Bloody hell...
     "Watch where you're going..."
     "...burk..."
     "Gah, I hate London..."
     All this before Davydd got even close to halfway to Kensington Palace -- not exactly his home away from home, but it's Ian and William's home away from home and that means it's a good enough place for him to land. He's in a borrowed car, both Land Rover and vintage Jaguar are back home these nights, leaving him little choice in London but to walk, train, taxi or borrow.
     Mind you, it's a nice prig. If he can't have his Jag, he'll drive one of William's. Latest in cell gear too, hands-free dialing. He just puts in his cell, punches his speed-dial settings, and off it goes...
     While it's dialing, he's shoveling a bit of Pashmina's in his face at a convenient red-light, looking up and making a What the fuck are you looking at gesture to the person honking next door to him. Can't a man eat, drive, call his fiancee and bitch about London traffic at the same time?
     Meanwhile, in chez Arundel... a cell phone rings...
     Fiona... River Avon calling...

     Better River Avon than any Avon lady - she'd tell someone trying to sell her cosmetics where the fuck to get off. But then, she's in a bit of a mood, to say the least...
     The hotel room isn't too bad - it's convenient, comfortable without being stuffy, but it's not home. The bed's a little too small, and entirely lacking in Welshmen hot water bottles. The food - well, the food's not too bad...
     But it's not home, or where she's come to think of as home...
     Presently, Fiona's settled on a bench off the veranda of her grandparents' rather nicely appointed maison - the courtyard isn't tremendously huge, but it's big enough for a small garden, and it's affording her time away from the tender embrace of her loving family.
     The phone rings, and she's so sure that it's her mother that she nearly doesn't answer it - let it go to voicemail! But it's ingrained in her from an early age - one doesn't ignore telephones. So it's snatched up, flipped open, the button pressed, and then brought to her ear.
     "I'll be inside when I'm bloody well ready to come in, mother. Go make daddy change his tie or something, why don't you?"

     "I'm not your mother fucker," Davydd's voice rumbles with a laugh, mouth full of food, and yes that's the horn honking. "Fuck you very much old chap," he roars out and then there's the sound of a very finely-tuned engine going. "I'll be your daddy but I'm not wearing a tie for fuck-all. How are you? No, wait... don't tell me... you're having a lovely time with Mr. and Mrs. You don't know why you ever left..."
     It's as if he can read your mind. Scary!
     Davydd's cackling a little on the other end. "I'm driving, eating, talking to you and yelling at Londoners, if I start fading out, give a shout. I'm on hands-free. Mr. Technology, that's me... say, so... how are you? Do you miss me? What are you wearing?"

     "Bastard." It's accompanied by a laugh, though, and an almost subconscious easing of her tension. Fiona glances back over her shoulder at the glass doors leading back into the house, then draws one knee up as she cradles the phone to her ear. "You're dead right, as it happens - my father's not so bad, but with mother, it's constantly on the verge of World War Three."
     You can hear the capitalizations, that's how clearly enunciated it is. "Didn't know you could peek from this far away," she adds drolly. "Don't tire yourself out, now."
     There's the scrape of a shoe against stone as she stands, the rustling of leaves as she moves off the little path and settles with her back to a tree and slides down, sighing. "Don't wreck the car just because you're talking to me. I'd be a bit upset if Mister Invincible died because of it. So you're going to be my daddy, huh? Going to roll around in sugar first? Or shouldn't I give you ideas? I'm ... alive. Missing you so much that it isn't fair," her breath catches slightly in the back of her throat, and she exhales slowly. "Playing hide and seek with my cousins and my mother. Mother doesn't know it's a game - so far, I'm winning."
     She pauses to tuck her legs in underneath herself, settling on the grass. "Wearing? A green shantung blouse and black jeans. Tonight's casual - buffet in grandma's and zaida's living room, close family only. White lace and silk camisole top underneath, no knickers. What about you, Techno-Boy?"

