Mmm. Rabbit pie. That's more or less the expression on Fiona's face, at any rate - a slightly sleepy, slightly sated expression brought on by overindulgence and a full stomach.
She'd twisted her hair back and into a knot in the somewhat waving waterfall, to keep it away from her face while she eats, and she eats with the delicate restraint of the famished trying not to be visibly gluttonous. That said, by the end of the meal, she's a particular need for her napkin, wiping at her mouth and her fingers...
And after dinner, it's back to the music room, with Fiona walking not unlike the two corgis - at a waddle, only not quite so fast. She sinks into one of the cushions with a low groan.
"I feel," she says, "as if they'll have to cut my jeans off of me to get me out of them..."
You'd think with all that man can pack away -- sweet Jesus, what a 'healthy appetite' -- that he'd be enormous in a totally different way from what he already is. He must run a thousand miles when he wakes up, right? It's good that Glamour has a greater maw than he. As much as he feeds himself, the energy about him feeds from it.
Still, when a man's full, a man's full. He plops down, not on the sofa beside you -- the last thing a full-bellied woman needs isis a man sitting on top of her -- but on the piano bench nearby. He looks over to you -- and, yes, he's sparkly. The hair a touch redder, the skin a touch brighter, he a good sight more lovely, and the air ringing with magic.
Now that was some rabbit pie...
Fingers slide along the keys, plucking out various musical strains. A coda here, a refrain there, some chorus to some other song there as thoughts on a full stomach (and soul) begin to meander.
Davydd smiles as he tilts his head, a glance to you again and he chuckles as he watches you plop down. "Rhonda's a bit of a magician in the kitchen," that explains it. Cook with inspiration, and food becomes Glamourous. "She sings while she's going at it," he says, head bowed and eyes looking at his fingers on the keys. "It's her gift. Everyone in the household has one." He pauses as a song begins to take shape. "I want you to meet my family... when they come down this spring for the opening of the gardens..."
And then his voice, that earthy, Celtic sound smoothens like water over a slow rhythm that is oddly a dash of tango and a little bit of hidden Ravel:
"My phone's on vibrate for you,
Electroclash is karaoke too,
I try to dance Britney Spears,
I guess I'm getting on in years..."
Fiery brows waggle again in another glance and then he toys around again, that song left behind, a fragment among many that he must move through on a given night before he settles on something to sing.
"Mmph'm." Fiona closes her eyes, letting her head tilt back along the back of the sofa, letting her limbs sprawl out. She tends to vary between eating far too much and not eating, with occasional bouts of snacking on pub fare and the like.
She rolls over partially, so one thigh is on its side, leaning on the sofa and taking up far more than her share of it, hands lifting to begin absently undoing the knot of her hair. The movement's arrested as the blue gaze finds you, with her still leaning forward just a bit...
Abruptly, Fiona leans back against the sofa again, head tilting slightly to one side. "It's a little frightening to think you've got a family, old man," she says lightly, finishing untying her hair and letting it fall down about her shoulders, past them - she's got to lean forward to shove it back and out of the way again. "How many of them are there, anyway?"
Then you start singing, and she blinks, startled, then snorts with laughter, sputtering. "Old man... you're more modern than some young women, you know. Your notions are too advanced for me."
He grins, "Just because I was born in 1155, doesn't mean I'm stuck there, ducky," he rumbles teasingly, cutting you a side look and capping it off with a wink. He doesn't seem to mind the Old Man epithet. Hey, if the shoe fits. Or the boot. Or...whatever. The keys trill beneath his fingers, the piano singing sweetly like a flock of singing birds. The rest of the song, though unsung -- perhaps recognizable as Rufus Wainwright, a personal favorite of his, he must admit -- plays out. It matches his meditative, full-stomached, drifting sort of mood.
He does look better with a bit of length to his hair. Or maybe it's the color, vibrant as it is, a touch of wave to it, meandering as much as his hands do on the piano keys. It's very Mod that. He is. A reflection of Now, not History.
