It's an hour past sunset; Fiona is, after all, well-trained by now. Well, in that, at least. She's made a cup of tea and she's drunk it, she's had a shower and she's gotten dressed in grey and green and purple - jeans, turtleneck, vest. Her hair's been braided and piled atop her head, fastened into place with the help of silver combs, the curtains parted from the living room window to peer sightlessly out at city streets and city lights.
     London, I'm home...
     She doesn't know how she's going to do this, only that she's got to, and though it makes her a little sick at heart, she ignores the nausea in favour of the cellphone. A click, a press of diminutive buttons with a dainty fingernail, and there it is : a sound not heard in nature. Do you have a special ring-tone for her? If so, what must it be like...

     It rotates, depending on his mood. Somedays it's Girl From Impanena, some others it's Cold Hard Bitch. Today, it is set to a prophetic Things We Said Today...
     An hour after sunset finds him out of the shower but still in the process of dressing. Well, he hasn't gotten that far. There's only the towel, his hair's still wet, and only half of his face is shaved.
     "Humph," he's brushing his teeth (there's an extra set to keep healthy these nights) and pauses to spit, wiping his mouth. "Hey there, how are you?" His voice is honest, warm, deep, but quick. Not the lazy tones of Junior.

     "Hey, Old Man." Fiona can't help but smile a little bit. She's missed you; it colours her tone with warmth despite herself. She's leaning up against the wall next to the window, one arm stretched up along it and her cheek to her sleeve. "I'm not doing so badly. Hope you're the same. I was wondering if you had time for dinner and to see my new place..."
     It's more to it than that, and she hesitates; she doesn't like not giving you any warning at all. It feels too much like lurking behind the doorway with a cast iron skillet, just waiting for you to walk past.
     "Besides, we should probably discuss some stuff," she adds, tone pragmatic. That's true, and fairer. "And you'll get a meal out of it, at least. Unless you've already made plans for dinner?"

     "Old man," he grumbles, "...you're going to give me a complex, you are. Sure, dinner sounds great. I don't have any plans. I could use something to eat." The way he says that, it's likely not steak he has on his mind. "It's good to hear from you," Davydd says after a moment, his voice a bit less clippy.
     It seems he's missed you, too...
     "I'm doing alright," he notes. "I've been going about a million miles an hour, but it seems like I'm standing still most nights. I haven't even popped round the pub to grab a beer. I'm fucking sober, if you can imagine it."
     Discuss stuff. That sounds ominous. "When do you want to meet?"

     "Well, depends. Do you want me to cook, or shall I have something sent up? Or are you just planning on gnawing on my neck?" The words are spoken lightly, but with an element of truth to them. If she were a lesser woman, the prospect might frighten her. Or enslave her. One of the two.
     "Come on over, we can discuss your million miles an hour - who knows, maybe I can even help. I've been pretty busy myself, though half of it I'm still sort of in shock over and the other half isn't moving fast enough to suit me." Fiona cradles the phone between cheek and shoulder, one hand on the base of it. "And I can definitely get you some beer."
     A thought occurs to her and she laughs. "Hey - does this mean I'm trying to take advantage of you? Not but that it'd take a lot more than a beer... anyway, I'm over Pashmina's, either way. Which is it to be, then?"

     "Pashmina's works for me. I could do with some spicy takeout. How about you order, won't take me long to get there." He grins suddenly, his earthy voice sounding in a rich laugh, "Oh aye? Taking advantage of me? As if it's difficult. Jesus," it sounds like Jaysoos.
     Davydd sighs, "Alright, I'll be there in about half an hour. I need to finish shaving, get dressed and head over. Need me to pick up anything, love?"

     "Can't think of anything. I've got almost anything I'd need - if there's anything you'd need, you let me know. Love you, you old bastard." Fiona says it with a trailing, lingering sigh that has a smile in it for all the wistfulness. It's True, after all...
     She doesn't wait for replies, this time. Instead, the phone's clicked off, and another number called - Rhodri's, or barring that, Davy's. After all, she's got to give warning as is only Fair. It's such a pain in the arse, being fair all the time. What's to be said? 'The eagle has landed'? No...
     "The dragon is dining. Just so you know. Got to order dinner - will talk later." And then to call Pashmina's...

     He walks the streets of The City with a difference. There are few separations now between the cobbled streets and the rolling wild vineyards and hills of Avalon. Tonight he won't be combing the streets for those who were made and abandoned, he won't be slicing through the separation that exists between The City and the Otherworld.
     Tonight he will be dining with his future betrothed...
     It wasn't really a break-up but it's had its moments. In quiet evenings, he's had time to wonder about his own decision. Each time, coming to the conclusion that he was right.
     But when a bed that was so full is suddenly so empty...
     It's about thirty-five minutes past the click of the connection's ending when you hear his steps in the hall outside your door. Shave and a haircut sounds loudly after.

