Late night turns to late afternoon and late night... scratch that, morning conversations, occasional flirtations and two bottles of vodka made for a day not seen. Dawn and later morning came and went, and likewise the breakfast time of day before anyone in the apartment started to rise.
     Maybe the sound of male feet would have stirred you a bit, with anticipation in seeing the one you love (not just the one who loves you). With it, the smell of coffee brewed, some trace of cinnamon, the smell of eggs and toast and butter and jam...
     The smells grow stronger, and likewise the sound of steps, as male hands lower a plate full of beans and eggs and buttery toast, jam and tea and coffee and cream on the nearby coffee table, next to the sofa where you sleep.
     There's a hand at your hair, the bend and a morning kiss placed on your temple, and a voice tickling within you like fingers trailing not over your skin but beneath it. Afternoon, sunshine. How about something to eat...?
     Rhodri sits on the edge of the sofa you're reclined upon. He exhales at the glorious disarray which is you, hung-over, sprawled out on his sofa in a man's shirt. I can skip breakfast and eat you all the same... He's dressed in black suede with shit-kicker Doc Martens, a stainless steel buckle belt and a black short-sleeved shirt. Red hounds run the course of his arms, an archer's arms, in brilliantly patterned stories that exist without the dullness Time can bring. They are vibrant. As are all things Rhodri. Longer hair is left at his shoulders, crimson-auburn with the slight wave. He's not yet Kelly once more. He will be once he heads downstairs. But for now, for you, for him... he is himself.
     A meal fit for a fairy's banquet, this is... you don't want to miss it... do you? You feel his hand on your hair again, and the smell of coffee permeates the air nearby as he pours a cup of that for himself.

     "Nh..." It's the softest of aspirations, quiet breath expelled as Fiona wakes. It isn't a desired waking; there's only a few kinds of waking-ups she'd really be in the mood for right now. She hasn't gone and done a lot of tossing and turning, she hasn't been sick next to the sofa - these are positive signs. Not having to open her eyes to the death of eyeballs sunlight is also a good thing right now. But food smells aren't ripe enough for her just yet...
     Slowly, one eye opens, and the skin which is usually pale as milk overlaid with a rose-pink flush of health is right now almost a faint tinge of yellow. The eye is not too bloodshot - she's slept enough for that - but the lashes are sticky and clump to her cheeks; she peels it open with difficulty, turning and rubbing her eye with her palm as she sits up. Slumping back against the cushions, she lets her head dangle at a broken angle. She peers upwards blearily, sleepily, then smothers a yawn as she prepares to utter her first words of the day to you.
     "Bastard."
     Such honeyed endearments fail to move even her, and she lets her chin fall towards her chest as she looks at the food without entirely seeing it. It isn't that there's anything wrong with the food; it's just that after all the vodka, she's mislaid her appetite and has to find it first. "I need a shower," she mutters. "I'm not going to be alive until I've had one, I can tell. But alright, since you're being such a pain in the arse, I'll fake it. Wouldn't be the first corpse you've dealt with, I bet."
     Abruptly, she shoves off of the couch and sits on the floor, less by design than by accident. Righting herself with immense dignity, she again looks up at you, a faint flush in her cheeks. "Do you always lay on this kind of spread for breakfast?"

     Rhodri grins as you plop on the floor, "I have a voracious appetite. Personally, I'd prefer venison, but there's no deer in London, only supermodels. Eat up, it'll help. I thought you'd like your eggs over-easy rather than blended in a drink..." He wrinkles his nose a bit at that and rises to get his own platter.
     There's no sign of Davydd. If he's here, he's in the other room dead to the world...
     He comes back around with his own plate of eggs and beans and toast, and promptly helps himself to the coffee he poured. "I could eat a small country." After being drunk? Clearly he has the constitution of a horse, if not an elephant. Then again, he works in a pub.
     There's moments of eating and no talking. You have a hangover after all, he doesn't want to bombard you. He does, however, watch you sitting on his floor, and winks at you with a mouth (closed) full of food. Swallowing, "...so..." sip of coffee, "... I think you and I should sing tonight...I'm not prepared to take no for an answer, but if you want to debate it we can..."