"I have an enormous family," Davydd grins. "I have ... god," he has to stop and count, "...well, there's the Llywelyns of Gwynedd, the Herberts and the Morgans. I'm not personally responsible for all the red heads in Wales," green eyes glint as they look to you, "... but am responsible for a... few of them. I have, right now, three living sons and two living daughters. You've met Kelly Morgan, one of the Black Jack Davies of the 17th Century. We had to run in pairs then... what with the Civil Wars and all...my daughter Gwendolyn, a harpist, and clairvoyant. You'll like her. She's a darling woman. My Dand-y-Llew," dandelion. "And they have had descendants of their own... some of the families stay here throughout the year, actually. They take care of things for me... since I don't really exist." He laughs a little. "But anyway..." an exhale, "...they're a goodly bunch. You already like Kelly... and he likes you..."
Davydd pauses his music for a moment, half spinning to take a look at you, a long look. "And now you know something about me that only my children know. None of their children know it. Nor any of my great-great-whatevers..."
"Kelly's your son?" It's not a dismayed tone, just ... a bit of a shock, as it were. After all, they look closer in age to brothers...
Fiona sits up, shaking off some of the food-induced lethargy as she brings her hands together under her chin. "And he's ... oh, hell. Is there anyone in your immediate family who isn't old enough to be my great-grandparent, Davydd? No, wait, don't answer that..."
A pause. "Well, I suppose it's good I'm out of my teens, at least. They're less likely to think I'm waiting on your will."
Four heartbeats' pause as she regards you, listens to you, looks at you. "I'm hardly likely to tell anyone, Davydd," she says softly. "For one thing, damn few'd believe me, and for another ... why would I?" She squirms slightly, restlessly, then stands up again, pacing over to the piano.
"Had lessons when I was a kid," she mutters, "though once I got hold of a guitar, I preferred it and stopped. Still..."
She reaches over, past your shoulder, resting one hand lightly on the keys without depressing them. "You're going too slow."
"He was born in 1556," Davydd murmurs. "He's the oldest of them all. The youngest of my direct descendants, that I'm personally responsible for," he holds a chuckle in his throat, "... is one-hundred-and-about-twenty or so. I think. Kelly's more like a brother now, than a son, truth be told. And... I'm not worried about you telling anyone." There's a pointed look, and then a smile. "I trust you to keep my secrets, or I wouldn't have said them."
He scoots over, hands lifting off the keys a moment, and then he smiles as you correct him. "Am I putting you to sleep? I can do Gershwin if you want to dance. God, I loved the Big Band era. Sweet Jesu, what music..."
Going too slow...
Oh, wait... you meant something else...?
"Am I going too slow, Fiona. I was aiming for just enough to keep you from throwing something at me." He chuckles a little, grinning in a slant. Eyebrows lifting, he leans in: "Maybe I overshot it." The music ends and hands are off the keys. A little bit of a turn, the man doesn't need to do much he's huge, and you have a face full of Welshman. Golden-faced, red-haired, Oak King Welshman.
And you thought he was disarming when he was just sitting around gabbing. What about now, looking at you like that?
The hand on your waist, moving you like you weighed nothing, plucking you up like a hand plucking a flower, with so little effort needed, really. Face full of Welshman, you still have, though in closer proximity -- sharing a bench and sharing a lap. You feel his arms go around you and then...
Music again...
His hands playing a faster, jazzier tune, a little bit of the Rhapsody in Blue...
How's that? comes the Welsh nearby. Better?
"It's all history, isn't it? Water under the bridge, things past. Though I do like Kelly, he's nice. A bit overprotective, but quite nice." And perhaps he had reason to be so protective, mm? Who knows better the nature of the Welsh than a Welshman - the nature of Black Jack Davy than another one...
Fiona starts to answer with, "I like some swing, but I don't like dancing that sort of stuff by myself. That and ballroom - only ghosts really dance that sort of thing alone. I..."
You lean in, you turn, and she's caught unprepared for the nearness, the size, all she can do is trail off and start to redden, blushing furiously under the weight of your gaze. She doesn't protest, not even for form's sake, the breath's gone out of her; if anything, the look on her face is almost of kittenish surprise.
