This must have been what it was like to go with the Black Jack Davy...
     He met you out back on a motorbike, a BMW relic restored immaculately in its blacks and its chromes. He in his blacks and his chrome. Perhaps it is an intentional fashion statement. With Rhodri, there is actual fashion to it, it would seem...
     With you on the back, holding on (even for dear life, if you would), he went not to the clubs but toured you beneath the lights of the City, watching them come out in late afternoon to early evening. A whirling swirl of color and sites, sight-seeing and between you the vibrating energy of pure motion.
     Emotions were not given back and forth but things as personal, like laughing, glancing back and sharing wise-cracking remarks and more subtle observations. A list of clubs beginning with The Dervish Inn, for the first drinks, and then it was onto the night's next destination...
     Betty's Boobs...
     It is where you once saw Dei play, the place was it not? Where Sieg met Dot. With its trendy downstairs main floor with its musical venue and the upstairs, close-quartered metal catwalks leading from room to private room: Crime and Punishment, Sense and Sensibility, among others. The velcro wall, the sounds of laughter, music and even sex.
     It was a place that used to assault your senses (Sense and Sensibility, indeed), with its overt sexuality. You ran from it once and now you are heading for it at light speed.
     How things have changed...
     He takes your hand, and he leads you in. There is magic that moves between you, music that pops into your mind and poetry and the honey and milk of Inspiration. You have a male muse, but what shall your art form be?
     The two of you make a scene. Not just in how you're dressed and how you look, but the kind of couple you make as you move past the bar. No one is under the impression that you're anything but together. Rhodri makes sure of that...
     He hands you a stolichnya fizz, a blueberry and vodka concoction with an otherworldly gleam. "To friendship," he says at your ear, and he smiles. With friends like this, who needs a love slave?

     Aggressive as Fiona can be and usually is, she's hanging back just a little; not reserved exactly, just wary, watchful, not wanting to turn her back on you. But then, that's wise, isn't it, around a known thief? Especially one known as the Black Jack Davy...
     It's funny, but she's never called Davydd anything but Davydd, but you, you she could call Davy...
     Except, of course, that it's not your name. There is that, innit?
     Adult though she may be, with her current guise it's easy to see why she says she's 'stopped' the clock - there is a softness to her features in moments of relaxation that were so seldom there when Drancy held full and sole sway. Then her features were always tensed, a subtle clenching as of being braced for the next fist, the next scream, the next blow. She's more integrated than that now, even if she wears the armour - it's the sort of armour that makes them check her identification at the door, though she passes muster each time with a salute and a nod. She's having to struggle a little to re-assimilate the culture...
     The inside of Betty's Boobs is a familiar one to her - not just because of Dei, of course. Working the beat she had, Fiona was in and out of clubs all over London - but it's true it's not her usual beat. Three times there to see Dei, and three is a magic number, of course; once for the initial coverage, where she insulted and ingratiated herself in with the band without half trying to, once for bringing Dot and Sieg together and getting Dot out of Dei's hair (and into Sieg's lap) - and once for an explosion of sound and electrical equipment and being flown away with in the mouth of a bird that was a man that was Huw. She remembers the place - and not entirely comfortably.
     She's not entirely comfortable now either, and the almost enforced intimacy between you and her makes it all the more difficult. You can likely feel her refusing to acknowledge her surroundings, sense as much as see the slight colour to her cheeks, the snap and dilation of pupils as she turns her head first one way, then the other. Fiona takes the drink, eyeing it as if expecting it to be drugged, then takes a miniscule sip.
     "Friendship," she echos a bit dryly. "And what are you drinking?" She leans an elbow against the bar, standing so she's perpendicular to it, hip just touching and one booted foot ahead of her as she looks up at you. It isn't fair... "So how long are we here for, anyway? I don't see anyone I know, there's that at least."

     "As long as you want to be. Well, at least long enough...thanks, love," he interjects to the bartender, in her red breastless PVC showing off, natch, Betty's Boobs. For that's Betty Herself, proprietress. Her hair's blue-black and cut in the style of Betty Boop. "I was thinking, oh and you should try this," he hands you the drink, "...iced Stolichnya, blueberry liqueur, whipped cream. Bit fanciful but I can't pass up the fruity drinks. I'm comfortable with my masculinity," he chuckles in answer to the joke even before you crack it. "Try it," he says.
     No, it isn't fair. And he's no interest in making it seem so...
     "I thought we'd take the tour upstairs, peek in on the freaks," he murmurs in Welsh, then winks, "..or become freaks ourselves. Have you wandered much up there?"
     The bar is crowded, the club is busy even though it's relatively early. It'll be worse in an hour or two. "I figure we could enjoy it and get out before it becomes body-crushingly bad in here. I'm in the mood for loud music and dancing myself..." Dancing? As if you'd ever get Davydd doing that...

