Morning... well, all right, afternoon... Late afternoon, at that, is when Fiona finally wakes up from the grip of uncursed slumber. The previous day had been a long work day, after all, before she even got to Powis...
     For a long moment after awakening, she remained bent over the still form occupying much of the bed, examining face and form thoroughly. For all her nonchalance about the curse, it's another thing still to regard what seems almost a corpse in the bed beside her, and she can't entirely resist trailing her fingers through red hair, down along blue skin.
     Stiffness has by now thoroughly set in, and it's met with attendant small sounds and motions of discomfort as she crawled out of the bed and wandered staggeringly to find a hot shower or bath. It's strange, using someone else's bath for the first time; there's the requisite investigation of where one keeps the soap and shampoo and what sorts get used, the obligatory peek into the cabinets and beneath the sink for anything unusual tucked away, checking on the size and quality of the towels - hastily left until after the bath, that, by sheer absentness of thought. That was followed by clutching a towel around herself as she went in search of ... what else? Clean clothes.
     He'd said he'd bring her bags up to his room...
     He rather had gotten sidetracked in that...
     Well, when in doubt, women make do, and sometimes, with a vengeance. Going through Davydd's closet, she pulls out the largest shirt she can find, pulling it on along with a pair of his socks, then rummages around for a pair of boxers. If she hadn't hips, she'd be out of luck even so, no doubt, and as it is she's added a curtain-tie around her waist as a belt. It's in this decidedly unfashionable ensemble, damp hair pulled back into a simple knot, that she then wandered forth in search of her bags, or someone who could point her at them, or - of course - tea. Tea with something more sustaining than just tea, and the mention of that 'morning after' special in the hopes of undoing some of the lingering, not entirely unpleasant soreness...
     She spends minutes peering into every mirror she passes, examining her features with an intent scrutiny, as if to see what you see when you look at her, to see how she's been changed, altered by her coronation by way of loss of virginity. Sexual coronations - it'll never catch on in England ...
     Tea at least is easily found, and she drinks thirstily, following it with welshcakes and jam - a taste for something sweet. Bits of welshcake are snuck down to below the table for Bwci and Rhyddid to snap up and to lick stray jam from her fingers, the cook given a warm (albeit slightly sheepish) thanks.
     She's spent an amount of time wandering about the house as well, like some very oddly clad ghost, lurking in places to try to avoid running into anyone else - for all that she brazens through with Marti, it's got the colour high in her cheeks, and a bit embarrassing. She goes through the house looking out windows at the gardens, looking at mirrors at herself, peering at book titles and listening to the soft shuffle of her socks upon the floors. And in due course, she returns to your bedchamber - after several wrong turns - to wait for the last dying of the light in the west, seating herself on the edge of the bed with her back against a post, a volume of Tennyson open in her lap...

     ... Davydd...
          Davydd....
     ... There's a wind that rushes along a faeried ground, soft grass and warmth all around him. The grass is sweet with summer fullness, water held and converted to sugar, sugar converting sunlight to Life. Is that not the very definition of his existence? Sugar cane...
     Blossoms are grabbed by the handfuls, the wind tossing them down, down to the man still a-sleeping on a bed of faerie-king ground. Pinks and whites, purples and yellows land in his hair and on his cheeks...
      ... and in a bed in a castle in Powys, cheeks twitch and bronzed lashes blink. He fell asleep as he last landed, curled around you at one point... you must have moved in your sleep. His face is half on the pillows, he mostly buried in blankets. It's the most peace he ever gets, when he's sleeping. It's the most peaceful that he ever looks...
     There's the sound of a deep breath taken...
     ... In a field of high, sweet grass and wild summer flowers, a red-ringleted man opens his eyes, clothed in reds and scarlets and armor of faerie bronze -- colors of sunrise and sunset in the realm of the Oak King. And turning over in the grass...
     ... becomes the turning over in a large bed, the bed making its early evening complaints -- not quite as... musical as last night, but loud enough -- as Davydd pitches over onto his back, eyes open. He stretches, raises his hand to his eyes, rubs and then turns his head to look at you. "Looks like I missed a hell of a tea party, Alice," he murmurs, voice earthy and a little scratchy.
     Green eyes are more than they appear, which stands to reason, the summer meadows full of grass and flowers evident there as he stares at you, the look that's as good as a meal. He crooks his finger to you: come here...
     Oh, are you going to fall for that one?
     His other hand comes up, rubbing his other eye into wakefulness. "How are you feeling, alright? Did you have some tea? Breakfast? Duw, I'm hungry," he suddenly notes, sounding awfully like a couple of corgis you know. Well, that is... if you could hear them speak. Again the finger crooks, and now the mouth makes a smile.
     Yes... do come here...