Now how did I get up here, mewed plaintively from the top of the tallest bookcase in the room...
"...Davydd," Fiona murmurs, closing her eyes as if against a sudden vertigo. "...Tell me something, before I go and embarrass myself, would you? - I quite like Chopin and Handel, though I know they're flashy, almost vulgar, if speaking of the older stuff." Older, but still younger than you.
Her hands come together between her knees, position almost prim, posture quite straight, but the blush, it gives her away. The colour's high in her face, tinting even the edges of her ears and he back of her neck, disappearing down into the neckline of the linen shirt.
It's hard to know if she should feel safe or threatened, like this ...
"You... embarrass yourself?" he softly teases. As if that'd happen. Ha! Riot. Davydd slides a grin and murmurs: Sorry, had to. Fully expecting you to defend yourself -- you're more than capable as he knows. "Oh... I like Chopin and Handel. I have a thing for Mozart, too. But there's something that Duke Ellington says to me that maybe I hear more clearly. And Gerswhin. And Debussy." Sweeping, tripping, melodic things, those. Full of energy, full of sweetness, and full of the blues.
Makes sense, actually...
"So," he murmurs, "...what do you want to know? You should ask me anything you want to ask. You do, and I will answer. I'm not some Oracle, dispensing advice." He smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. He may be thirty-seven going on eight-hundred-and-fifty-nine, but he doesn't look a day over thirty-two.
Green eyes look to the blushing, but he doesn't stare at you. Smiling, he cranes his neck to look past you and to the piano keys. "Who would have thought it," he murmurs. "You throwing a punch at me and two years later, we're playing the piano in my castle and having dinner together..." And you're perched on my lap like a proper kitten. "Cath-fach," he grins, murmuring that to himself. Kitten, you have been called.
"I don't want advice," Fiona mutters, looking down at the backs of her hands where they're gathered between her knees. "I'm usually not one to follow advice - I just ... do my own thing and deal with the consequences, like it or not." Even when the consequences have involved exploding glass, or cranky cherubim... or cranky faerie men...
She turns her head, finally, glancing up from a skewed angle. "You should let your hair grow out." A compliment? Of sorts - and as close as she's come yet to saying a blessed thing. She's had about enough of this shyness, though, her irritation aimed inwards, at herself as she shifts with sudden restlessness, all too conscious of where she is.
Fiona murmurs, "Well, I didn't throw the punch at you right away. But the punch wasn't just because of what I'd said at the time, you know. I ... want to know, Davydd, why me?" There. It's begun.
She turns her head, meeting your green eyes with her own blue ones, biting down on her lower lip for a moment as if to get the blood flowing to provoke the question in fullness.
"I mean... it's not just the - faerie stuff, is it? It's ..." Hard for her to say. She's once again uncomfortable in her own skin, shifting and turning to face forward again with a whip of her neck that sends her cornsilk hair rippling all down her back. "Sorry, I'm being stupid, I know. I just..."
"No... it's not just the magic, though we wouldn't have met otherwise, so I give it its due." Davydd pauses for a moment, the music stopping and he tips his head back to look at you where you're perched. "I like the fight in you, the humor, the mouthiness," he grins at that. "You make me laugh. Sometimes, aye... it's at you and not with you," he laughs at that, tilting his head to the side to look at the piano keys a moment in thought. "Truth be told," he murmurs, "... if I had bumped into you on the street with your fuschia hair and your attitude, without the magic I would have probably tried for you a bit earlier. With the magic, well... I wasn't as flippant. Which is a good thing, since you don't like men who are just after your attitude," or britches, or what-have-you. "I like my wine peppery, my weather blustery, and my women feisty. I like to be challenged," he rolls a great shoulder.
So there you have it...
"But when we met, I was with a woman I didn't want to cheat on, so let's just say I battled my instincts and tried to ...reach you in other ways. Those didn't work well," Davydd rumbles after. "With Rose... well... Rose met me at a low point for me. Maybe it was a low point for her, too," he smirks. "Whatever... it was a disaster from the word 'go'. Sandrine ... just wasn't a good fit for this life. She never grasped it, or me really. We tried, it didn't work, that's alright. No hard feelings. She's a dear woman and I'll never speak ill of her..."