     "No peeking, just a lucky guess. Shite, if I could peek, I wouldn't be driving." Laughter's rough and earthy. He doesn't say what he'd be doing, but then he doesn't have to. "Sorry, by the way. You sound like you could use a little sugar. And it's all under control... hey!" that said out to the traffic, "...rule Britannia my arse, try driving first... arsehead," he rumbles, then you hear the motor roar. "I don't have much farther... heading up the palace, I gotta deal when I'm in London, Kensington Palace, chi-chi..."
     "What's a shantung? Is it see-through?" Davydd lowers his voice a bit, letting it go all smoky-like. No knickers ..." he quirks suddenly. "With jeans? Sounds painful," laughter again. "Me? Fuck all... it's still a bit chilly. Jeans, jacket, sweater, scarf, looking a bit Kensington tonight if I must say so myself. Cramming a bit of Pashmina's in my puss, hang on..."
     There's just the sound of traffic for a moment, the revving of an engine, speed, and maybe the sound of someone eating...
     "Gah, I'm starving... can't imagine why," Davydd rolls out blithely. "So anyway, how's the penis clipping going? How did The News," capitalized in tone, "...go over with the family...."

     "Chi-chi? Chi-chi and you, Davydd? Are you sure the world isn't coming to an end?" There's amusement for her in this. "I could use getting away from my family. Like I said, daddy's alright. Zaida's a sweetheart - he's going to pry The Rock off my hand later and have a ball looking it over, he's said."
     Which answers the question, at least, as to whether she's told them...
     "Shantung's a kind of silk," she continues with a grin in her voice, voice growing a bit lazy and diffuse. "Not quite see-through, but it's a little on the flimsy side. And not so painful, really. They're not the sort of jeans that cut into my arse. I like my comforts - and I don't need to dress to impress tonight, do I?"
     There's envy in her tone when she speaks up again. "Pashmina's? Brute. I could kill for some, right now - not that the food here's bad, but it's not Indian, and I've been having a bit of a craving all day. Though maybe it's just the desire to get the hell away from my mother - if you see me on the news going to prison tomorrow night, you'll know I finally snapped. It's worse than usual this trip. I'm not sure why. And the penis clipping, as you put it, will be tomorrow night - everyone's finally here. Informal buffet tonight, bris tomorrow afternoon, followed by a formal dinner. And, of course, gifts for the baby."
     There's the rustle of her hair as it slides against tree bark and bushes, and a softly muttered curse as Fiona pauses to disentangle herself. "The News ... well, I had to threaten to throttle mother - she wanted to have it announced at the big dinner, the first night. Everyone wants to meet you, though - I think half of them're skeptical that you're real, or think you'll turn out to be ... something less than acceptable by polite society's beliefs. Grandma asked me how you are in bed."

     "I hope you abridged it a bit. I'd hate to be the cause of cardiac arrest for your dear old grams," he rolls out again. You hear him whistle then pause. "Davydd Llywelyn... aye... good to see you again, Charles, right I remember. Down the drive, park in back. Yeah, I have the key. Have a good night..." The car starts up again. "Sorry, talking to the gatesman. They keep this place locked up tighter than the Carmilla's twat... Jesu..."
     The revving of the engine has softened, you can hear his voice better now. "I hope you got the baby a fucking phenomenal gift. Poor bastard, having his John Thomas scalped. I'm not going to criticize, you know, anyone's religion, but what does God have to do with foreskin? And you eat afterwards? Savages," he laughs.
     You hear the car stop, it goes suddenly quiet, and then you can hear Davydd breathing, his voice right up against your ear as he goes from hands-off to hands-on. "Well, don't go off and do anything silly. I'd hate to have to confine my lust to conjugal visits," he smirks, groaning as he gets out of the car with arms full of food, phone and keys. "Well, we'll have to pay folks a visit at some point. Maybe in the summer, we'll talk when you get back. Business is going slowly here," an exhale, and then by the tone of his voice you can tell he's indoors finally. "You may beat me to Wales at the rate I'm going. Maybe not. Maybe I'll finish in three days. Hard to say, cariad. What I do know is that I miss you elbowing me in the side in bed and keeping me up to all hours of the early morning, slave driver that you are..."
     Then he laughs, sudden, earthy, warm. "Oh, right, The Rock. Ha... god help you on that. It's fucking priceless. Does Zaida have a weak heart?"