     "I want a wash and a change of clothes more than I want food, but - well, can't let it go to waste." Fiona wrinkles her nose, but colour and health both seem to be returning apace. She leans over her plate, avoiding the beans with a fastidious shudder and concentrating on the eggs and the toast - she takes her toast with butter and more butter and a helping of jam as well, adding liberal doses of cream to her tea.
     So why were you talking like this? In case my head would split open from the force of your voice? Two can play that game, after all - but then, you might not have known about that. As usual, her thoughts have texture, flavour; it's not inappropriate to the breakfast, sharp crumbs prickling from toast with a warmth underneath, the casual mildness of cream tea overlaid. I promise, my head isn't going to split open just yet...
     Fiona nudges her plate a bit away, only a few scraps left in place, and cradles her teacup between her hands. "Depends what kind of singing. I don't know. I was thinking about taking a trip, honestly, but I want to call Davydd and leave a message for him first. I ... guess he's not back yet, huh." She does her best to keep her voice carefully neutral, light of any disappointment or worry or fretfulness. She is a very poor liar most of the time.
     Brushing her hair back from one cheek, the colour of her eyes presently fits her mood; grey and green, reaching down into depths hidden to casual observation. "So what's today, anyway? I've lost track a bit. Is it the weekend already, that you'll have a big crowd to be entertained? Obviously, I do owe you for all the vodka I polished off last night..."

     Because I can, because I like to...besides, this way I can eat and talk at the same time without being an ill-mannered Medieval barbarian. He sits back, napkin at his mouth and settles back in the chair, bringing his coffee with him. I like the secrecy of it...
     He would...
     "No, he's not here," Rhodri notes. "I haven't heard from him. Not unusual. Business must have run too long for him to make it back." Emerald eyes settle on you. "I'm sure he'll call, Fiona," he assures. "Hmmm... today's Thursday, I think. I've lost track. Busy night for the pub, usually is. Thursdays and Fridays tend to be the bigger nights. But it's not for the vodka," Rhodri quips easily. "You could drink your weight in it and it wouldn't make a dent in the purse. I just think it would be a good night for it. Besides, I'm sure Davydd'll show up sooner or later, in which case I'm back to second fiddle. While I have your time, I'm not at all partial in sharing it. Well, apart from with a pub full of people, I guess," he chuckles to that and takes another swallow of coffee.
     "Where were you thinking of going?" Rhodri goes quiet and lets you do a bit of the talking for once, taking the time to finish his eggs and beans.

     There isn't much for her to say to that; after all, she likes the speech of mind to mind for its intimacy. It's just harder to accept from someone she hasn't been as intimate with in the past...
     Especially under current circumstances...
     "I can't imagine you being second fiddle much," Fiona answers in a light tone, trying not to let the knowledge of her slight flush show in her expression and her voice. "But I guess I could sing if you want. What sort of singing do you have in mind?" She leans her back against the sofa, then rises to sit on it properly, tucking one leg underneath herself and leaning slightly forward. It's with a small sigh that she closes her eyes; she accepts Davydd's absence, clearly. Doesn't like it much - but he's somewhere else, and she's not going to let herself mope...
     "I was thinking of Germany - Berlin, to be specific, mainly because it's got a big circuit," Fiona mutters, looking down into her tea as if expecting to see visions floating upon the surface. Maybe a miniature rowboat bobbing by, a fisherman throwing out a hook. "I could make a few calls, end up spinning a few discs - just to get out for a couple of weeks, depending on how long Davydd thinks he's going to be taken up by this business. I don't want to be gone too long, but - I'm not doing anyone any good by staying here, am I?"

