Fiona...
     The voice sounds so very far away. Another room, another country, another time, a tendril of sound snaking from subconscious to conscious. You're probably just dreaming it. The voice calling softly out, the rocking of a boat beneath you...
     Fiona...
     The bed beneath you sinks with a great weight, and a sudden warmth feels the bed, like someone threw on an electric blanket, and just as suddenly beneath the covers there is the presence of a hand patting your backside.
     Tenderly, mind you...
     "Are you going to sleep all night," comes the murmur at your ear, the chuckle held in the throat. The heavy presence of your Welshman is all around you, and the smells you've come to know, honey soap and cinnabar, and already tonight a cigarette and a bit of alcohol. "I have breakfast..." Davydd murmurs, grinning, tilting his head and looking at you, lifting the portion of the coverlet that you've used to hide your face.
     "A good hearty breakfast, bangers," he nearly cackles, ".... scones, honeycakes, bread, and lots...and lots of tea...coffee... kippers...a bit of smoked salmon..." And then you feel his hand again, another pat. But he's not going to drag you up. Not after what you've been through.
     The bed shifts again as Davydd rises and light from the room pours in as he pulls back the drapes of the canopy bed, the bed of earls once -- now the bed of a king and his queen. He's dressed right smartly, navy blue all over, thin jumper, trousers, black shoes. The sleeves of the jumper's pulled up, revealing the twisting, cavorting dragons at his wrists. Holly and Heather. Life and Death.

     "Mmm..."
     The initial call does little enough to rouse her. She doesn't want to wake up. It was a long ... long ... LONG ... night. She earned her sleep, didn't she? However enjoyably.
     The second call makes her shift slightly, pulling the blanket round her and over her more thoroughly, burrowing down into the moleblack velvety darkness, resistant of foregoing sleep. Even in her sleep, she has to argue...
     The changing of the mattress is a little harder to ignore; the warmth, though not uncomfortable, is enough of a change that she can't just tune it out. The hand - well, alright, maybe sleep will have to wait.
     Sleepily, clouded eyes of blue and grey flutter open to meet with disorientation the sight of a pillowcase. "Mmmf." Fiona turns her head, very slowly, squinting towards the light and sudden revelation of the world beyond the covers.
     "N'. Fud." Well, that's what it sounds like, more or less. Very slowly, she raises herself on her elbows, ending up subsiding down against the pillows again. One arm is flung upwards, over her eyes, and she inhales deeply. "Dun know how much 'can eat."
     Let's have another go at this, shall we? She struggles upwards feebly from the embrace of pillows and covers, dragging a sheet up with her, hair tangled in skeins about her shoulders and hanging over one eye, giving her a particularly quizzical appearance. She blinks slowly, turning her head again, looking about the room, then at you, and she glowers.
     "S'not fair," she mutters. "Look't you. - Coffee."

     It is quite the feast he's had carried upstairs for you. Kippers and smoked salmon, more fish and hazelnuts, fresh Welsh scones smothered in fresh Welsh cream. Bangers, can't have a British breakfast without them, and there's eggs there too, hard-boiled though, standing upright in holders with the requisite tiny spoons. There's quail eggs also, tiny and already shelled, cut in half. There are currant buns and honey cakes. There is a service of coffee and a service of tea.
     "Coffee with a tea-back," Davydd suggests, and he's making a plate of the goodness for you, one of everything, which is sort of how he does it really. One of everything. He pours the coffee, makes it creamy and sugary and then does the same thing with the root and carrot seed tea. Getting sick of that yet? "I also made some carrot juice for you, in case you were getting sick of the tea," what a guy.
     Davydd smiles down at you and damn the man, he looks freshly pressed, not a wrinkle to be found, hair done, vibrant, fiery red offset by all that dark blue. And he looks well rested, which is a damn sight more than he can say for you. You look like you were 'rode hard and put away wet', as they say.
     He's not going to say it, of course...
     Not out loud...
     The grin slants as he sets the coffee and tea down on the side table and he takes a spot, with food, at the edge of the bed. Plate balanced on his lap, he reaches for your tea, guiding it into your hands. "What you don't eat, I'll be sure'll get eaten," he smirks, and he's already picking at the plate, it's probably his second. It's dark outside so the windows show...
     Past sunset...