     "Good morning, Davydd," Fiona murmurs, looking up from The Lady of Shalott with a somewhat languid gaze. She lays the book aside, stretching with a half-suppressed groan that turns into a yawn, one foot slipping off the edge of the bed to brace herself as she looks to you, hands falling to her lap. "She didn't fuss at me, but I'm sure she has questions she was too polite to ask of me. I'd rather like my clothes back eventually, though."
     You could hold her clothing for ransom to keep her at Powis, perhaps - but she only said difficult, not impossible. Her smile goes slightly skew as she looks to you, warmth in the blue of her eyes spreading to the pit of her stomach for a moment.
     "You must be hungry, yes, seeing as you only just woke up and ... um, you did get a bit of exercise last night." Fiona blushes a bit despite herself, reaching her hands to behind her head to fiddle with the knot of her hair, untying it so the long tresses can get back to their proper task of drying. She stays where she is, ignoring temptation - and, apparently, ignoring your summons. "I had an awful lot of tea - every time I looked up from the corgis, Marti'd refilled my cup again. I felt as if I was going to wash away. I think she's planning on putting on a bit of a spread in the kitchen for us for supper, though."
     All the better to pepper the air with questions...
     Fiona glances to the window, then rises nonchalantly, sauntering to open the curtains now that the sun has set, and to glance out at the gardens. "So did you sleep well, Davydd?"

     "Shite... I forgot..." he rolls out. Your clothes. "Remind me when I'm vertical," he mentions, "...and get over here already. A man wakes up from the Otherworld, he expects to get a peck on the cheek at least," he teases out, sounding more like him by the minute. Ah, he's sitting up...too late...
     He's coming to get it, himself...
     There was a brief pause, half a moment if that, half a blink, for a glance down to the book. Lady of Shalott. Appropriate. Curses and all...
     By the next blink, he's at your neck. "Marti's rose soap," he murmurs, and then he grins, and then...there's no mistaking it... he growls a sound in his throat and held in his chest that can mean only one thing: You should have sat on the other side of the room.
     Bedclothes fall away to reveal nine worlds of blue. Vivid. "I slept like the dead," he rolls out at your ear, then rolls that, too. "What about you... you look like you've gotten on alright... already into my kit," he quips, his attention drifting downward, from your throat to your man-socked feet.
     Will you ever get used to the dragons staring back at you?
     Strong arms, great arms, circle around you for a morning envelopment. "Good on the tea. You should have a bit more... before dinner. Well," a large hand lands on your hip for a gentle pat and he lets you go. "I guess I should get under water. Want to come with?" Eyebrows cock up and there's a halo over his head. Too bad it was made in Tijuana.

     It isn't exactly bad that he's come over, after all...
     God forbid she should start him off expecting her at his beck and call...
     Next thing you'd know, he'd be expecting breakfast in bed and her home mending his socks by the fire, after all.
     Fiona makes a soft sound, leaning briefly into your chest. She looks rather floppy like that, with your shirt, your boxers, the velvet cord about her waist to hold things into place and together, the socks falling down a bit about her ankles. "Well, I'd hardly go wandering about your house naked, Davydd. Not with the risk of running into other people - or depraved land pirates such as yourself."
     Disconcerting as the dragons are, it earns you a light poke to the ribs as she pushes gently against your chest. "I already bathed, and I suspect," the words are accompanied by a long look up and down, "that if I come with you, food will be a long and lonely time in coming. And those cakes were lovely, but if I'm going to try and keep up with you, I'm going to need something a little more sustaining."
     She isn't entirely able to resist nonetheless; leaning in, she presses her lips to a dragon's scales, just above one unblinking eye, then looks up to your face. "Go on," she murmurs, "go get yourself cleaned up. And get my clothes when you've done - we should cover a bit of ground, mm? I've got a few questions..."