"As for Kelly," he picks up that thread, smirking, "...he's a good man, and he's sensitive about the virtue of women. His mother...we were never involved romantically, I'll go into that another time. Anyway," Davydd abridges that story for now. "Thanks... about the hair..." I think. He chuckles, he shrugs. "I like it a bit longer, myself. Want to see what I looked like when I was Black Jack?" He grins, eyes sparkling.
She listens in silence, gaze downwards again, ears practically growing to points (not for the first time, that) as she gives you your time to answer her question. And she relaxes, just slightly, as you speak, losing some of that stiffness in her spine.
"I was drawn to your strength. You were the first to ... see anything more to me than what I looked," Fiona answers, voice low, in the back of her throat. "Scared me. Pissed me off, too, that you could get past my defenses so easily and so well, and so damned quickly. That was part of why I tried to break your nose that time, as much as anything else."
"Rose tried to sell me on the notion that you're a playboy, sort of - not exactly. She wasn't vitriolic," Rose saves that for your face, "but did leave me wondering what she wanted. Seems to like me, and I get on with her well enough - but it still, it was strange, in a way. I don't think she'd have offered to help me get in at the Beeb," Fiona adds with a sudden sly smile rolled up at you, "if she knew I was going to end up in Wales because of it..."
Let alone in your lap...
"I like Sandrine," comes a moment later. "We don't speak the same language much except because of both being women, I think. But I do like her - and that made - having feelings for you - harder. I know I don't exactly have -your- experience," one elbow comes back, not terribly hard, "but I know a little about hurting, and I didn't like the thought of anyone getting hurt - including me in that."
One eyebrow cocks upwards as she turns in your lap, one hand coming up to under your chin in sudden boldness. "The virtue of women? Do I -have- any virtue? But Kelly's a sweet fellow. I wonder if he's going to be mad at me, now. And - sure, I suppose. You have a painting?"
Ah, there's the curiosity glinting in her eyes, though she tries to affect a casual tone. Oh, sure ... show her ... it's fine. She's easy on it. And there's some lovely icebergs for sale along the coast of Honolulu...
Oh, the turning on the lap...
Davydd's cheeks redden a touch, not out of embarrassment mind you, and his eyes lift at the touch. Dark green, deep oak forest, little flecks of flowers seen in the brush. Look into them, you can see a world, Fiona. A world of mossy stones and greenest paths, grey stones, and periwinkle flowers, violets and primroses, too. You could travel there. His kingdom is reflected in his eyes...
"You have virtue," Davydd whispers. "In your honesty, in your insistence on being You, whomever you are at The Moment. That's virtue. It has nothing to do with virginity, Fiona. It has to do with your heart. And that country," your heart, "...is miles wide and pure. And I want to be the first man who walks through it and has it all to himself. I'm... greedy...and I will admit to wanting to be that man..."
Your hand upon his chin, you turned about in his lap, you soon find his arms around you, hands having left the keys of the piano to lay themselves lightly down upon you. It's a sheltering thing, that hold. Arms of oak, strong, lord.
"I'm not saying this as a spiteful ex-lover or because I'm filled with loathing and hate, but you'll do well not to trust Rose further than you can toss her. I'm not going to put thoughts or motives into her head, but she's a woman for whom... nothing is without thought and planning. Course, I only heard about it third-hand," from Kelly, no doubt. "She's not to be trusted, cath-fach," kitten again, "... never that. Use her if you can manage to use her and not be used, but I wouldn't take it farther than that if I were you."
Davydd doesn't say anything about her motives in fact -- he doesn't, because he doesn't know them. And it would appear that he's not going to lie or make something up just to keep you away from her or her away from you. That'll be up to you.
