's done for the now, there is still something of... music the hovers around him. Maybe it's the stage lighting, makes him seem golden. Maybe it's charisma, makes him the focus of attention as he comes over, white, thin wool jumper over black woolen slacks. It's a look, for certes.
     "Well, well," he says, smiling as he comes over to your table. There are a few women, Fiona, who are absolutely staring daggers at you just now. "... this is a surprise. And a good one," a hand starts to reach out to pat your arm a little, but then he seems to realize something and stops himself, smiling. No need to shock ourselves out of our skins. "Mind if I have a sit?"

     Mary's just getting back to Fiona's table as she is spoken to. Smiling, she sets the cider, dry, down on the table and takes the cash, stuffing it into a pocket. "Oh, this place keeps me in shape, that it does. Do you need change, luv?" It will cover both drinks with a bit left over. Looking over her shoulder towards Davydd, then back at the woman before her, she smiles and nods. "Sure, I can pass that along," she replies with a grin.
     Perhaps she's used to passing along messages to the musicians and performers in here. Or perhaps just to Davydd. Either way, she pauses to hear Fiona's response about the change for the bill, setting down a few more pints on the next table over while taking their cash, too. Glancing back, she murmurs, "Oh, and those chips will just be a few minutes."
     Seeing Davydd approach, she offers a quiet smile, letting the obvious acquaintances, or friends, speak.

     "Keep the change - if I keep up the drinking, there'll be more besides, so don't worry about it." Fiona gives her head a little shake, smiling at Mary and lifting her drink. Just in time, it seems.
     "Davydd. Good to see you." No, really, it is - and she seems relieved by the pause that prevents bare flesh from coming into contact with bare flesh. Let's not and say we did, indeed. She ignores the ocular knives aimed in her direction with the air of one who's used to them, giving her head another little shake. "Go ahead and sit. I..."
     She leans forward, as if about to betray a confidence, but all she does is complete the sentence with, "...just ordered a drink for you, along with a message. Seems silly now, doesn't it? You play as well as ever - but then, you've loads of practice, so hardly a surprise." Whereas she is merely the possessor of Isabel's inheritance. Cornsilk hair. Changing eyes. A singing voice which can bewitch to madness, on the rare occasions she lets fly. And, of course, the blood and power of one of the White Ladies, a faerie queen of old. And all she's really figured out what to do with is the hair...
     She settles back, lifting her cider to her lips for a sip. "Get what you like, of course," Fiona adds in casually, "though I did order you one. I imagine the server'll be round with it and your message in the next trip."

     "Thanks," Mary says to Fiona regarding the note in her pocket. She pauses, looking to Davydd as she asks, "Can I get you anything now, or would you like to order after the drink the lady ordered for you?

     He laughs at the notion of practice, or loads of it, and the beauty in that face, the face that usually is more rugged than beautiful, erupts. It's the Oak King who's tickled by the thought and the compliment -- and maybe the company -- and most assuredly the free drink. For a moment, that golden grandeur colors him on this side of the plane. "Doesn't seem silly to me. I like gifts," Davydd rolls out. "What did you order for me? No," hands come out and he grins, "...don't tell me. I want to be surprised."
     He's not one to ruin a good surprise at any rate...
     "Thank you. Someone requested that I do all fifty known versions of Black Jack Davy, but I need to be a bit more drunk for a'that." He reaches for his cigarette, in the black leather coat that covers the sweater, and looks to Mary with a wide smile. "Just what she ordered for me, darlin', and it's good to see you, too," he drops in there. "You should come up there with me," he says to Fiona, settling back with the lighting of a cigarette. "It's better when it's a duet."

     One of the winning smiles that Mary is known for is flashed to Davydd just before she turns and scoots off again for the bar, setting pints, shots and other glasses on tables as she passes, scooping up the cash, giving change where wanted.
     Then she is behind the bar again, setting up another round of drinks before her. These are set on the tray on the bar as Kelly leans over and says something to her. Laughing brightly, Mary nods and ducks down, hidden from view momentarily. When she re-emerges, she pops the top off of an unmarked bottle and hands it to Kelly. A private stash, by the looks of it. Then she's off to the back again.