     "Thanks." Fiona leans back against the bar, taking the glass in one hand and looking at it as she lifts a fingertip to just touch to the whipped cream as if testing its density. It's a light touch; she then scoops off a bit of the whipped cream and pops it into her mouth without looking up from the glass. "It's a bit fruity, yeah, but that's okay, you handed it off to me right away. I don't think you'll get girl cooties."
     Maybe if she's not looking at you, she can pretend she's talking to a six foot rabbit named Harvey...
     "No, I've never been upstairs," she adds, turning the glass around till she can find the stirring straw; she scoops more whipped cream off the top with it, popping it into her mouth again, then leans in to actually take a sip, still through the straw. "Mm. Not bad. I've mainly been here to cover gigs - I saw enough freaks without needing to climb steps as well." One platinum-pale eyebrow cocks upwards at you; there's a pink line through the center. She answers automatically in the same language she's addressed in, with that still strange, still almost archaic lilt to it.
     Leaning back now, Fiona brings her glass in towards her chest, looking up at your face again. "I don't go dancing all that often," she admits. "Never had time, I guess. I suppose that's alright, though not for too long, alright? It gets a bit mad here later." Of course, to some that's the attraction. To her, she's defending her front from you and trying not to turn her posterior to any strangers...

     Relax, his eyes tell you, I'm not going to bite. But then he smiles, grins actually, knowing it for the damned lie it is. "It's potent, I'll warn you. But I couldn't bring to Betty's without ordering you a Blue Ball," he chuckles. "Specialty of the house, wot, Betty?"
     "We carry balls of all colors, shapes and sizes. I myself prefer the Squeeze. Our version of a screwdriver," she notes to you, Fiona. "Been a while..." She recognizes you but doesn't know you. Besides, your secrets are safe with her. Betty and her boobs turn to another set of customers, cheeky ones too. She cuddles and coos them like her own demented children.
     Rhodri leans in, plucks away the straw with a deft mouth, takes a long sip and then gives the straw control back to you. Another drink makes its appearance before him, a layered drink, in golds and reds. He takes it for himself, taking a swallow of it. The layers miraculously maintain their separations as he drinks. A jello shot? Not precisely. Honey and liqueurs layered together. It's like crack cocaine for fairies. He offers it to you. "Manna From Heaven," he notes.
     Leaning in, his mouth is at your ear. Welsh moves across your senses, in that same lilting, archaic gait as your own. "Have all you want, get a bit mad if you want to. I'm driving so... the night is yours..." Beneath all his wickedness, perhaps he truly is Kelly The Protector...

     She isn't buying it at all, and it shows. "I can handle my liquor passably well, though I'm not going to try to drink anyone under the table." Fiona offers one of her wary nods to Betty; the animal is out and about, prowling through the underbrush, but unwilling to venture too far from its hole. "A while, yes." She's been back since Dei, but ... not much, and not for a while...
     Turning back to Rhodri, her mouth opens in silent protest as the straw is pulled away, then manages a slightly grudging smile as it's returned to her. She arches one eyebrow again at the drink, then nods. "I'll give it a try. But not too much."
     A drink in either hand, and both drinks looking like they were constructed rather than poured - Fiona glances from one glass to the other. "Anyone looking at me right now probably feels like going colorblind." Silver, black, green, pink, platinum, red, gold and blue - a kaleidoscope's worth.
     She brings the Manna to her lips for a small sip, eyes closed, the rims of her ears going slightly pink as you lean in. "Thank you." Despite the words, there's a wealth of suspicion in the underlying, guarded tone, and she looks at you without moving her head - only her eyes. "Hoping to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me, Rhodri? Or is that part of the point of you doing the driving?" There's a hint of challenge in the not-quite glare, chin rising for a moment. She rolls her shoulders back, one booted heel resting against the bottom-board of the bar, and she almost defiantly takes another swallow before handing you your drink back. "One drink at a time. I'll see how much I want."