     "Carr' juice?" She almost gets it out coherently, hands lifting to fists to rub the sleep from her eyes. She blinks fuzzily, then, first at you, then at the food. "...Wow. That's - quite a spread, Davydd."
     Food. Food, food, and more food. One corner of her mouth actually curves upwards as she leans on one elbow, her other hand smoothing spiderweb silk of hair back from her cheek. "...You trying to suggest something about my figure?" She straightens again, reaching very slowly and a bit in a wobbly motion towards the tea, grumbling a bit as she swallows a mouthful. Tea. Dammit. Not coffee. Ah, well, these things are sent to test us.
     "I feel," Fiona manages after a couple of mouthfuls of tea, "like I spent the night in a pingpong ball testing factory. I'm hungry," she admits, "but ... ugh. I can hardly move." Another accusing look follows the words, and she contents herself for a long moment with her tea until the cup is almost empty. Somebody's a bit - dehydrated...
     "Give food," Fiona demands, propping herself up on some pillows and holding her hands out. "Food, you wretched man - and coffee. Then some carrot juice. You look bloody recovered yourself. How do you do it?"

     "If I had a two-hundred pound bloke knocking me against the headboard....well, first of all, that'd never happen, second of all he'd be dead... but...better believe I'd be fucking exhausted. You've a right to be tired," he rattles off, handing you the plate, balancing it all the while. "The quail eggs are poached. I started to have them make eggs benedict, but then I didn't want to limit it," he murmurs, "Salmon's fresh, arrived at market this morning. Take a sip of it at least," he says of the tea. "We'll just work it in... not that I'd mind having a bundle by this Christmas, but still..." It's a bit early for that, don't you think...
     Food resting on the pillow between you, Davydd partly reclines, working the fork on the plate for you, getting a bit of the quail egg and offering it up to you. A small bite for you will be followed by a large bite for himself.
     "...and no, not suggesting anythin' about any figures," he chuckles. "But I figured, after last night, what with the musical chairs, you'd have a bit of an appetite. God knows I do. I could eat everythin' on that cart myself if I worked at it. Feel like you got hit by a Welsh lorrie?"
     He watches as you damn near drain the tea and then he takes the cup, twisting to set it down on the side table and take the coffee instead, careful as he brings it across and to your hands. "There you go, darlin'... good health t' you..." And he readies another forkful for you, this time of the smoked salmon.

     Sipping the coffee this time, Fiona leans against the headboard and closes her eyes. "Mmm," she murmurs agreeably. "The mental image of you being knocked against the headboard by a two-hundred pound bloke is one I really didn't need, Davy," she murmurs teasingly, then opens her eyes and holds out her hands to take the plate. Food! The sudden ravenous light in her eyes has little to do with sexual lust.
     "Salmon. Oh, god, if you hadn't already asked me to marry you, I'd be going down on one knee right now. If I could move that far." She leans forward to take a bite of egg, then slides back again, chewing. "Mm. S'good," she murmurs once she's swallowed, grinning lazily. "I feel like I got smacked by a Welsh something, I'll say that much. I'll let you know how I feel once I've eaten."
     She leans forward to take a bite of the salmon, now, diving forward like some sort of fisher bird, then pulling back and narrowly avoiding smacking her head on the headboard. "Ow. My old nemesis, we meet again. - You know, I'm glad you chose what you did for breakfast this morning, because some things I'm just not ready to face." Fiona smiles languidly, face going a bit flushed for a moment as she pulls the sheet back up from where it's fallen. "...I'm going to have to plot my revenge, Your Majesty."