     "Duw, alright," he makes a big deal about it, but he's clearly joking. "Ask Marti if she could put a kettle on." Pause. "Coffee that is. I need something a bit stronger. For some reason," Davydd rolls, "I'm a bit knackered...I wonder who's to blame for that set of circumstances..." With a wave of glorious colors -- blue and green -- the covers are thrown off and Davydd, in all his glory as well, stands, runs a hand through disheveled hair and creaks and stretches his way to the bath.
     The dreams must have been good at any rate...
     "You can start in on me if you want," the great Cymric voice belts out from the bath as the water's on. Sudden steam. And sudden Welsh curses: fuck, hot... fuck, yes... fuck, me. "I know how you like to get the first and last word," and he laughs. The next sound Davydd makes is a loud groan -- he's a noisy man, isn't he? -- as he is doused in the heated, very, waters of his own shower.

     "You've only yourself to blame," Fiona retorts lazily, leaning up against the bedpost as she watches you through half-lowered lashes. It's a novelty, still...
     Watching, and remembering, with that awareness...
     "After all," she points out as you head to and into the bath, "I hadn't -planned- on spending the night, had I?" She picks up the phone to call down to the kitchen - in a house this size, one of the first things she did was ask if she could - running down to the kitchen in this getup all the time isn't something she's keen on, for some reason.
     It only takes a minute, after all, and then she's heading towards the bath, smothering a laugh at the curses, calling through the doorway tartly, "You like fucking, do you, Davydd? I think if Marti didn't know you so well she'd have been alarmed." The door's pushed slightly to, and she leans up against the sink, folding her arms over her chest to talk through the shower to you.
     "So ... um." Now, suddenly she's a bit at a loss again, standing there amidst the gathering steam, shirt crinkling to her skin. Where does she go from here? "I suppose we should start thinking about what happens next."

     "I do," he exclaims in the mist and the purposeful rain of the shower. It's all honeyed in here, honey soap, hand made. All the soaps and oils are, as you might have guessed, they're all unlabeled. The rest is soft, soft towels from the best cotton the castle can get its hands on. "And I do bring these things on myself, that is true," Davydd cackles behind the glass -- that seems to really tickle his fancy.
     "So," he peeks out, hair full of suds and green eyes bright, skin all blushed from the heat, "... what's it? Ah," he heads back into the shower, rinsing. Lord, how the man does rinse to excess. "... what happens next. Well," his voice rolls over the water, reverberating against the glass, "...what do you want to happen next, Fiona? You've a job, you've got to tend to that. Life doesn't stop... me, I'd as soon have you here, I'm not going to lie. But you know me... I like travelin'. I'm a rover by nature. So, if you want to be in London... I guess we'll make do with that..."
     Seems rather easy-going...
     "Or," the handsome Brythonic face appears again, surrounded by mist and a whole lot less soapy, "... are we talking about something else and I'm just standing here, a wet Welsh git, talking a lot of shite?"

     Absently, she runs her hands through her hair - damp as it was, now it's starting to darken slightly again in the steamy air, heavy as it is with heat. "You look," Fiona remarks, "almost as wet as that day you flew in my window. Do you remember what I said back then?"
     Whether or not you do, she continues nonetheless, smiling a little at the sight of you peeping round the edge of the door. "I've been thinking about it - and about a lot of other things, really - while you were still sleeping." Dangerous, that, isn't it? Fiona, thinking. Alert the media - wait, she is the media. "I do like my job - that is, I like feeling like I'm achieving something. I like to travel, yes - I suppose I'm like you in that regard. But..."
     Aye, there's the rub...
     The dainty hands pluck and fidget with the hem of the now soggy shirt. "London doesn't interest me that much, honestly. I feel ... well, we don't need to go into how I feel. I'm thinking it might be time for a change of careers though, again. Or something. I need to do, and achieve, and accomplish - but I'm not sure what."
     With that said, she hops up to the edge of the sink, letting her legs dangle, palms on her opposite shoulders. "You are a wet Welsh git," Fiona retorts, "and of course you're talking a lot of shite. But I'm not doing doubletalk at the moment."