     "I don't need to get you drunk to take advantage of you," he chuckles, but there's no sense pounding on the earth above the fox's den to get her attention, either. "I'm not here to take advantage of you. I'd rather take advantage with you. It's definitely more enjoyable." The voice of experience there. But what else do you expect of someone so old?
     "Come on..." he says to you, stepping away from the bar, money left behind for both drinks. A hand comes to rest at your side, a gentle touch that says: Follow me.
     While downstair's not a bad place to sit and wait for the real action to begin, at least upstairs there's a little action to go with it.
     The touch doesn't last long. There's no point to you being on-edge and defensive. He holds out his hand for you. Fine hands, a musician's hands, not unlike Davydd's but his hands barely knew swords. Better with guns and arrows and whips. Oh, there are stories he could tell you about the whips...

     The expression remains suspicious - but could you expect less? Fiona's spent years at a time being suspicious and on edge, though she's not as on edge as she was then. She nods slowly, moving forward with you, apparently willing to follow - even if she's not entirely sure she's going to like what she sees up there.
     Or maybe she's afraid she'll like it too much...
     "You have a way of making me think I should've worn a corset and full-length gown with lots of petticoats," Fiona mutters to you as she follows. Her pigtails bob with each step, high on her scalp so that they arch outwards in fountains before the strands rejoin for their foxtails.
     She is aware of you, with the nervous skittishness of a wild thing, but despite it, she accepts your hand with one of hers - it's as regal as if she were deigning to dance with you at a formal gala, right down to the uplifted chin. "Let's go." She starts to add a smartass remark - you can see it in her eyes. But she can't quite come up with one worth uttering, and she falls silent, almost sulkily.

     We're wild things, together...
     Past the tables, there's the cast-iron staircase that corkscrews upward to the second floor level. This level is a labyrinth of small rooms and alcoves, a metal catwalk leading from room to room, alcove to alcove. Some rooms have doors. Those with closed doors are occupied. The music here is far more permeating. Right now, something retro, Love and Rockets.
     Crime and Punishment is one of the larger rooms. PVCd men and women filter in and out. They aren't here for the trendiness or to gawk. They're here to be queer, in the old fashioned kinky way. Like the music, nudity is everywhere. And piercings and tattoos. His hand interlaces with your own, bringing you into what amounts to a walking press, flesh to flesh you are flush to him and he to you. Ostensibly to move within and among the anonymous crowds.
     There's the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the flat of a hand to a woman's hip. A girl is standing against the wall, blind-folded and bound, her hands tied by an intricate series of knots, her companion glancing his whip against a bared breast.
     He doesn't linger in there with you, but he does look at you. His finger moving against the center of your palm as he takes you, leads you through the labyrinth of alcoves full already of parades of partakers...
     Sense and Sensibility...
     The sensual touch of a variety of fabrics, feathers, leathers and latex. Bindings of fur, swings of velvet, ties of silk. A girl gasps in the corner as a man and a woman ladle honey onto her skin. And again, his hand clasps your own. With it, a magical bond that completes its circuit, fits together, snaps in place and warms.
     Ahead, there is an opened door, no one else within. Rhodri comes up beside you, your guide to lead you in. "Don't be nervous, girl," he says there in Welsh. "Don't you know I'm the one you've dreamed of..." He smiles and kisses your ear, the flick of a tongue, the soft sound of a laugh. He's expecting to be slapped. In fact, one might say he's encouraging it...
     The room is small, private, not full of writhing strangers, though you can hear them from here. Soft sounds of pleasure piped inward. There is a booth with a table and a small but very comfortable looking loveseat. "You seemed a little tense," he notes, closing the door behind you and him both, "... I thought you might want to have a sit here without everyone peering in..." But Betty's is all about voyeurism. You cannot see what is happening in other rooms, but you can hear it.