     "I suppose there's something to that. I've only seen Berlin after the liberation, of sorts. I haven't been to Germany since. I don't care much for it. World war two pretty well cured me of that, and I didn't have much love for the place beforehand."
     He sets his fork aside, napkin also, finished for now, and he rises to take his plate back to the kitchen. There's still plenty of other treats to be had. "It hasn't happened much, no," he grins, bright eyes settling on you as he rinses off the dish. He's fastidious, for sure. "I can't think of the last time, and I'm not that keen on it, I can tell you."
     "Well," he exhales after another moment, tossing the towel aside with all the skill of a well-practiced bartender, "... I was thinking of straying a bit from the folk side of things -- though we always have to battle that expectation, certainly I couldn't so much on a Friday night. I felt like doing more...original renditions of some old standards, an acoustic set. Charlie Parker's in Edinburgh with his woman, she's about ready to deliver. But," hands are on the counter as he leans in, "...I could be up to most anything. I'm open to suggestion..."

     "Oh, well. New experiences are good for the heart. Maybe you'll learn something from it." Cruel woman, to consign you to second fiddle so callously. Fiona rises to her feet as well, bringing back her own plate for washing up. "I've been to Germany ... once. School trip. My mother didn't want me to go." So, of course, she went. "Mother's very down on the Germans because of the War."
     It's as if the war never ended...
     Between her and her mother or the war between nations...
     Fiona leans a hip up against a stretch of counter, folding her arms over her chest and glancing down at the hem of her shirt - it's easier than looking at you right now. There's nothing on the hem to bring up hinted passions, torn desires, no hearts upon her sleeve, no tears upon her cuff. "Didn't know Charlie had a woman. Huh. Good for them - well, if it's going to be an acoustic set, that's a little easier, but you'll need to give me a heads-up on these original renditions. I can't go into it completely cold, after all."
     Turning, Fiona tips her head back and closes her eyes as she blinds herself to the sight of the ceiling. "...I need to change my clothes," she mutters. "If I'm up, I'm up, and I'm not going back to bed any time soon. Do you mind? I can break out some of the stuff I bought yesterday and ... well, see if it fits for ... any purpose. And," she adds, suddenly lowering her face, eyes snapping open as she looks directly at you, "I need to talk to you about something."

     There's a smirk for your callousness and a roll of his eyes. "Don't hold your breath counting on it, dearie. I'm as like to steal what I want as to wait for it..." And he likely means that. And has likely done just that in his day.
     Rhodri nods, "Well, let's think about it. We can rehearse up here a bit if you're really on for it. If not, we can always go with acoustic, celtic renditions of punk tunes. I'm easy."
     As you speak of tidying up, Rhodri's on the way to the sofa to take up his coffee and cakes, "Oh, of course, the best bathroom is in the master bedroom, that is if you want a shower. If you want a soak, then the guest bath is best for that. Take your time, it's only four o'clock."
     Talk to me about something? He gives you that quintessential Llywelyn look (so it is genetic): what have I done now? "Aye? Well... alright... why don't you get beautiful for me and you can talk to me about whatever you want." No mistaking where he gets that, either.