     "I remember flying into your apartment. I think I said something about...using a door when pigs fly or sommat." There's a pause as he's trying to recall. "Then you went on about animals or something. Religion. I don't remember actually," his voice making an audible smirk, "I'll stop making it up as I go along..."
     The water's shut off after a moment. Not the longest shower on record, but certainly not the shortest. That he can vouch for. Water sprays as he gives himself a shake and then opens the door, stepping on the mat and reaching for a towel. Mind you, he dries his face first. Hair is dark red as wet as it is and after the towel is dragged through it, it stands up and off-kilter. Punks try to do that look on purpose.
     "You don't need my permission to do as you like," Davydd notes quietly. "I'm no man to tell his woman she shouldn't work or...do whatever makes her happy, Fiona." So, waves the hand, out with it, girl. And at this rate the drying's going to last longer than the actual shower.

     "You said I'd be all right, and that you needed a girl singer to go with the new band." Among other things. She doesn't need to quote verbatim - just the bits that're necessary, sitting there, watching you as you dry yourself.
     She takes the opportunity to draw her gaze up along you while you've got your face buried in the towel - not her first examination of you, but it's different, when you're vibrant; not in the grip of your accursed sleep, and yet not clad in anything but skin and a sheen of water, she can look at you without you looking at her, without getting sidetracked off to the bed or (too much) thoughts of it.
     It's almost guiltily that she jerks her gaze back to your face as you shift the towel to dry other parts...
     "I didn't figure you wanted a shy and cringing violet," Fiona agrees, voice softening for a moment. Then she shrugs, sliding from the sink to stand up properly. "I don't know, really. Go back to writing of some sort, maybe - at least that way I've got the opportunity to travel and I can write from anywhere, not stuck in an office or production room. I do like the work, but it's ... confining in some ways, and ... I'm getting tired of being on someone else's schedule all the time. But I want to be with you - I haven't gotten sick of you just yet, you know." There's a half-smile with an edge of impudence attached to the words at the end. "And, since you seem to like the idea of having me around, at least some of the time..."

     "Why, Mrs. Robinson," Davydd rolls out, leaning in toward you and grinning, "...are you trying to seduce me?" Leaning back, he finally begins drying the lower half, then wraps the towel around his waist, eyebrows lifting at your hinted proposition. "We're a good team, we've good matching voices," he notes. "I'm not yet sick of the sight of you, either," he teases, smiling cockways, "...I'm sure Charlie'd be up for it... I'd have to check in with Gracie," Gifford Grace, you remember him, the bassist. "It's been a bit of a rag-tag, do-it-when-we-have-time sort of thing, but... there's nothing to keep us from ...well, touring, I guess."
     Davydd grins, "I like violets, but I prefer a good rose, something with a bit of thorn. Or a snapdragon, something with a bit of a bite," he murmurs, arms going round you again. The shirt's done for. It's all moisty again, and his skin is heated, still a touch damp. He lifts you up again -- he apparently really likes doing that -- and he deposits you on the sink.
     Hand brushing your face lightly, he looks dead into your eyes, meeting your look squarely. "We'll have to have a strict 'No Groupies' policy," he murmurs, pulling you in for a kiss. Nights can start and end like this, you could well imagine. Arms go around you again, drawing you in close even as you're perched on the edge of the sink. Davydd looks down to your form, the wet shirt, then back to your face. "You're all wet again. You should have just come in with me..."

     "You don't need seducing, Davydd," Fiona scoffs, though the edges of her mouth do tug up and tuck inwards, a smile she's not really able - or willing - to banish. "Who knows, though - we could do an album. Scandalize the neighbours."
     The neighbours are probably plenty damn scandalized after the flowery explosions...
     The murmur provokes a small sound in the back of her throat, cut off by your arms around her. Her own arms go up to around your neck, and she leans up against you willingly enough, cheek turning to press to your skin, damp and wet and all, fingernails rasping along the back of your neck. "Umph." You lift her, and she blinks, again with that How did I get up here? expression to her face.
     Blue eyes meet green eyes, with only a slight blink, and she murmurs, "Absolutely. If anyone's going to throw knickers at your head, it had damn well better be me-" Further smartass remarks are cut off by the press of your mouth down on her own.
     She doesn't try to fight the kiss or the embrace, eyes drifting closed as she drinks in the contact, taking the moment in. It's still a very new thing, this... Not just the contact, but the idea of being 'with' someone - let alone you...
     "No, it's quite alright, Davydd," Fiona murmurs, shifting back just a little within your grasp. "Because you're going to go get dressed and bring my bags back, so I've got to get changed anyway. Marti's making the coffee, remember? And there's still other stuff I want to discuss." There's the hint of challenge in her expression, now, the mulish gleam. Oh, you could probably get her back into that bed, it says - but she'll fight...