     "I'd think that with me, you'd want to qualify that," Fiona retorts dryly, with a small grin nonetheless. "Most of my surprises seem to leave you a bit ... flat, Davydd. But I'm glad you're not doing all fifty and one of your own. I'd feel compelled to stick around and listen until the ghosts left."
     The cider's brought back up to her lips to keep her throat from drying out, then sets itself down, as it were, on a napkin. One pale eyebrow lifts, followed by the other. "A duet." The last time Fiona sang for a deliberate audience at all, it was with Isabel in charge, and the audience was William, in France. "Are you - sure that's a good idea? I mean, if you really want, but you'll have to pick a song I can do."

     Forest green eyes follow Mary for a moment as she leaves and then his attention returns to Fiona as Mary disappears from sight. The smile is permanent, it merely ebbs and tides in the musical nature of his own humor. It crests when she speaks of him going flat. He thinks of saying something -- but he stops himself, billowing smoke instead. "Bah," Davydd rolls out at the edge of that scented smoke cloud, and he chuckles. "... I like to protest, but you're a good egg, Fiona."
     He flicks ash into a waiting tray and looks at you for a minute. "You've been alright? Things going well on telly? I don't want to sing fifty rounds of Black Jack Davy, the Three Gypsies, The Gypsy Rover, Boots of Spanish Leather or the Raggle Taggle Gypsy," it's all the same song, just variations on a theme, "... without a woman there to help me," eyebrows cock up. "It has to be a duet if it's to be done right and well..."
     "But," an exhale and a smile, "... more on that later. It's been since the festival, aye? And even then, I didn't see you for long... so tell me all about it... how's the job? Your life..." he waves his hand: And so on...

     Reappearing from the back, Mary carries a basket of something steaming in her hands. This is added to the tray, along with all of the appropriate accompaniments - salt and pepper, vinegar, a fork, napkins, and so on. Chuckling at something else Kelly says to her, Mary tosses her ponytail over her shoulder, grabs the tray and comes out from behind the bar, wading through the crowd once more.
     It takes a moment to get back to the table, as people mill about, heading up to the bar, running to the toilet in between sets, and rise to greet friends who came in during the performance. "Here we go. Chips for you, luv," she says to Fiona, setting them down along with all the stuff that goes with it. Smiling now to Davydd, she says, "And for you, from the lady, Stoli Vanil," setting the glass in front of him. "Oh, and there was a message, dear," she adds with a hearty chuckle, then clearing her throat. "'A libation in offering to times gone by.' Now... would there be anything else?" This last is offered to both of you, as she glances back and forth, smiling in that ever-present friendly manner of hers.

     "I'm an egg? Ah, yes, of course. Fragile shell, golden interior, and somewhat slimy," Fiona returns, sipping at her pint with a smug expression for a moment before she sobers. "I'm ... alright. A bit flat, myself, to be honest. Telly's not too badly, I'm keeping up with my workload and being creative - still feels a bit, well..." One hand comes up, waggles from side to side. "Like I don't know what I'm missing. Or doing. Or something."
     Well. She's as painfully honest as ever, albeit with some of the rougher edges smoothed down. "There isn't really anything else to my life, right now," Fiona admits, with a shrug. "I'd been ... feeling my way. Tried to get in contact with someone I ... used to know, but didn't hear back. Not too sure where to go from here, so I'm putting in my time and seeing what happens, pretty much - what else does one do? I suppose I could dump another pebble in the pond, but the last time I did, I ended up scaring myself."
     Accidentally summoning angels will do that to one...
     Glancing up, Mary gets a wide smile. "Oh, lovely, it smells fabulous. All greasy and disgustingly full of cholesterol and other things I'm not supposed to enjoy. I'm going to have a ball with them - assuming Davydd doesn't pig the lot." The message causes a brief return of the flash of smugness as she glances sidelong to Davydd. "If you want anything," Fiona tells him, "go ahead and order. On me. And you can tell me what you've been up to, and how the dogs are, and Sandrine, and what song you've got in mind - since knowing you, you likely have something up your sleeve already."