     "I'll be quick about it. No point letting the rest of the food go stale." She hasn't eaten much, and now that her hangover is receding, her appetite is returning. And - after all - one of the things that Davydd's always been amused by her about has been her appetite...
     Fiona nods in regards to the music, pushing off from the counter with a bump of her hip and a turn as her shoulder drops. "Die, Die My Darling done as a acoustic celtic mix? Well, we'd confuse people, anyway." She moves towards the hallway with a brief snort of amusement, humming the Misfits as she goes.
     She's true to her word; the shower runs briefly, but shuts off after a short while. She's more respectful of your water bill than of Davydd's...
     For all the distances she's putting between herself and you, there is an awareness of you that she is not entirely able to ignore. The hangover helped with that - it provided the detachment that only a pounding headache can bring. But now... well... the shower's helped her open her eyes too much for her to then close her eyes to basic truths.
     Even if she isn't giving up Davydd, she is aware of you, acutely, uncomfortably so, aware of how - comfortable it is to be around you...
     Maybe it's for that reason that she changes so purposely into gear which is almost reminiscent of the 'old days', when she launched herself aggressively at Davydd with every intention of breaking his nose. Fiona emerges, and there is that faint hum of dissipating magic to indicate that she's cheated on the time she's taken to do things once again. But when you've got that much hair, perhaps it's the only sane method.
     There is no sign of the oversized shirt, whether it was Davydd's or her father's or some other man's entirely (or no man's at all). Instead, she's traded it in for a pair of black PVC shorts that are cut low over her hips and extend down to two or three inches above her knees, the sides low enough to reveal where her knickers come up - for contrast's sake, they're dark green to match the jacket she wears over a silver bodice-style top. Black tanker boots buckle firmly over her calves almost up to her knees. Her hair's pulled up into two absurdly long unbraided pigtails, and she's brushed colour into and out of them; she's gone from oak-blonde to platinum blonde, tips dyed cotton candy pink in a reverse-foxtail effect.
     "Sorry about that," Fiona says breezily, coming back into the kitchen. "So is the coffee still fresh? I could use a cup, now that I'm a bit more settled into my skin." Settled in and behind a fresh coat of armour...

     Stare.
     Staring is rude.
     Not as rude as he wants to be.
     Rhodri stares, eyebrows raising. But instead of slack-jawed gaping, his gaze simply sharpens and he smiles, a wandering sort of Gypsy Davy smile, promising nothing Good but all things Enjoyable. "Sure," he says, gesturing you toward him and the service of coffee that remains, "... plenty to go around..."
     On second thought, maybe we shouldn't sing...
     Maybe we should just stay in...
     "I can take the night off, if you'd rather. We can hit the town, both of us incognito," he murmurs, rising. "Steal our way into a few clubs. There's bound to be somewhere more interesting than an old styled Welsh pub." He likes Davy's but you know... it's quaint.
     He doesn't ask how you did it. He knows how you did it. Rhodri simply sits back and enjoys it. Immensely. And he puts his enjoyment on display. "In fact, that's what we should do, bonnie lass of latex," the smooth smile flicks into a grin. "I'll double-dog dare you..."
     Double dog? How about a thousand?

     Well. This isn't quite what she expected. She should have - but she didn't. At least it's before the makeup (maybe the cosmetics would've helped? no, probably quite the opposite) but it's now entirely closing the barn door after the horse has gone and run away. What can she do but brazen it out?
     "Coffee first," Fiona stalls, moving over to the service. She looks down at the cups, selecting one and righting it, lifting the pot with the other. In getting dressed, the Rock has gone back on her finger, and that is of some small comfort to her. "...I don't know. Davydd pretty much seemed to think I might be in some sort of danger, which is why I was figuring on going to Germany instead of spinning tables here, if I do go and do that."
     It's tempting... but is it a good idea... but so many ideas which aren't Good are tempting...
     Not that you would know anything about that, would you?
     "Plus which," Fiona continues, adding sugar and stirring it in with a dollop of cream, "if word got back to Lils and Dot that I was seen - well, alright, there's a better than even chance that they wouldn't hear, this isn't my punk face, probably wouldn't recognize me if I waltzed past. But you'd said Davy's would be busy tonight and tomorrow night. Are you sure you can take the time?"
     She slides a glance sideways in your direction, then looks back down at her cup; balancing it as if it were more fragile than your average egg, she turns back towards you, taking a sip and glaring over the rim in your direction.
     Llywelyn men are always such bloody complications for her, and oh, she resents the complexity of it...
     "You wouldn't," Fiona points out relentlessly, "look too much out of place like that, but if anyone did recognize me, it'd cause all sorts of questions, you know. Dot and Lils have both met Davydd, remember. And anyway..."
     It trails off, suddenly lacking the energy to continue it. She frowns down at her cup, then drains it abruptly, turning to busy herself with a fresh cup. "I'm capable of resisting a challenge," Fiona mutters, lifting a hand to brush at her earlobe, "unlike you and your father."