     The mouth opened to retort -- you're not going to boss me around, little Missy. I'm the...
     boss...
          ...of...
      ...me...
     But Davydd doesn't quite make it. Fine, the expression relents and he smirks. But in that smirk there is a promise. You've put him off for now -- but he'll be back. And if his stomach weren't growling, he would be...
     "We'll have to discuss what sort of music you'd like to do... I'd just as soon not be the next power folk couple," he wrinkles his nose, casts a green-eyed wink to you and heads off to get dressed. "I should probably have some mercy on you," he rolls out for the record. "I'm a bad man... I do bad things," he quips lightly, with volume as he heads into his closets.
     His immaculate closets...
     Where his clothes are neatly arranged by season and then by color...

     Well, it goes both ways, doesn't it? For her, it was tea and not opening the drapes...
     For you, it's fetching her clothing and no sex until after food...
     Who's getting the raw end, really, of the deal?
     "Well, we could go for a sort of post-punk duet, but I think Sinead O'Connor has that covered, and I don't think I'd look so good bald. Though I suppose I could chop my hair short and dye it again - if it didn't grow back to normal overnight every time," Fiona remarks, following you out of the bath and settling again on the edge of the bed. "Mercy? Are you implying that I'm weak?"
     Oh, it's hard to keep a straight face, hard to keep the belligerent tone, right now. Hard to be so Drancy when she's under the surface so largely contented at the moment. The words that follow sink in, though, and colour rushes into her cheeks.
     "Yes, I know you are. You did a few of them last night. I'd say you've had lots of practice..." Eight hundred and some years of practice, in fact.
     She had time to marvel over the sheer quantity and arrangement of clothing earlier, and she wraps both arms around a bedpost, leaning up to it as she calls out, "By the way, I hope you don't mind my having borrowed from your wardrobe, because I'll probably do it again, too. Are you sure you're not gay, Davydd? I've never met a straight man before with a closet like that."
     There's a pause, and then she adds dryly, "And what do I call you, anyway?"

     "Hmmm... I'm not sure I can pull off punk... unless you're talking more of the Strokes and Hives and less of the ..." fingers snap, "...Ramones or Clash. I'd look a bit ridiculous, I think. Probably best to create some sort of fusion..." he murmurs, standing in a towel and looking at the selection. Forest waver in the flicker of a glance, he looks momentarily offended then streaks out a smile. "So I have a thing for color and like to be orderly," he quips. "I'm straight as a river," he laughs.. "Ah, me... well, I do have the best closets south of Scotland, to be sure." He can't compete with William and Ian. But he might edge out Meurelle in sheer panache and volume. Meurelle, but not Montague...
     "And I'd never imply that you're weak, darlin," Davydd croons, dressing in the closet -- which is big enough to be a dressing room too. "And you can borrow whatever you like. It doesn't bother me. Just leave me with one suit and I'll manage." He peeps out, red hair still all over and jaunty. If it were a shade shorter, it'd be one of those perfect neo-modern mussed do's as is. "I liked you in the shirt and tie. That's how you should greet me every morning," he quips, "... if you bother dressing at all, that is," that more quietly murmured -- as if he's going to get away with it.
     He emerges in a pair of charcoal grey wool trousers and a white shirt, yet undone.
     "What do you call me?" He blinks at you a moment, then peers. "Davy's good, Davy-bach, Big Blue," he cackles at that. "... or... you know... make up something. What do you mean call me. Like a title? This is my shag, Davydd?"