     There's a sketch of laughter across the line. "I just went bright red - grandma's never asked me things like that before. She said that was good as an answer and went back to talking to my cousin Mara. I have a lot of cousins, you know." One eyebrow slants upwards, almost audibly so. "Who's Carmilla? One of your exes?"
     Curling up more comfortably and ignoring the bits of leaf and twig clinging to her hair, Fiona settles into a sigh. "Mother handled it - she didn't trust me to get something appropriate. She's right - which is why I had the copy of The Anarchist's Cookbook mailed to their home address. They've got enough of a sense of humour to not get angry, which is more than mother's got. And of course we eat. Everything's an excuse to eat in Judaism, didn't you know? 'We got chased out of a country, we survived, hooray, let's eat. God punished us, we wandered for forty years in the desert before we made it out alive - let's eat.' Really, I'd think you'd appreciate that, Davydd."
     Fiona blinks a bit at the sudden shift, almost jumping out of her skin. "Mmm," she murmurs, "I'd kind of miss that. And the rest of you, too - and I'm just not into women. Nor prison guards - just you." Fiona's voice returns to normal, more or less, a moment later, as she adds, "Summer's good enough for visits. Or, really, just make 'em wait til the wedding and reception - I mean, I'm going to marry you no matter what they think, so why give them more time to crab? I'm sorry to hear that business is going so badly - anything I can do? Any strings I can pull, maybe nudge daddy to make a few phone calls..."
     How little does she reckon, really?
     "I miss you rolling over and half-squashing me as you suddenly fall asleep, so that I've got to wiggle out from under if I don't want to lose a limb," she retorts, grin open and delighted. "But as to which of us is doing the keeping up, I might remind you that my bits never defy gravity without external aid."
     A pause as she shifts gears, then. "Zaida's heart is plenty strong," Fiona says warmly, "but if there's anything I should warn him about, let me know, mm? He and grandma are fighters. Only way they've made it this far. They're my heros, you know - well, them and daddy. Those three're the ones whose good opinion you'd need, in my family, not mother's. The only make or break in the deal, really... oh, and I should warn you." A hint of high tragedy enters her voice.
     "Mother's trying to push into planning the wedding."

     There's silence on the other end...
     Well... almost silence... he paused to take a bite of food...
     "I figured," he says after a moment. "Well, we'll talk about the ceremony when you get back. Don't you worry about it," he says with a grin after a moment. "I'll take care of her. Dragon to dragon, wot?" But this does get to an as of yet undiscussed issue -- how do you legally marry someone who doesn't legally exist?
     Hire a family minister, that's what...
     "Hey, I love the Jewish people and their love of food, don't get me wrong. I could do without the wedding tackle mutilation, but hey, Christians do it too. Savages," he grins again. "Well, at least they do now. They didn't in my day..." There's quiet again as he wrinkles his nose and winces at the thought. He cackles a laugh for gravity's sake, you miss the waggling of brows. "You do make a good pillow, Fiona-bach..."
     He exhales, closing up the box of Pashmina's yellow curry and groans, lying back on a sofa. But only momentarily. He forgot about the prized stash of the world's best scotch. The next sounds you hear are him mixing a drink. "Business is... business. Nothing you can do, lass, though thanks for the offering. Just complex is all. I'll have more to tell, I hope, when we meet again. Well," Davydd laughs, taking a swallow of scotch, "...not that we'll be talking much the first few nights. You know, a man gets used to certain amenities of having a willing, and may I say energetic, woman around. Makes it a bit hard when the bed's suddenly empty and no one's singing your praises, or singing praises to your anatomy. As for the ring... can't imagine there'd be anything to warn about. It's 17th century, only one owner other than myself....well, now and you," he grins. "And she's too dead to complain..."

     "I'll try not to worry - I'm more worried about this trousseau she's mentioned." Fiona's scowl is distinctly audible, sizzling down the wires even if not aimed at you. "If you can take care of her, I will be impressed. Try not to kill her, though, okay? Daddy'd miss her, improbable though it seems."
     "You love some of the Jewish people a little more than others, mm? Pillows and all. And I like your wedding tackle just fine the way it is; I don't think anyone's going to insist that you convert in order to marry me," she points out, half-grinning despite herself. "After all, mother married a goy herself... so she's hardly in a position to complain."
     There's fewer sounds on her end, save for the whispering breeze that speaks of spring becoming summer in the Brussels garden. "I'll make sure to be in good voice when I get home. I do miss you, you know," and the girl's voice goes suddenly wistful, a note that's been lacking recently, "quite a bit. I feel like smashing windows or something. I miss keeping your mouth too busy for wisearse remarks, or making you go suddenly speechless..."
     Even when she's on the other side of the Channel, there's still evidently certain thoughts going on to interrupt rational thought...
     "I won't tell zaida that," Fiona adds wryly. "But that tells me enough - I can just tell him it's a family heirloom, been in your family for the past couple hundred years, and leave it at that. He'll be surprised, I'm sure - but that'll be acceptable. Oh! Was there anything you wanted me to pick up? As long as I'm here, I may as well do some shopping tomorrow before the big event."