     Stoli Vanil. Stop. You're going to make me all misty-eyed. Davydd's grinning that comet grin as he gets the drink and the message. "Why, Mrs. Robinson, I think you're trying to seduce me," and he chuckles in smoke. "Diolch," he says with a lift of the Stoli. "Skol and good health, to old friends then..." With a tilt of his head, Davydd looks to Mary. "A black-and-tan to follow this up, thanks love. Hmmm... and since she won't let me prig her," a wink to Fiona, "...I'll take a basket likewise. I'm a bit peckish, and well... there are two corgis starving in Wales, to be sure."
     "The dogs're fine," Davydd rumbles on to Fiona, dropping into familiar conversation, like old friends tend to do. "I've been up to not much, bit of gardening at the manor, coming to London about once a month or so to play here and check the receipts. I got a castle to support." As if this pays for it. He chuckles at the very notion. "Sandrine's alright. She's happy as long as she's got her pusses nearby, a quiet house and knitting needles. She made this one," he notes, gesturing to the sweater. "She keeps me clothed." He pauses, the streak of a grin following that. "I'm not sure how to take that. You'd think she'd want a specimen like me in the buff. But then," a cackling laugh, "...it's cold in Cymru... so maybe it's better this way." Shrinkage being what it is.
     "Sounds like you're getting on," he says quietly, leaning in. Another swallow of the Stoli and then he sets it down. He gives Mary a smile from his seat -- and Heather -- and gives a wave to Kelly. "Even if slowly. Sometimes it's like that. I tend to crest a might low this time of year m'self."
     Is he staring at you? You know... like that? Nah, couldn't be. "So, I don't know ..." an exhale, "... maybe you can help me with Gypsy Rover. It needs more than one voice. I could get Kelly up there to help out. It's basically the same bit as Black Jack Davy, it just repeats itself. Same story. Woman runs off with a man, leaving her husband or father's castle -- tossing out her life of finery for a life in the wild woods," he grins, "... with some no-account."

     Grinning at Fiona, Mary replies with, "Yep, they are the best, grease-loaded and cholesterol-filled chips around. 'They' always say not to eat such things... but I figure if we weren't supposed to eat them, why do they taste so good?" There's a wink with that.
     Looking back to Davydd, the waitress nods, "Sure, those chips shouldn't be but a moment. There's still some left from that batch that are still piping hot, luv. And a black-and-tan. Be right back." With that, she's off yet again, stopping to grab a couple more orders as she's flagged down.

     "Besides, I could use a little more curve to my curves," Fiona quips, "though my mother'd kill me if she knew I'd said so." Mary gets a rejoindering grin, and the added order of, "Top me up, too, on my cider. If this lout has his way, he'll be dragging me up on stage with him, and I'd best be half-tipsy if I'm not going to notice people looking at me." She slides another couple of notes down, then reaches for the salt and vinegar, dousing her chips lightly.
     Davydd gets a direct stare for a moment, then she pays attention to where the salt and vinegar go instead. "Seduce you? Not a chance," she shoots back. "What, and give Sandrine the opportunity to use those knitting needles on me? I like the lady too much to give her the opportunity to dislike -me-." Fiona's grinning slightly as she says so, though, and she adds, "You're entirely too aware of your own handsomeness, you know. That's why she keeps you clothed - keeps you in your place. Plus which," she hesitates a moment, lips twitching, then leans in to confide, "it keeps you from looking down on the unemployed, Davydd."
     She's pleased with her own joke, even though mercurially, her expression shifts, sobering as his words penetrate. "Getting on? In years? Not quite yet - that's ... going to take a while. In life? I suppose. Settling, at least - learning not to scare the fish when I dip my toes in the water. It takes time. Looks like I've got time, anyway." She glances down, reddening slightly, and dips a chip into a small puddle of vinegar before bringing it to her mouth. She's not good at interpreting looks unless they're the most blatant of sorts, anymore - wrong too many times, thought things, and ... well, no never mind to that!
     "Gypsy Rover? Well, yeah, that's the pattern," Fiona agrees, shrugging and nodding absently. "Sure. I suppose I could do - as a favour to you, of course," she adds with a small smile, eyes glinting as she glances up. "A favour to the past, you might say. Besides, it's only right - you've got a castle, and you've met a few no-accounts. Like me."