     She allows you to lead her up the steps and through the rooms, expression beginning almost grim, eyebrows drawn downwards into a hint of a scowl; she doesn't know what she's going to see, but the more she does see, the more uncertain she is that she wants to see it. The scowl ends up turned downwards, away from those who might see it; it isn't condemnation...
     Just rejection and denial...
     As you pull her closer to you, she almost stumbles, then rights herself - she's got to look up now, to watch where she's going. There's too many people otherwise. And you can see the colour leap into her cheeks, the dilation of pupils echoed in a lack of confidence as she jerks her head to the side. There's an air of embarrassment to her as well, though - one doesn't watch other people at this. It isn't done.
     It isn't polite...
     But then - this isn't about being polite ... is it? She pulls slightly away in surprise as you touch her palm, cheeks reddening beneath the dusting of translucent powder, beneath the purple glitter. She settles back a moment later, but there's that sensation of underlying skittishness again, of the desire to turn and flee, even if that desire is being stifled and denied. For now.
     It's so much harder now, to see this and remain unaffected - even the things which don't pull her directly, it's hard not to flash 'there', to put herself in the position of the centre of attention, the one on whom pleasures and pains are enacted. She struggles with it as if with Atlas' burden, almost shrinking back against you as she hears more than sees the slap of an open palm against flesh, sees and almost tastes honey being poured, watches knots being tied, watches knots being pulled against, watches people Act and React. When you take her hand again, she jumps.
     It's a bit of an overload, isn't it? Which is what you had in mind. Fiona allows you to lead her, almost gratefully, away from the sensuality, the sexuality, the decadence. Poor thing, what does she knows of this kind of excess? When she lived in the midst of excess, she was at her most ascetic...
     Your tongue glances against her ear, and she whirls around, yanking away and one hand forms into a fist; for one moment, it looks as if she intends to go for you the way she tried to go for Davydd, that small fist aimed for your nose. But, no - she steps back instead, moving over to the loveseat and dropping onto it, folding her arms over her chest - giving no such overt excuse for you to toss her over her chest.
     "Not to quote Phantom," Fiona says slightly shakily, "but why have you brought me here? And don't tell me it's so I can have a night of freedom..."

     "Do I have to have a reason?" he wonders, tipping his head and looking at you inquisitively. "Not everything is subtext, Fiona. Not everything is layered with other intentions. I brought you here because I like it, and it's the only club I know where you can lock yourself in a room with someone and no one comes to throw you out," he sits at the booth, he gives you your space.
     "Not into bondage? That's too bad," he says softly, taking a moment to smile from across the room and finish that unholy powerful concoction known as Manna from Heaven. "I rather thought you'd be a little curious, a little into it ...dating land pirates and all. Comes with the territory, I'm afraid."
     He cocks his head, he looks to you and then the smile is gentle once more. "Look, if you want me to let you go and you dive into the safety of a non-eventful evening, I'll oblige. I love you. I'm bound to give you what you want. I just never thought that would be safety. I thought you might like walking the edge with me a little bit..." You want to walk the edge with me, don't you? "You sure you don't want to throw that punch at me?"

     Pulling her knees up to her chest, Fiona absently picks at the cuffs of her shorts where it clings to her skin. "Sorry," she finds herself apologizing and not even knowing why; it shows in her expression, "I'm just..." She sighs, letting her head tip back, pigtails brushing against the loveseat's arm and almost against the floor. "I'm not good at this."
     She closes her eyes against a brief wave of misery and self-pity, forcing it back and sitting back up, facing forward with her knees still held up to her chest, one arm around her calves and the other hand going up to her cheek, then to wander aimlessly along her collarbone and down, finally trapped underneath her as she looks not at you but straight ahead. "I didn't say that. I just... look. Don't you know already? The only man I've been with is Davydd. I've never..."
     It trails off; there's a lot of things she's never done. She takes a deep breath - as deep as the bodice will allow, anyway - and drops her feet abruptly onto the floor. "I don't know what I want. But throwing a punch at you would be punishing you for something that's my fault, not yours. At least when I tried to break his nose, it was for something I really thought he'd done."
     Fiona launches herself to her feet, pacing across the room and folding her arms over her chest. "I just - I don't know how to react to all this, Rhodri. It's ... not that I'm not ... into it." There is a flush to the back of her neck, a slight squirm of shoulders and hips. "I - that is, I mean... oh, screw it. You know what I mean, don't you? I'm going to shut up before I dig myself any deeper."

     As you pace around, flop and pace again, Rhodri remains on the booth. He leans forward, arms on his knees, hands in between. He watches you. He smiles. The smile's as much fond as it is anything. "I know, it's not fair of me. I haven't wanted to play fair. I play for keeps or not at all, Fiona. I'll admit it. I want you. There's your layered intention you were looking for. And you wanting me back... gives me hope. And I'm nothing if not hopeful."
     That's why you're fighting isn't it? Because you feel him under your skin.
     "If you're greedy as I think you are, and a proper woman for a Gypsy Thief, I'd say you'd want us both." Rhodri smiles and pushes up. In a step or two, he's right before you, his hands going to your hips. "I know what you mean," he murmurs. "We were all where you are once. Even Davydd. You haven't experienced it. There's nothing wrong with that, love," he says quietly, gently in that way he has. Not telling you you're wrong or silly, calling you a girl, a young girl. It's a woman he has in his hands, he knows. A hand lifts and he reaches for your arm, of your hand that bears the ring.
     "Can I see the ring for a moment..." he whispers. "I'll give it back," he assures. "I just want to feel it in my hands for a moment."