     He laughs, eyebrows quirking skyward, "Well, it's good to know you like salmon," he says, smirking, "... and that you're willing to get on your knees for it. What else are you willing to get on your knees for? Let me know," he chuckles, "...and I'll see what I can do...it's good salmon. We smoke it ourselves here." Davydd takes a bit of it for himself.
     He's peering at you the next moment, grinning but looking quite a bit curious. "Face what? The full pantries in the kitchen? The gourmet counters and fresh bread?" Green eyes blink blithely and smirking he offers you another bite of the smoked salmon.
     Smoked with hazel wood, you can taste it, with hazelnuts roasted alongside it...
     "Bah, revenge," Davydd rolls out, earthy and low, the sound lingering in his chest, "... you wouldn't," he teases, he challenges, he grins. Green eyes glimmer as they look to you, lashes lifting. Then he cackles, "Who'm I kidding, course you would. Well," he exhales, "... I suppose I have it coming, but you did ask for it, you know. Wanted it, dared me to do it...so I don't feel responsible..."

     Briefly, she sticks her tongue out at you, making a playfully horrible face. "At the moment, I'm staying off my knees - I'm too stiff," Fiona murrs, swallowing more coffee the next moment, tipping the cup back - and back - and back. "Juice, please."
     She sets the mug aside, then gathers up the yards and yards of hair and twists it back away from her face, tying it unconcernedly into a knot. "I was half-afraid that you were thinking our day should start with fresh produce," she answers drolly, eyes lighting up again as you hold out more salmon to her. She sighs as she uses her teeth to tease the flesh off of the fork you hold, then sits up, chewing with her hands folded demurely in her lap.
     "Revenge? Oh, of course I would." Fiona's grin is wicked. "And I even have some plans percolating in the back of my mind. But," she relents, "you're right, I did ask for it. And you didn't exactly hear me begging you to stop last night..." She reddens just slightly. No doubt there was some begging involved, but it probably wasn't in that direction...

     "There was some begging," coffee is exchanged for juice, "...but I'd expect that. Here, I'll make you a promise," putting your juice in your hands, "...for at least tonight, rest. Rest and relaxation." Pause. "And lots of carrot seed, juice, tea, bathe in it, whatever," Davydd chuckles. "You may need a transfusion like Keith Richards," where does he come up with this stuff.
     He's digging into the scones and fresh cream meanwhile, there's a bit of fruit there but it's berries, not apples. When you mention fresh produce, his lashes lift again, green eyes settling on you face and the smile is the smile of the Devil Himself. "No... no, I think no apples for a time. The piano's back to normal... when I said that the apples tasted like you," he explains in a hush, "... I meant that literally. The apples from that tree, eating them was like... making love. I just wanted to roll around in them," he chuckles. "It was ... pretty damned amazing and a bit... surprising. So... fair warning," he murmurs.
     What's a highwayman, even a former highwayman, without the stealing of a kiss?
     It comes sweetened with cream and honey scones, warm as sunlight, the warmth traveling straight through you. "Well," he grins, "I promised not to grab your ass..... not that I wouldn't kiss you...and you... think about revenge. I'll look forward to that. Just don't serve it cold... whatever you do..."

     "If I bathe in carrot juice, I'll be all orange, and orange really isn't my colour. A ... transfusion? A transfusion of what? Heroin? I'll stick with taking this by mouth, thanks." Fiona twists a smile out, then grumbles a bit as she shifts, suppressing a groan. "Ugh. Two-hundred pound Welshmen are my bane as well as my delight..."
     At least she mentions delight, right?
     Mmm. Berries. However, her attention is caught more by that devil's smile, and it actually serves to make her blush, cheeks growing pink to an almost hectic hue. "Um. Fair warning?" What's that supposed to mean? The wariness of her expression isn't entirely interrupted by the kiss...
     "You're still allowed to kiss me," she murmurs a moment later, once the kiss has ended, and she sinks back against the pillows, closing her eyes and yawning. "Oh, don't worry, Davydd. I'll have my revenge," she assures sleepily. "But for now, I'm going to - drink my juice ... have some more tea ... maybe a couple of scones ... then a hot bath. I may require you to carry me. Once I've fattened myself up, of course, to make it a bit harder on you. And then..."
     One blue eye opens, Fiona's expression almost smug. "I'm going to plan a trip to London to meet up with some of my girlfriends," she murmurs. "Tremble in fear, faerie king. Tremble in fear."
     So saying, she turns over, pulling the blankets back up and over her head.

Posted by rowan at March 31, 2004 10:14 PM