     Mary must have caught what Fiona asked for before slipping away because when she returns, the tray is loaded up with Davydd's fries and all the accompaniments, as well as his black-and-tan, and a new pint of cider for Fiona. These are set down appropriately as Mary says, "There you go. Chips for Davydd, and more drinks for all. I'm needed in the kitchen in a bit, but any of the other girls will be more than happy to help you two out while I'm gone."
     The cash is taken from the table and change is offered again. It's a courtesy, of course, and none of the girls would assume to know when a tip might happen or when more drinks might want to be ordered on a tab of sorts.

     He laughs -- riot! And he sits back, very like as if you were wielding those very same knitting needles. "Bah, handsome," and then he sneers a little, then his ears get all pinkish and his freckles pop out to say 'Hi!' with the momentary ruddiness. Caught in it, he won't offer up any more useless protesting but goes on to finish the Stoli and take another drag from the fag.
     "Keeps me humble, is what you're saying, aye?" His lips twist. Okay. "God bless her, and God bless you, too. With all these women keepin me in check, I'm sure to get into heaven on the first vote," he chortles as he sits back then stamps out the first, but not the last, cigarette. His eyes keep out for the chips, meanwhile.
     "Nevermind this crowd, up on stage with me, I promise you... you won't even see them, my girl. You and me, two no-accounts, castles or no. You in your penthouse and me in Powys, two fucking peas in a pod, we are."
     "You're a dear woman, Mary. You know I love you true," he croons it. She's heard the refrain before. Several of them have, come to mention it.

     "Why would you want to be in Heaven when down here's so much more eventful? I don't know, Davydd - it reminds me of something I read somewhere, about Heaven and Hell." Fiona's lips quirk up puckishly as she regards the big Welshman. "A man with black hair, and dark complexion - well, it's hard to imagine him going to Heaven - his blackness must not be very agreeable to the utter whiteness of that place. Whereas you are - purgatory coloured. But it's on the way to grace." She lifts her cider in a salute, then takes a deep swallow of cider.
     The mug comes down, and Fiona makes some more of the chips disappear. "Mmf. I was hungrier than I thought. As for humility, it depends what backdrop you're against - as we all are. Some are better suited to us than others, but god! I'm tired of learning experiences, right now." Another small quirk of a smile, though less puckish, this time, a hint of the melancholy returning before it fades to her usual stubborn grace. "So it's to be The Gypsy Rover, then, for whatever ears there are to hear, yes? Glad I stuck to cider, then, and not to something harder. And I suppose it's good it's not the song I was singing last night," for an audience of lonely strays outside her window, and herself, let loose on the breeze. And she laughs suddenly, head coming up and back in a flash of thin white gold at her throat, hair tossed back. "Ghost was on television. So..."
     "You've got a point," Fiona adds, "penthouse and Unchained Melody alike ... we both seem too much alike. Maybe that's why we can't stand each other." It's said with a grin, and Fiona finishes off her cider, banging the mug down again. "Alright. Finish your chips and your black and tan, and I'm game. Just tell me where you want me and any innovations you're wanting."