     There's a guttural sound as he takes another swallow of the scotch, an exhale with a slight groan as he sits upon the sofa again. Davydd chuckles a bit at the 'speechless' comment, smirking at his own reaction -- that he spares you from by not sharing. "Well," comes the low-voice rumble, "... you've learned well how to shut me up, good on ya... and I miss you, too. Miss you being around... over... under..." Fun with prepositions!
     Davydd finishes off the first scotch with a sigh of contentment for that. "Just close your eyes and think of me... here, practice now," he grins. No word for the trousseau -- your mum sounds like a real pip, he thinks.
     "I know it sounds silly," he's already cutting in before you can protest, "...just humor me. Close your eyes... get a picture of me in your head... oh," he whispers, "...that's fine about the ring. True enough, hmm? That's all it has to be, girl..."

     There's a low chuckle in the back of her throat, half-swallowed as Fiona lowers her voice for no other reason than that the conversation seems to inspire it - intimacy by artifice. "And here you keep telling me to call you daddy," she purrs, the teasing note lingering for a moment. "You always give me bad thoughts..."
     "Close my eyes and think of England?" You can almost hear her cock her head to one side, suppressing the snide retorts which rush to fill her mouth - you've gotten good at intercepting those, but even so. "Practicing what? I don't need to close my eyes to miss you - you're too bloody big and too bloody Welsh to miss."
     Plays on words can be fun, even from hundreds and thousands of miles away.
     "Well... alright..." Fiona allows herself to be coaxed, voice dropping another notch, so that she's almost whispering it. Her head tips back to rest against the tree, one leg curled up underneath her and one hand sliding fingers through the grass. "I do know what you look like, you know. Though ... mm, no leather right now... we'll have to go clothes shopping soon..."

     He smiles, but you don't have to miss it. It presses at you, making itself known beneath the surface of your skin, felt in the five senses as the picture of it comes into view behind your eyes. I'm looking a little Oxford Professorish tonight... Amused at the image. Him, a professor. I could use more leather. Sure, take me shopping... lavish me with gifts. I like presents...
     "How's that?" he whispers into the phone. "Better?" A pause. "I think so..." And the phone is disconnected, but the real connection remains, the intimacy is there, palpably, even though you're in separate nations. He lives beneath your skin. Inside you as surely as if you and he were in the same room. No, more than, for you share the same space...
     My little queen, wherever you go... I can be where you are. At least in thought, if not in body and spirit. Davydd grins, and he sends a mental image of how he looks, quite damned dapper, actually, surrounded by the luxury of another castle (not his). Jeans are dark blue, jacket's a navy pinstripe, even has the patches on the elbows, shirt's a light cream sweater, and the scarf's white. The hair is long as it's been of late, bit shaggy from all the wind.
     I miss the smell of apples on your skin... this business of mine...when it is done, you and I are going to take a little vacation... Avalon... get away for just a little while...

     "Oh, that's not fair..."
     The protest is murmured before the telephone connection goes dead, the warmth rising in her skin, from inside her moving outwards more than outwards to the inside. Fiona's eyes stay as closed as if she were blindfolded, and she sinks back against the tree as if it were the softest cushions, as if trying to meld into its bark.
     I like the way you look, she whispers back along that link, even when you're playing at being a professor. But yes, we'll go shopping ... I like presents, too, and I like to give presents. And I haven't had anyone to give things to, really ... not for a long while.
     That answer makes it through before even her thoughts choke in on themselves; there's a fuzziness and almost incoherence for a moment, swimming through her mind. This intimacy has always had an effect on her - the ability to knock her off her balance faster than almost anything else.
     I miss you ... I wish I were there. But if I were, you wouldn't be in that outfit for long unless you held me off, you know... There's almost a yearning to the thought, an echoed undercurrent of not only sexual desire - the desire to curl herself up in your warmth, taking you as her harbour, temporary respite from the numbness that the world has to offer. That it is matched by impure thoughts - well, that should hardly be surprising.
     One hand comes up for just a moment, as if to run her fingers through those slightly shaggy locks, even as her other hand falls to her side, thumping the phone closed without trying to. I like your hair long. And I'd like to go away with you, Davydd.