     Rhodri laughs warmly, richly, even boisterously. "I'm not worried about the bar, about Davydd or about your friends. You can tell them whatever you like. And the bar runs itself. That's why I have assistant managers. I own the place, remember. It doesn't own me. Would you like to try for double or nothing?"
     Yes, when he looks at you that way, sitting in his chair, it's easy to see the 'Gypsy Rover' within the man. The thief with an eye for treasure who is sitting across from a beautiful enameled box just begging to be picked. The glint in his eyes lets you know that you caught him -- you are right, he cannot resist a challenge. But even as it confirms it for you, he can see that you are lying. A crimson eyebrow lifts and he murmurs. "Can y' now?" Rhodri smiles. "I'm not so sure, Fiona."
     It's only the coffee cup in your hand that's keeping him from throwing you over his shoulder again. "I think you could do with a night on the town. I think you could do with a little... freedom. Who better than I to accompany you?"

     And, after all, coffee stains so. It'd be a shame for the room to need to be sent out to the cleaners. Fiona isn't aware of just how much she owes her salvation to coffee - usually it's the first cup in the morning that does it, not the second. "Double or nothing? Don't tempt me. My tongue can cut really sharply when I get started, Rhodri. And I don't want to say something I don't mean."
     Even less does she want to say something she does mean...
     She's uncomfortable with your gaze, and it shows in the slight bristle of her movements. Is it Drancy again, even if kitted out differently? She moves past you, cup still in one hand, moving to the table where some of her other purchases are still in their bags and boxes and wrappings, rooting about. "Depends on the challenge. If a challenge doesn't interest me, it's not much worth doing anything about, is it? Like being challenged to seeing how many blades of grass you can pick in ten minutes. Sure, I could, but - why bother?"
     She takes a swallow of coffee, then sets the cup down in order to lift out a bag from a jewelry store, another bag from a boutique. Calmly, she takes out a studded collar - black with silver studs, and they're studs, at least, not spikes - and begins buckling it into place. "I've got all the freedom I can stand. But if you think you'd be able to protect me from... I don't know, a Mafia hit... you're a braver soul than I am. I don't know. Maybe."
     She dips her hand into the jewelry bag, coming up with a small box. Taking off the lid, she snorts, then replaces the lid and turns to toss the box to you. "More your style, I'm thinking."
     The box contains a pair of gold hoop earrings; meanwhile, she takes out a pair of gold rosettes, putting them in her earlobes - first one, then the other. "It'd mean putting a face on, though. God, I'm so out of touch - I don't know where's active these days. I didn't know," she adds, picking up her coffee again and peering at you, "that you liked this sort of music." Even if the style is apparently something.

     The laughter is a smoky sort of thing when held in his chest. "I like all manners of things, Fiona. I'd have to after so long a time. But I'm not rooted in my Age as most who live so long are, or tend to be. I had no use for the 16th Century then, and no use for it now." He rises now, coffee done and set aside.
     The black shirt is of some material that is close to skin, no buttons, no collar. There is a silver chain there that disappears beneath the fabric. "In this face, I frequent all manners of places. Grunt," a hardcore S&M bar, "...Betty's Boobs," a more mainstream hardcore wanna-be S&M bar, catch the theme? "...and before it went glam, Phantasmagoria," high-end S&M bar turned go-go bar. "I listen to Cole Porter and Iggy Pop, The Cramps, and Frank Sinatra."
     And now, standing before you, Rhodri smiles. "I would never make a woman like you spend her time counting blades of grass, or wondering where I am." He loves his father, but in rivalry with him he's more than prepared to make the comparisons sharp and distinct. "Going to give me the leash for that collar?" he chuckles a little then winks and leans in, whispering, "I wouldn't worry about the danger. You're with me, remember? Protector of Fionas... Rhodri ap Dafydd."
     Rhodri glances at your golden earrings and smiling, sings: "There's a story the gypsies know is true, that when your love wears golden earrings, she belongs to you. An old love story, that's known to very few, but if you wear those golden earrings, love will come to you..."
     His voice is different from Davydd's but it has a hereditary timbre, deep but perhaps somewhat slighter. A honeyed voice that when used makes the air throb around him. "So be my gypsy, make your love your guiding light, and let this pair of golden earrings cast their spell tonight..."