     "Well, we could go for a Robert Palmer effect - musically speaking, at least. You've got the wardrobe, but I draw the line at that 'Addicted To Love' sort of look," Fiona quips, grinning wide and pressing her cheek to the wood, gaze warming as you stand there. "And don't worry - I'll let you prove to me later that you're not gay."
     Promises, promises.
     She waits for you to come out of the closet again - ha - and shakes her head in amusement. "I might arrange for some morning surprises for you," she agrees, tone far too sedate for that to automatically be a good thing. "But not your boxers, love, not the boxers. I was afraid they'd fall down when I was halfway down a flight of stairs and I'd end up with my neck broken in a horribly embarrassing position. I'd haunt you out of sheer humiliation."
     Fiona's smile grows lopsided as you step out, as she regards you for just a moment with a light to her eyes, then shakes her head, scowling. "Davydd. I'm not calling you 'Big Blue' - you wish. What's next, you want me calling you 'O Captain, My Captain' or daddy or something?"
     She stands again, stretching, as if reaching for the top of the canopy, a lift to tiptoe and a sinuous arch of her back that has vertebrae popping. "Oh, I'm so stiff and sore," she murmurs. "All your fault, you bloody blue bastard. And yes, rather. I'm not introducing you to people as my shag."

     He plops down on the bed, flush to you as he does so -- you're probably lucky he's as dexterous as he is or he might have been on your lap -- and quiet laughter and the sound of the bed are punctuation marks for his humor. His face bright, beautiful in its own way. "Don't call me daddy," Davydd rumbles, pulling on socks, "I have children. It would be weird."
     He looks at you, smiling fond as you stretch and pop. "Hmm... you alright?" the voice going warm and fond. "I can probably help as much as I hindered," he grins a little. "Twice in one night probably wasn't fair," he notes, "...but I couldn't help m'self. Funny enough, the more frequent ...the better," he grins, "...I mean for the pain. Ah, for introductions. Well..." he looks at you, eyebrows lifting. "...looks like you're stuck with 'my man' or 'lover'. Personally, I prefer 'my man'. Lover sounds a bit... cheesy...or, you could call me cariad," dear, love, a Welsh endearment. "I'm easy on the subject, darlin', as you know. I'll probably introduce you as my old ball-and-chain," he growls as he leans in, grinning. "I'll probably just wing it. It'll depend on the audience, wot?"
     Rising, Davydd heads back to he closet, goosing you as he passes by. Yes, to get his shoes, which are also all arranged in a line, by season and by color.

     "Weird, would it?" Fiona's lips pucker in a moment of mischief - pure evil, really. "So then," she continues casually, pulling herself upright onto the bed and settling crosslegged, "I should probably not do this."
     She widens her eyes, dipping her chin downwards and letting her lower lip stick out just slightly for a moment, then bites down on it, looking up through her eyelashes. "Daddy..." In a breathless little-girl voice, of course, with a melting blue gaze.
     But it all evaporates a moment later; she can't sustain it for laughing, shoulders shaking as she presses her palm to her mouth. No matter your reaction, she's succeeded in tickling her own humour. "Anyway," she resumes, reddening a bit from laughter and embarrassment alike, "I'd hardly expect you to suggest anything different. But yes, I can't call you my boyfriend. Your not young enough to be a boy, and we're not friends, anyway."
      Many things, but not ... something as placid or calm or platonic as friends ...
     She slips off the bed again, letting out a startled breath as you lean in, then a yelp as you goose her, jumping slightly. "Davydd! That wasn't fair. And 'lover' is rather improper, considering. 'Partner' is too business-like; I want into your arms, not your bank account. 'Significant other' implies I've got an insignificant other, and I'm sorry, this isn't Jeeves and Wooster and I am not calling you 'my man'."
     She arches up one eyebrow as she takes in the line of shoes, shaking her head. "Maybe I should just call you Imelda... Anyway, I'm going to have to figure out what to tell my parents - and coworkers - and friends. 'This is the man I've been seeing' somehow doesn't seem ... appropriate."
     Even if I'm seeing an awful lot of you... and it's all blue...