"I plan on having nothing whatever to do with her, I hope to never see her again." And that's all he seems to have to say on the matter. "Sandrine," he frowns a touch, but it's a more thoughtful look than anything. "She's very dear, she doesn't have a false bone in her body. She and I are just... so different that we could never really reconcile it. I spent the entire two years telling her she was bound to leave me until she did. We were never comfortable and, sadly, never as happy as we were when we took that car ride in my Jag from London to here as a first date. Well, second date," he recalls. "I'm glad you like her. I wish... that you and Sandrine could be friendly, for your sakes, not mine. But I doubt that'd be comfortable for anyone. She's very alone, Fiona. We both are."
And she still is...
Heaviness dissolves when Davydd broadly smiles, warm and wide, his eyes full of sunlight upon green forests, like the very breaking of day through the oldest stretch of groves in all Cymru. "I don't need a painting..."
He changes before your eyes. One second, a modern man with wavyish hair. The next a long, ringlet-haired, bearded highwayman, wearing all black, cloaks and three-pointed hat, gauntlets and all. "Stand and deliver," he grins, "...your money or your life..." And he laughs, long-haired. The longer it gets the more lovely it gets. What is it with men anyway? Waves become ringlets of copper and bronze that lie over broad shoulders in fiery waves. The beard's trimmed, looks nice. Ah right, he was bearded a little when you first met, a van Dyke he was wearing then, well a modern goatee. "Lord," Davydd croons, "I was dashing. That's how I got the castle in the end. All my winnin's and stealin'..." He winks.
Her gaze is caught in yours - mesmerized, in a way, a way which makes her lean very slightly forward, face upturned, until she blinks and goes on looking for a moment longer. She listens to you, but from a distance - not detachment, this, but distraction...
She starts to speak, to answer your whisper, but instead of speech, she leans in further to brush your shoulder with her cheek, eyes closing. Perhaps it's a feline sort of thing, or just a woman's thing, but it's a temptation she'll give into, for the moment. A small step. A baby step. But a step...
"I don't trust her," Fiona agrees, voice subdued by internal pressure. "I'm sure she'll want something, but I didn't sign anything - nothing's been done which I can't walk away from, and I ... find I want less of that life than I once thought I did."
She's never had much use for the subtlety of boardroom politics. Able to wield them, but not a weapon she likes, nor a battleground of her choosing.
Her hand comes down from your chin, and she sits up straight again, tilting her head to one side as she regards you. "I don't think it'd be a good idea to call her, no," Fiona agrees, a bit sadly. "I mean - what would I say? 'Sorry it didn't work out, but hey, your loss is my gain'? Even when I was doing the punk scene, Davydd, that wasn't my style. I wouldn't do it now..."
Steel may be tempered, but that would, in her own eyes, be far from true steel. You speak again, though, and she lets out a small yelp, and it's only your arms that keep her from falling right off your lap.
"You stole the castle, right? Tucked it in your back pocket and walked off with it. Mm..." She's suddenly awkward again, not quite bristling, but not sure what to say, how to react to this anachronism, this magic. Fiona looks to the hat, then to your face. "Now I feel out of place, somehow. You fit here, Davydd. I don't know that I do."
"It's just a house," he says, his appearance changing again. Perhaps he's a bit saddened by that statement. He shrugs a little. "It's not mine, I didn't steal it actually. The Morgans and Llywelyns gained it by marriage with the Herberts, who almost lost it until the Earl of Clive married into the Herberts. It's passed down in endowments now, with grants, thank god, from the government for its upkeep. Part of the benefit to living in a 'national treasure'. But... to us, it's just a house. I live here because...well... what am I going to do for money?" he laughs. "I have no marketable skills, apart from warfare, maybe safe-cracking," he notes in an aside. It's a helpless look -- he can't help the situation. "I live off the well-meaning labor and prosperity of those families. I'm good old -- and as you're wont to point out, very old -- uncle Davydd. A bit elaborate, maybe, but... it works well enough. At least as far as mortal necessities go. It's all a bit of make believe."