     It isn't fair...
     When has anything ever been fair?
     When has she ever wanted anyone who was capable of playing fair?
     Fiona's face is flushed, and she doesn't meet your eyes. The want is there - the desire to be wanted, and more. And that you seem so capable of reading her wants, it doesn't frighten her, but it alarms her, puts her on the defensive, backing up until she hits a wall. Not literally, but the wall is there all the same.
     "I d-" Whatever she was going to say, it's interrupted, abbreviated by your sudden presence, by your hands on her hips. She isn't prepared to push you away for it - not just for being there, though it's tempting. Her expression has made a return to wariness, but with a certain vulnerability she isn't quite able to chase away as she listens to you.
     She has grown accustomed to being told she's young, to that dismissal because of lack of experience - and for all that she's rejected the argument, bitten or pushed away or walked away, it has left an effect. Say a thing often enough, and you'll have people believing it's true...
     She allows you to lift her hand, though with a suspicious watchfulness that has almost an element of melancholy as she watches. "...Alright. As long as you do give it back," Fiona mutters. She wants to pull away, and yet she doesn't. There are things she wants to say but can't, and things she could say but won't. It leaves her almost tongue-tied.
     There's a small nod to the ring, and then the grey eyes lift to watch you again, waiting to see what you do with the ring. The gentleness is almost worse; she's been braced for the push and challenge, and now it's gone and she doesn't know what will be next.

     He takes the ring from your hand without looking at your face. He looks at the ring instead. His hand still holding yours, his other now holds the ring. "How does it feel without it on? It's a heavy ring. I won't say I remember when it was stolen or how. I don't. Solid gold. Multiple karat stone." But what does it mean, Fiona?
     Rhodri lifts his eyes from the ring to you, as he slips it back on your finger. "I love my father, but for you I'm the better man. The ring around your finger should be the one I give you as I tell you that I love you. Feel the gold of it now. A ring ... between a man and a woman should be as comfortable as the two hands clasped. You should be able to wear it, and feel my hands." He holds your hand. "I want you to give this ring back, Fiona. Let me give you one with meaning."
     Has he brought you here for this? Has he brought you here to propose to you? For his eyes hold a shine and a directness, an earnestness, a vow and a pledge. Lightly his hand balances yours, lightly his other lies upon it.
     "You asked me if I could see the future, mentioned my clairvoyant sister. No, she's not the only one," Rhodri whispers. "But I don't need to see the future to know that I'm the one who loves you and I'm the one who'd give you a better life. There is no one I would love before you, no cause I would put before your cause, and no woman I would rather learn to know, as much as I already appreciate her. We would be foolish, worse than foolish I think, to let this go. You can't tell me the lie that you don't feel it." He smiles a little. "I think your heart knows the answer. Don't be so stubborn that you lead it astray..."
     Rhodri lifts your hand to his mouth. Long is the kiss that follows, closed his eyes. And there are visions there, pictures beneath your skin, in your mind, moving as Davydd's words have done against your blood. Of what a life would be with this man before you now. A marriage for this world and all worlds. An existence without division, whose secrets are shared.

     She watches you look at the ring, listens to you speak in absolute silence. Watches you put the ring on her finger again, not saying so much as a word as she listens to you, breath catching unsteadily in her throat. She is listening, straining as if to hear something beneath the words, beyond the moans and sighs that are the background and ambiance of this place.
     You pour your words out to her, and it's obvious that she's affected; human she might not be, mortal she might not be, but she is a creature of emotions, strong currents that can be touched. And then you lift her hand again...
     Fiona watches you, watches the visions that sink and swim against the heart of her, and her expression grows sorrowful, eyes liquid-bright with the sheen of unshed tears, the colour high in her. She sways for a moment, then catches herself, waiting until you raise your lips from her hand, until your eyes are again open.
     "I'd better be going," she says simply. She blinks, and tears spill from the corners of her eyes. "I'll see you around."