     "Alright... let's compromise..."
     Uh-oh...
     "Call me Big Daddy," and he laughs, going red-faced and freckled puck-like. Not out of embarrassment -- well, maybe a little humility. "Big Daddy I can deal with. Here, I'll leave it in your capable hands and brain. I don't care how you refer to me to your friends. In here," he grins, "... I will give extra points for creativity," fiery brows waggle and dance as he, now shod, starts buttoning his shirt. Leaving the bedroom now seems imminent.
     "I'll bring your things, you stay here and think about it..." A large hand brushes back your hair, damp as it is and darkly golden. "You're adorable, you know," Davydd whispers, fingers to your chin, he lifts it and lightly brushes a kiss. Forests interrupted by sunlight, the dark green of his eyes sparkles in a wink.
     "Do you need to run to the chemist for anything? Need to head to the village at all? I'm going to get my scones and coffee, but... since you're living out of a suitcase or two at the moment... we can get you whatever else you need..." The great brute -- he can be powerfully tender and attentive. As much as he can be brutish and annoying.

     "I'm not calling you Big Daddy." That is automatic and uncompromising, the stubborn look on Fiona's face as she rouses to the statement, nose crinkling up. "Thanks, Davydd, but I'm not a kid, and you're not a pimp."
     As for creativity...
     There's a brief considering look on her face as she regards you, one pale eyebrow arching upwards thoughtfully. The meditative look is turned on you, along with a scan up and then back down.
     "Not adorable," Fiona mutters crossly, reaching up to fist a hand through your hair, the locks sliding mostly through her fingers before she tugs lightly on a lock. "But you're sinful. Go get me my clothes."
     She leans to the kiss, follows it up with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then leans back out, eyes half closing. "I'm thinking I'll want to run home and get more clothes, since I didn't really bring an awful lot on this jaunt. I live pretty simply on the whole, Davydd, you know that... I'm just sort of trying to get used to all this."
     A pause, and then she asks, "What about the other stuff? You know ... the magic."

     He squeezes his eyes shut at the tug, as if that hurt, then smirks. "It's alright," he says, a hand to the small of your back. "Do what you feel you need to, aye? Just if you need anything, I can provide the wheels and the means." Davydd lets you go with a pat and was on his way to heading out... at last...when you mention the M word.
     He looks at you, eyebrows arching skyward. "What do y' mean?" the voice lilts out, inflection light while tone is earthy. "What about it?" Davydd looks to you a moment, his smile starting to slant. Sinful. "Magic... well... we'll have to work on it, don't you think?" With that he starts to continue on...
     This from a man who once said you should keep it to yourself, not rock any boats...

     Wheels and means...
     Fiona arches up her eyebrows as you start out, then shakes her head, slipping to her feet and moving as if to follow.
     "What about it? Well... let's see." Her expression is skeptical, voice mildly sarcastic. "I seem to be magically inclined. You obviously are. You told me once that I was aligned with faerie and you weren't - you just had one or two small tricks you could do."
     Of all things for the bloody woman to remember, right? She continues on, padding after you, the socks slipping off in route.
     "You obviously know a lot, Davydd, and I want to know more. I pestered you about it in the past and got the brushoff until I went to lick my wounds and thought you didn't even like me. Now I'm in your bed and I - I - dammit, Davydd! Get back here!"
     Go fetch, come back. Roll over and play dead is next, perhaps? Fiona almost stamps a foot, then hurries to catch up to you, reaching out a hand towards the back of your trousers, to grab by the waistband.
     "You haven't given me a single straightforward or satisfying answer since you got up," Fiona threatens, "and I'm getting incredibly frustrated and put out. Are you going to do something about it or am I going to have to hit you where it hurts?"

     "Hey - hey - hey," he says as he's grabbed, and he turns about, eyebrows knitting. "You'll wrinkle the material," as if. "Can I have my coffee and scones first? Then we will talk about magic." A pause. "And that shite I said before..." The mouth forms an angelic smile. "I lied," he notes, eyes widening a touch for emphasis. "That's back when I was trying to seem normal and avoid you..."
     "Fat lot of good that did me..."
     Hands pluck yours from his trousers and he lifts them to his mouth, looking at you over the horizon of your hands. "I promise you," he murmurs there, "...that I will tell you the truth, in as straight an answer as I can provide... and that I will help you..."
     "After my coffee..."
     With a kiss, your hands are freed and he's marching off down the hall, the stride of Mars with all the speed of Mercury.