Though his image is back to where it was, there are still kingdoms in his eyes, there are still echoes of history. There always will be. "I'm nearing on nine centuries in this world or another. I'm not sure there's a fit for that. But," he glances around, "...it's homey, for a castle. It houses three families, the Christmas gatherings are enormous, and in the spring they bring their children and the house is full of laughter. Just like any country estate. And I know you're familiar with those..." A pointed look to you again, and he grins.
"Anyway," he murmurs, "... the earth is my castle, and the forests around it. A fertile, bountiful world," you can see it cupped in his eyes, even as he speaks of it. "There's a castle there too, this one is only an echo of it." And ... not too terribly far away there's another castle that sits empty now. That one is yours.
"But," Davydd exhales, "...enough about castles and the past. I don't like to live in the Past, despite living in a big house. I am of the Present, of the Now and of the Moment. And the moment begs the question: you asked me about what I was after... now I'm going to ask you whether you want it now that you've heard it." A pause, a glance around the room, just one in an enormous estate, "... and seen it. My proposition... that we... well... we join hands and walk the path of the world together. Since we seem to be going the same way." He grins. "Well, okay, so I've been walking around in circles, but still..."
"I mean the setting, not the house." Fiona reaches up lightly to tug on your hair. "You make me very aware of my own lack of history. Old man..." She grins lopsidedly, then, shaking her head. "I... just feel my youth, just as you probably feel your age sometimes, dealing with me."
As if to back up her words, she leans against you for a moment, closing her eyes. "I'm familiar with country estates," she agrees, almost ominously. "And fair's fair, Davydd. If I meet your family, you -are- going to meet mine. If nothing else, it'll give them something new to cluck over, as if eggs are to be laid at any given moment." She leans out to look at you, caught again by your gaze, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair absently. And then you make your proposition...
Fiona is still for a moment, hand still caught in the moongold hair, eyes still blue, though widening for a moment. Slowly, she draws her hand away, then lifts it very carefully to rest her palm against your shoulder. She still hasn't said a word.
And here is the real crux of the matter, isn't it? Up until now ... either could walk away, without much more to it than that. Little touches and pretty words aside ...
"Before I answer you, there's something I've got to tell you," Fiona murmurs the words, voice gone quiet again, subdued by that internal debate she always undergoes. The glacier and the flame ... She leaves her hand touching your cheek as she speaks, looking at your mouth, then your eyes. "It's - important that I say it, and get it out of the way. I've been putting it off for a rather long time, and I'm not sure I'm brave enough to say it properly if I don't do it now."
Her other hand descends from her lap, reaching across to lay two fingertips along your wrist, as if feeling for a pulse, though without pressure applied. She's almost tempted to brush it away - never mind, it's nothing, I'm being silly again, anyway, what were you saying and do you think there's a sliver of that pie left?
But she doesn't take the route of cowardice - rather, she leans up, using tiptoes as a lever to meet your gaze on a level. Her voice is still quiet in the large room when she finally continues. "It's odd, really," Fiona whispers. "I don't think I ever pictured this happening, but it has, and ... I've got to admit to you what I've known and not wanted to know for a long time. I love you, Davydd. I - don't know you very well, in an awful lot of ways, but I'm in love with you... and I'd like to be with you... as long as you're sure you want me. Really me, I mean, and - not as a substitute for someone else. I'm afraid of being hurt... of giving you that much power. But you've already got it, because ... it's you."
Abruptly, her hands fly back down to her lap and she sinks back down, face reddening, chin ducked. She's said it, but now, having made herself vulnerable, she feels the need to turn into a hedgehog...
"And here I was... thinking you were going to tell me that I was too old for you," he murmurs, one hand in your hair -- amazingly, it doesn't get tangled... or not so amazingly, for he knows the ways to do it -- and his other lands upon your hands, upon your leg. Davydd smiles and his mouth lands on your skin, a brush against your forehead and he murmurs there: "Dw i'n ti caru," he says there.
And even if you did not know Welsh, or could recognize the particular Gwynedd slant on it, his strengthening grasp would echo it. I love you.
It wasn't said in reflex, like some men say 'I love you' -- blurting it out like a knee kicking from a doctor's rubber hammer -- but with the soft purpose of Meaning.