     He laughs, it's a quiet sound. It's an earthy sound, and you can hear it without the phone. And you can feel the tree's as solid as Welsh male earth. And the slight breeze seems to carry something of him in it. It's good to be the king...
     You'll be here soon enough... it won't be long. When you get to Powys, we'll spend some time on the piano... That makes him grin, the grin like the stroke of a hand along your arm. ...then take a little trip to never-never-land. Won't be soon enough... I'm starving for the taste of apples, myself, and your skin...
     Davydd laughs again, the grin cocking slantwise. Hey, far be it from me to hold a woman back from what she wants. I'm all about liberation... so... Little Queen, we'll even take a tour of your own kingdom... queendom... He corrects himself with a full grin.
     Now, you'll think sweet-and-not-so-sweet thoughts of me, hmm? Without your knickers and all... cheeky thing...

     You're a bastard, you know that? It's only slightly accusing. She doesn't mind, not really. Doesn't hold it against you, though she'd like to. Among other things...
     Time is a matter of perspective - but I'll be counting hours, now. And trying to figure out how early a flight back I can get. I was planning on taking the train, originally. She musters enough of herself to flash a suggestion of a wicked grin, and send an image - the memory of her reflection, before leaving the hotel.
     Long hair, worn loose for the casual occasion, oak-blonde as ever... Silk blouse, the pale green of new leaves in spring, which if she lacked the rosy cheeks she's got (particularly rosy, now) would perhaps make her look slightly seasick - it's worn open enough to reveal the shape and curve of her collarbone, though stops short of showing cleavage, a delicate gold chain disappearing down into its vee...
     The black jeans are loose enough to be comfortable, as she'd said - but close-fitting enough to follow her curves, to track the movements of skin and musculature, cuffs tucked into low-slung boots...
     I'm half-starved for you, now. I'd managed to put myself on a strict diet of thinking of you only half my waking hours, and you've gone and thrown that to hell. Just like a man... As long as whatever Cook's Tours you're coming up with involve frequent bed and breakfasts, I suppose I can tag along. But I've got to be just a little wicked, you do realize that, yes?
     And behind the closed eyelids, memory's turned round, winding the clock further back. The same mirror, but with a difference - before silk, before denim, there was a different silk, trimmed with lace - the camisole with its thin straps, cupping and supporting her, hair tumbling into her eyes as she sleepily dressed, as she examined the knickers and found them ... a bit torn from your last inspection of them, so to speak ... the knickers discarded as she stood there. Maybe I should be more than just naughty - that wasn't very wicked, after all. And if you're going to call me cheeky, I should earn whatever's coming to me, shouldn't I, Old Man?

     Why be a little wicked, darlin', when you can be a lot? Fiery eyebrows waggle and dance. Well, lass... don't rush. Stick to your plan. I've things to do yet and there'd be no getting anything done with you flying back early. Not that I don't want you to come home... I do... and back on my lap where you belong... but... it'll be alright. I just... needed to touch a little... now, I'm going to be touching a lot...
     Wait for it...
      .... of myself... Laughter again and then a sigh. Alright, Fiona-bach... here's the part where I say goodnight. I love you. Wish I were there, though I doubt your mum and pops'd let us stay in the same room. I'd be climbing up your trellis, for certes. An old man like me could get hurt... better, you should be here... beautiful... I'll have something to take to bed with me tonight afterall...
     The voice fades out, like the receding warmth of the sun at sunset. The time when he wakes. Even the recession of warmth speaks of him. Behind it, a hum of senses, of magic, of skin...

     Because if I'm more than a little wicked right now, I'm going to get myself into a state - and I've still got to get through an entire dinner with my relatives. There's a rustling sigh as she slides sideways, still in contact with the tree but now lying on her side, curled up in the grass, one hand furled closed around the shut cellphone. It's going to be torturous enough as it is ... we need a mirror for the bedroom ... so I can have sharp enough direct images to tease you with.
     Flashes of memory might do, with her head in your lap, or the view of the top of your head when your mouth is busy in her own lap. Twinges of remembered ecstasy, of thighs tightening around hips, of the view of the headboard, of the ceiling, of your face with her knees to either side of your hips...
     I miss you one hell of a lot, Llewellyn. Davydd. My king... I love you, too - daddy'd close his eyes to it, by the way. Mother'd carp, and I'd ignore her, same as always. I'm paying for my own hotel room...
     Another hint of a sigh, perhaps a hint of labored breathing, of girlish squirming as she forces herself to sit upright again. I'll be thinking of you ... missing you ... I -
     From her end, there's a sudden startlement as a clear childish treble bursts in on her concentration. "Found you, cousin Fiona! You're it now!"

Posted by rowan at April 16, 2004 08:49 PM