     The colour rises in her face faster even than before, gaze flickering over you and away. It isn't even tempting; it's beyond tempting and into the realm of just not fair. "I've been to Betty's Boobs," Fiona answers evasively, turning to move round the table to delve into another bag. It's a pretext, and one easily seen through, but she feels the need to be on the other side of the table from you right now - to have that additional space, that distance. "And to Phantasmagoria. Not Grunt though." Maybe she isn't hardcore enough.
     A new compact is pulled out, lipsticks and nailpolishes and all sorts of things which girls use to make themselves pretty - whether or not they start out that way. She flips it open so that she can regard her reflection, picking up a jar of some sort of powder and a brush. "Anyway, there isn't a leash. Do I really look like a slavegirl to you? If you're going to be protecting me, you'll have to expect to be led on a hell of a chase unless I'm feeling charitable. Remind me sometime to tell you about the wager I made with Huw..."
     And that, too, is indicative of What She Likes - she likes the darkness, the danger, the risk. Huw was her chosen Davydd-substitute for a time, but now you're making your bid, and she is acutely, uncomfortably aware of it in a way that Hwyll with his flirtations never had a chance of getting her notice with...
     Translucent powder glitters on the puffy end of the brush, poised to be spread over her skin like glistening poison. Every poison has its temptation. "I don't know that song. Where's it from?"

     A scarlet eyebrow lifts. "Golden Earring... I prefer the Peggy Lee version." Peggy Lee. Iggy Pop. What's next? Super Furry Animals? He smiles as you put more distance between yourself and him, as you arm yourself with your lipstick. The chase is on...
     "Grunt's a bit... hmmm... well, with a name like Grunt, what do you expect? Crotchless PVC, mostly. And no, no slave. But if you want a contest, consider me a willing participant. I always fancied a fox hunt..." So says the man with hounds etched in mythic chase from wrists up the whole of his arms.
     "Done with the prep work? I fancy you well enough as you are, no need to impress me." He's moving to the door, then his hand twists the knob and moves the door ajar. "Meet me downstairs, alley outside of the back of the club. I'll be the one on the motorbike."
     Fox and hound...
     Rhodri's out the door the next moment and the chase is on...

     Some people just protest too much, don't they? But it's true she's not the slavegirl type. Slaves are bought and sold, and she's distinctly more of one to be chased...
     It's almost a bloody miracle Davydd didn't have to chase her halfway across London as Huw did, and now you...
     "Not quite done yet." A touch of black liquid at the corners of her eyes, a quick application of eyelashes, a stick of purple glitter and a jagged crescent moon goes over and around the side of one eye, lips painted the same colour pink as the ends of her pigtails - it's not the natural look, but then, what's natural about PVC? She watches you leave as she reaches in a bag for one more prop.
     Mesh gloves, fingerless - she looks at her hands, looks at the door. Slowly, she slides off the Rock...
     Does your heart leap in its chest?
     But no... it's not off for long. She pulls on the gloves slowly, making sure the mesh doesn't catch on her fingernails, and then the Rock goes back in place. The one visible clue by which the hunter or the prince can recognize the transformed princess...
     With a sigh and a shake of her head, Fiona looks to the fragile mirror in the compact. "Davydd... I don't know how much trouble you're in, but get your head and your arse wired straight and hurry back to me."
     "Please..."
     She leaves it at that - does he hear her, in any sense? Do prayers uttered to him get lifted to his ears? And as for you, son of a god, son of a demigod, how far down does divinity extend, anyway?
     All this, and she's yet to make you her offer...
     Her boots are anything but silent as she clomps across the floor, pulling the door closed behind her as she heads to the alleyway. It closes with an irresolute click on conversations and flirtations of the night before, and of the day after.

Posted by rowan at October 18, 2004 12:09 AM