"Until I helped you that night, I wouldn't have seen it either. But since then, when have I been able to really avoid it?" Davydd notes. It's quite serious. He tilts his head to try to capture your gaze a moment, then his hand pats with an 'it's alright' rub. "I would love to meet your family. We should do it soon... before spring... then... maybe for Passover, they would like to come here. We could do a kosher Passover and Easter combination. We're easy going Catholic-pagans," he laughs a little there. "Well, part of the family is Catholic, part of the family is Protestant, three or four of us are outright, tree-hugging druids, and one sliver of us has married into a Jewish family. We're equal opportunity believers." And he remembered. "And... I'll be sure to wear dark, long-sleeved shirts," he notes for the record, remembering that too. No tattoos. "So... make the appointment, and I'll come with my titles -- Earls of Clive and Snowdon," he grins, "...and we'll have a nice dinner..."
"Dw i'n ti caru," Davydd repeats at your ear. "And... you're no man's margarine," he softly teases, fingers grasping your side in a tickle. No substitute, get it?
There's almost a gasp from her, a low, sharp exhale. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding herself tensed until there was no need for that tension. "Not too old for me," Fiona mutters, stubborn to the last. "Your age is part of why I was attracted to you. You're not of this age or this world, Davydd... and I - I like that about you."
After all her wandering through London streets, across the Continent and whatnot...
"It's just - even when I wanted to break your nose, all the distance I wanted, it drove me crazy, because of wanting you. I just didn't have a name to put to it until - all this." She looks up, the hedgehog spines still slightly in evidence, given lie by the soft, almost broken cadence of her voice. She leans in for a moment, brushing her cheek against your shoulder again.
"Daddy's not Jewish, you know. He's Anglican. Mother's Jewish but not observant - my grandparents on my mother's side, they're observant. Reform." Ah, practical matters. "Though I think - well, either you and my grandmother'll get along famously or you won't, and I can't predict which it'll be. Grandma's a bit of a riot in her own way." She smiles, almost sweetly, then sighs, arms lifting to your shoulders.
"I don't care about titles and identities right now, Davydd," Fiona murmurs as you repeat yourself, with a squirm of protest given for the tickle. "As long as it's you. I've been spending all of tonight wondering if it was me for you as much as you for me, you know. But you knew how I felt all along, didn't you?" So much faith she has in a mere male.
If he knew, he's not going to give it away now. He'll make you pull it out of him, somehow. But you can probably guess with the upraising of the eyebrows, the slight widening of the eyes, the cut of that smile. It's not completely smug... at least...
The next thing you know, you're being lifted, he's standing and while you're not quite tossed over his shoulder... it is oddly reminiscent. "It doesn't matter. Religion. Titles. Any of it. They'll love me, you know. I have a thing with old people," Davydd rumbles, the sound of his voice reverberating against you.
"You know, I was going to put you in another room," he begins, "... but since you brought the sword with you, there's no sense in wasting a king-sized bed. Just mind not to roll over. Swords bite." A pause. "And I get a bit toothy myself from time to time..."
There's a bit of a bounce as he takes you out of the ballroom and back to the gallery. A half-step of dance maybe...
Or was that him... being a smartass...
And clicking his heels...
She hasn't got time to fully sink into a boneless state when suddenly you're on your feet and her with you, with another startled yelp from her. "Davydd! Put me down! I can walk, you know, I've been doing it since I was quite young!" She squirms against your shoulder, hair shivering and swaying as you move.
Her blush again makes itself known, at the mention of the room, the sword, the bed... "You're a bastard of the first water, Llewellyn," she sighs, almost sounding resigned as you start from the room with her. "You're just lucky you're so irresistible to the young and old alike."
My, the next letter or call to William will be an interesting one, won't it ...
And then she leans in, brushing her lips against your ear, and then -
She nips your earlobe, not too hard, but there's a sharp little sting, soothed a moment later by her lips.
"I bite too, as it happens..."
Posted by rowan at March 06, 2004 10:00 PM