     "You'll see me," he promises as he sets your hand free. Because he's said it, admitted it, promised it: once his heart is set on something, he never gives it up. Not even if it marries his father. "If he calls me looking for you, where shall I tell him you'll be?" He doesn't presume you're going to return to the pub.
     His heart is out there, his desire is out there, he wears it on his sleeves, on his shoulders, on his chest, and on his face. It is evident there, his love, his desire, his concern for you, his respect for you, his knowing that he has to let you go.
     Rhodri makes no move to hide it. He exhales, hands on his hips (rather than folding against his chest), and the air shimmers as his Kelly appearance is firmly back in place, even the clothing changed. "I'll take you wherever you want to go, no need for you to get a cab. No more words of love and marriage or rings or sex or anything else." He offers his hand to shake on it.

     Fiona shakes her head, looking down as the tears continue to trickle down her cheeks, leaving marks in the makeup to show where they've been. "I'm just going to walk," she says simply. "If ... if he wants to find me, he always knows how to. But he's busy right now, and - I'll be fine, Rhodri. Just tell him I'm working on things and to get back to straightening out his business. Besides, he's got my number." And so do you, even if she doesn't hate you for it.
     No, not back to the pub, even if she doesn't know where she is going. But she's going... somewhere else. The world suddenly feels too strained for her.
     She looks up at you, looks through you; it doesn't matter to her what skin you wear, you can see it. But she doesn't take your hand. "I'll walk, thanks. That's how this started, you know. It's a little earlier than it was then, but ... walking's good for you, right?" Her voice wobbles on a laugh, and she has to look away to save herself the shame of further tears. "I'm sorry. I know you're right - but he needs me. You want me. There's a difference."

     Smiling, the hand turns to a fist to stretch itself and then moves away. "Walking's good," Kelly notes, wistfulness settling in. "It can be very healing, I hear. Constitutionals, I think they call it," now his arms fold over his chest. "Go on then," he whispers. "I'll talk to you ... later."
     Sometime.
     He twists, turning as you speak the last, his mouth cutting a slant of a half-smile, half-frown. That's not exactly what he wanted to hear. He can't imagine what it was like to say. But it clears after a moment. "I'll always be here, Fiona," he says. "You know I'm right, I know it. When the universe knows it, we won't have to part like this, that I do promise. In the meantime," he exhales, "... be safe, but not too safe," he smiles to you suddenly, "...be brave, but not too brave, my lady. Leave me something to do, won't you?"

     "Being right isn't everything, Rhodri. Sometimes things don't start out right. Sometimes they aren't right for a long time - not until we make them right." Fiona pulls a hand through her pigtails, pulling them down, colour streaking away until it's back to its former length and colour, cascading down past her hips. "I'm not lazy, whatever else I am. If he doesn't want me," the words stick in her throat, and she continues, humbly, "if he doesn't want me, then that's something else."
     She moves a few paces towards the door, wrapping her arms around herself and squeezing tightly. "But he hasn't said that. I know he's trying to shut me out. He's afraid - I've even gotten him to admit it. I know that about him; I understand it. But I love him, and I believe he's not lying when he says he loves me. So it all comes down to if he's willing to marry me for love instead of ... of convenience, or an unwillingness to hurt me, or politics. And I don't know that he'll come back to me at all, Rhodri."
     She doesn't know; it's there in the set of her shoulders, the bow of her head. She doesn't know, and she is desperately afraid of what the answer will be. "He's been living for himself so long, Rhodri - I don't think he knows how to recognize that I'm here for him, no matter what. And even if he notices, he probably won't know what to do about it - he'll just call me 'young' or naive, or ... well, by any other name, stupid. But I've got to try... even if it means I fail. Because..."
     She takes another couple of steps towards the door, clothing transforming as well now, the PVC and the leather and all the rest, turning into pale grey, ash-colored thick cloth, a loose tunic belted at the waist and darker grey leggings of some sort. Only the boots remain unchanged - that, and the ring, glowing like a living coal on her hand. It's particularly visible as she places her palm on the doorknob, looking back at you for a long moment.
     "Because if nothing else, he hasn't betrayed my faith yet, Rhodri. No matter how much you and he both say he will - and I acknowledge that he could be right now," Fiona says quietly, the makeup gone, leaving her face seeming the more naked beneath the weight of tears, "one person has to believe in him. And if I'm the only one who'll have that faith that he can do something other than fuck up, then so be it. And if I'm wrong... I've jumped off bridges before, haven't I?"
     The click of the doorknob punctuates the words, and she turns to step out into the hall, one naked person among the nude.

Posted by rowan at October 20, 2004 07:09 PM