     Mary smirks as she hears the familiar crooning from Davydd. "Uh huh... sure, luv. So you keep telling me. Funny it's always when I bring food and drink..." she teases him, tapping him gently on the end of the nose with an outstretched finger. There's a wink with that, too.
     "Anyway, you two enjoy... make sure we can hear you in the kitchen, will you?" she adds with a warm smile.

     This time of year, thoughts of heaven are usually far, far away. We all have our darker moments, our moments when we aren't as faithful as we should be, we don't stand in the light of day, in summer months when loyalty is easy, but in winter, foggy winter, when other energies are more readily available, and other thoughts tend to .... go as those thoughts go. Mary's in those thoughts. Strangely, so are you.
     Davydd takes a moment to consider those thoughts of his, to run them through his brain and then to let them go as he's dousing the chips in vinegar, piling on the salt and then, for extra ick factor, doing something damned fairy-like and adding a dash of sugar.
     Yes, sugar...
     Forest eyes flicker up to you and with a little guilty smile -- he wears guilt well just at the moment -- he eats while you go on and on as you are wont to do. He laughs, earthy sound that, if soft, "You know... life's not all about learning. Sometimes you just have to say fuck all and have a little fun, I agree," he chimes in, giving the fish and chips a wash-down with the black-and-tan. "You know you love me," he rumbles into his glass.
     "Duw," he continues, lowering the glass, "Unchained Melody." A pause. "Hmm...you know... maybe we should do that, just to close the place down, then I'll walk you home..."

     "Oh, fun's fun, but I'm not very good at having fun, hadn't you noticed?" It's a quip, light on the tongue, and while she notes the sugar and grimaces slightly, she doesn't seem ready to run for the hills while shrieking. "Feeling the need for a real rush, are you? I used to know a bloke who'd do that - chips with ketchup, salt and sugar. Eat them all in one go, then run hell for leather all over campus for the adrenaline rush. Said there was nothing like that. Of course, this is also the same bloke who ran across a handrail during a hurricane. Three stories up over a highway. Mad as a hatter, but energetic about it."
     Picking up the second pint, Fiona salutes Davydd with a self-mocking smile. "Anyway, I've given up on being quite that active, though I must say you've a hell of a digestive tract." Her own eyes are knowing as she witnesses the guilt. She's got a touch of the Irish, surely, because going on is something she's so good at, isn't she? Never knows when to shut up. "All women love you, except when they hate you, Davydd. You're all heart and appetite. Hard not to be polarized by that. I'd add in a dissertation, but I think it's something you either know or you don't - and if you don't, you'll never understand until it grabs you."
     She tips her head back again, swallowing thirstily, both hands on the bevelled surfaces of the mug, eyes closed as she drinks - with an appetite. Cider, even dry, is sweet enough for her. When the mug comes down again, Fiona licks her lips. "Unchained Melody? Well ... at least it's in my mind more than The Gypsy Rover. I only end up listening to that stuff when I'm around you, or Huw - Hwyll didn't do music around me, so no idea, though I think he'd be a Stones fan, somehow. And Dei was ... something else." Less said about that - the better. She grins, lopsidedly again. "Sure, sounds like a plan. Soft enough to chase people out and into the night..."

     Again, with the laughter...
     "It's the only time I listen to it, too. Otherwise, its jazz, blues and rock-and-roll for me. But, it's what keeps the bums in seats here, so... I fill a request once in a while. Unchained Melody in Welsh and English, we'll do it bilingual." That seems settled, so happily he's in at his chips again. "Oes, gut of iron and balls of pure steel, that's me," he rumbles, cocking up a grin at that.
     You don't know when to shut up and he doesn't know that you can stop talking and still have a meaningful evening, so you both get on like a house on fire, feeding the one off the other. Besides this, there's the matter of the Glamour -- you a magician and he a glamour machine. Yes. House on fire.
     "I tend to have that effect on people, women especially. But... it's good that you're paying attention." Heart and appetite. You know me well. Hands wipe upon the cloth napkin and he takes another swallow of the black-and-tan. The rest of the chips and fish will be wrapped up for Bwci and Rhyddid.
     "Actually, a better duo would be White Bird or Something Stupid," he smiles pleasantly. "But how familiar are you with the 60s group 'It's a Beautiful Day'? or Frank Sinatra? You feel up to a challenge? You come up and sing the second set with me. We'll just work our way through a good set, four songs?" How does one become four with him?