     And Fiona's left standing, glowering off at your retreating back again, arms folding over her chest and repeating herself.
     "Hmph. Men."
     She subsides against the wall, though, gaze softening just a bit as she watches you go, a small smile tugging at her mouth again, the germ of an idea in her head...
     A trick you showed her just last night - no, not that one...
     Now that you're not avoiding me, Davydd, I hope you know, I'm a little on the possessive and jealous side... even if it's your eyes that're green...
     The thought is sent, with the attempt at projection. One only hopes it works - and that her aim is true...

     You rang?
     How is it he can be so droll when his voice is not exactly audible? It is tangible, palpably droll, his humor moving against your blood, skimming along the rivers of your veins and beneath your skin. That intimacy again. It rings differently perhaps now that you know what it is to have him inside...
     I will make certain not to flirt with women while you are around then... I promise... Jesus, you have enough bags. What do you need to go home for?
     You can't quite hear him coming from a distance, not as his other immortal partners have in the past. But soon enough he comes into view, loaded up with your belongings and smirking. "I see someone was paying attention. Impressive, considering where my face was..."
     He's already ducking out of the way of an anticipated blow...

     Oh... it worked...
     It heats her blood, colour rising into her face as if overexposed to the summer sun, and she steps back a pace or two, barefooted.
     If you were chocolate, Davydd, having you around would be hell on my diet... I'd end up as fat as a cow...
     She hadn't meant to 'send' that, and Fiona promptly reddens even further, turning in distraction to pace fully back into the room, then turning round to wait for you. Her thoughts have flavour to them - soft, like yoghurt with just a hint of vanilla essence and a fash of frangipani, then rich and sweet with just a hint of bite - chocolate truffle with a dash of pepper to it. But now they turn tart and crisp - cranberry flavoured thoughts, perhaps...
     I didn't bring that much. But I had to have things to wear on television, and to get to my day job, plus stuff to wear in my off hours. I do like to look nice, you know - for myself, even if you'd prefer it if I just wandered around naked all the time! I can't always be getting my picture painted by William, after all.
     You come into view, and she's as red and ripe as a strawberry, settled up against the window - wise to avoid the bed, really. "You had my complete and undivided attention," she mutters, but not as much as you're going to have in a minute. Put that stuff down and get over here and take your medicine like a man."
     The now grey gaze is fierce, a glower paired with a blush turned fully onto you. "Magic, Davydd. I'll let you eat first, but stop running away from me! Isn't two years enough?"

     "And you had mine," Davydd rolls out, dropping your bags at the threshold of his bedroom, now yours. "And that's going to be the last time, even though it was the first time," eyebrows arch pointedly, "...that William sees you without your kit, young lady. Do I make myself clear?" Talk about green-eyed monsters. "It's a beautiful painting, I grant you," his hands raise, as if to stop protests before they start. "And god knows I'm going to want it up here," he grins, "...but," and he points at you. That's it. No more nakedness in front of William.
     He tips his head back, eyes narrowing, he peering at your blushing. He smiles at it, slow and heated. A challenge already? And he grins. Two years is long enough. Eight-hundred-and-fifty-nine without you were enough.
     It's hard to beat the devil at his own game. He lifts you easily -- you're so light! A feather, for certes -- and carries you to the bed.
     So much for coffee...
     "You have something sweeter than honey... and that's what I want..."

     "I had to wear something while hunting down tea, didn't I? No fair in shocking Marti or myself." Fiona's voice is a trifle arch - she still talks a good game, all in all. Hasn't she always?
     And then you lay down the law, and she blinks, starting to protest out of sheer bloodymindedness. "Well, it's not as if I haven't seen William naked. Several times, in fact." The man can hardly keep his clothes on, can he? "Besides, he isn't interested in women, so what difference does it make if he sees me naked?"
     Oh, how little she knows... how little she remembers... or more likely... how much she'll try to tweak you...
     The smile on your face does little to make her blush subside. I can't claim more than a small fraction of that. But it felt a long time to me...
     And then you lift her again, and she grips your shoulders, fingernails biting against the fabric over the broad-shouldered flesh, a small gasp escaping her. "Brute," Fiona murmurs. "What makes you think I'm willing to just always give you what you want?"
     Not that she's struggling.

     Davydd blinks innocently. "Who said I wanted you to be willing?"

Posted by rowan at March 07, 2004 11:26 AM