     "Only a man would turn one into four," Fiona quips, easing her chair back. "But I do pay attention. It just isn't ... always on the surface." There's a hint of something to her smile, now, fey slyness that shows in the corners of her eyes before it fades to that wistfulness she sometimes shows. She covers it with another long swallow of cider, picking up the napkin to wipe her mouth free of alcohol and grease traces. The napkin comes away clean of pink or red or fuchsia or purple or brown - no lipstick this time, unless it's invisible.
     An odd sort of magician she makes - exaggerated power combined with fuckall control. Though she's gained enough control that at least it's not all blazing out freely, just the occasional pulse, spark, the firing of a magical synapse to signal into the ether and vanish, fading away. "I don't know either of those songs," Fiona answers warily, regarding him with a brief suspicion that she's maybe being insulted where she can't see. She shrugs it off, shaking her head again. "I know some Sinatra, but not 'It's A Beautiful Day' - but you know I can't turn down a challenge." The grin returns, with a hint of her old fire. "Unfair of you to even mention it. Okay. Four songs - but not more than that, Davydd. Unlike some people, -I- have to work for my keep - and it's not singing for my supper."

     There's no insult intended, he's simply hearing voices joining before they do so. It makes him think of other possibilities. "Deal. Four and that's it, I take you home. That's the deal, and it's final. The songs? Two of my choosing, and two of yours. So... my two..." He pauses, eyes going to the ceiling, sitting back and giving his weight to the booth. "Something Stupid... Frank and Nancy Sinatra, that... and...hmmm... The Ruby and the Pearl... Nat King Cole..." He pauses, and the smile is secretive, full of magic. And mischief. "You'll know what to sing, I promise you," he murmurs.
     "So, there you have it. And your choices?" He seems quite enthused and pleased. Or maybe it is just the sugar-high you were mentioning earlier starting to kick in. The cigarettes are packed away -- he won't be needing any more of those tonight.

     There's a minute pause as Fiona leans back in her chair, draping one shoulder against the back and passing her palm over the top of her mug. "Well, since I do like the song, even if it's ridiculously sentimental - I'll stick with Unchained Melody for my one choice. Everly Brothers - not exactly the usual sort of thing, but - well. D'you happen to know Fairytale of New York, or is that pushing it?"
     And, oh, she grins... There's mischief and humour in that grin, corners of her eyes crinkling.
     "Otherwise," Fiona resumes, "if the Pogues aren't your cup of tea, there's always Marlene on the Wall. Suzanne Vega. Nothing too hard."
     She regards Davydd with one eyebrow cocked - half-quizzical, half-challenging, but more good humoured than belligerent. Lifting her mug, she drains the remaining contents. "Whenever you think you're ready," Fiona answers confidently. "I'm as relaxed as I'll be able to be."

     "There's nothing wrong with a little sentimentality, but Fairytale of New York's a nice way not to get too sticky-sweet," he smiles. "I know it. So... sure... you're on. Let me finish the pint and then we'll be for it..." He lifts the glass as he says it.
     And his eyes are on you, dark green amid so much bronze. Moments pass and the liquid is successively swallowed. With a clearing breath, Davydd sets the pint down, flashes you a grin and stands.
     And his hand comes out for you, the edges of a dragon peeking out from the sweatered sleeve. Live a little, isn't that the saying? "All these romantic duets," Davydd drolls out earthy, "... folks are going to start to talk, Fiona-bach..."

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2004 11:43 AM