     There's food by then - Pashmina's doesn't take time on the delivery items. It's on the table, and steaming fragrantly. But it's a contained steam - reflected back inwards by plastic and foil-lined lids fitted into place, aluminum bent into position. There's even Guinness in tall yellow and black cans, waiting for their rightful owner. And the door is opened...
     "Hey." Fiona leans in the doorway with a crooked smile. The cellphone's off now, nowhere in sight. It isn't needed and it isn't wanted. "Fancy that, you actually made it. Come on in, stray, let's see if I can't find you some food."
     And there is still that leap in her chest when she sees you, still that pleased almost-surprise that you're here - that you care, that she loves you. Even if things have changed, it's still there for you to see, in the cloudless blue of her eyes. She holds her face up to you, clearly expecting - and demanding - a kiss, some salute as you enter beyond anything just commonplace. You're not commonplace people...
     "Come on in," Fiona repeats, "and warm yourself by my fire..."

     He's cut his hair, it's quite short, quite copper to the point of burnished. He's in a leather coat, a grey sweater, and black trousers, looking every bit the New London Male. His face is smoothened with his own immortality but his eyes still crinkle in the corners like a thirty-some-year-old man's would as he smiles at you.
     He kisses you in greeting, a hand to your hip. And there's another kiss when it's demanded, his mouth parting at your lower lip and suckling it until it's red. "Hey," Davydd rumbles. He holds still for a bit, he drinks you in, he smells you, the sense of you around overwhelming.
     "It feels like it's been longer than it has. Time's funny that way. You look great. Gah, food...food would be fucking royal. I'm knackered." Davydd gives your rear a gentle pat and moves to head to the beer and the food. "So what've you been up to? Getting back to the old pad at least." He pauses, pivoting to look at all the changes, "...though you've redecorated. It looks good. You happy here? You look good," he says again.

     "Mmm. You look good too." She says it with some warmth, arms going around you before parting and putting her fingers to her mouth, closing the door behind you and twisting the locks into place. Oh, yes, she's missed you. Fiona moves to the table, setting plates - cobalt blue glass, they are, with drinking glasses to match - apart from each other, then beginning to open up the food.
     "I thought it was time to change some things," Fiona remarks as she breaks out the naan first, tumbling the pieces onto a plate and sliding it in your direction. "Have a seat, I can give you the grand tour," all three rooms left of it, "once you've eaten, you're that knackered. But I like being here. It's a good place for me to be, even if I'm not all punk anymore."
     And she turns a sliding grin onto you, all puckish and filled with a moment's mischief - that's a Drancy mischief, wild creature of hunting and gaming. After all, she mightn't be all punk, but punk is on the inside nonetheless.
     "I'm glad you like it, though," Fiona continues sedately a moment later, turning to open up lamb korma and chicken kashmiri and a beef curry, giving each a stir with their own spoons and arranging them in a triangle in front of your plate. The herbed rice is opened next, turned out into a bowl and given a quick fluff. "D'you like the bowl of apples on display? Note that the bowl doesn't open, by the way..."

     "They're lovely. Maybe for dessert," he quips as he takes a seat and takes a Guinness with the same smooth motion, as if taking a beer were the natural punctuation for every move. He regards you as you speak of change and looks to his beer then to nowhere in particular as he takes a swallow.
     "It's a lot like you -- more than what it seems. I always liked it. Close to the gallery, close to the clubs, real close to great take-out. What's not to love." He takes another swallow of the beer and reaches for the plate you slide his way. "A tour would be grand," he grins, playing on the words.
     But he's a bit more sedate than you're used to. Maybe he misses you more than he realized till he saw you again. Maybe he doesn't want you to know. Maybe he's just tired. He picks at the bread, dipping it in the variety of juices available. "It's been a wild while. I don't even know how much time has passed."

     "Time passes. Less than a year." Fiona shrugs a little bit, helping herself to the lamb and rice, arranging it on her plate. She still eats as you remember - hungrily, as if every meal might be her last until she's full, and then more sedately. Unless she's got her good manners on, of course, but right now, she's eating heartily, wiping her mouth with her napkin to show breeding and decorum. "I've missed you, you know. I know you're busy, so I try to stay out of your hair - and I've been busy with my own things..."
     What things are those? She hasn't said, has she? But the flat's likely part of it. "I've been putting my money to work for me," Fiona continues, still calm, still contemplative. She isn't angry; she's working up by degrees. "Among other things. I've got longer term plans than I used to - I should be filthy rich within the next five or ten years, though I'm already showing some signs of profit - I'm currently working on setting up a scholarship program through a youth in the arts programme in Cheapside."
     She's got her own drink - cider, sweet and fermented. It's in one of the cobalt glasses rather than can or bottle, and she brings it to her lips, the scent of apples following. "I'd ask how your own work's going, but I figure either you're not ready to talk about it yet or you can't tell me, and I'd hate to put you in an uncomfortable position. So ..."

     "It's going okay," he notes quietly. "Not sure how interesting it is." He cuts a quick smile and winks, dark forest eyes gleaming. "No, it's going well actually. I'm opening ways to access Avalon, access my kingdom from the city itself, so those who need to can seek its refuge. It will find them, in their hour of dire need. The thorn forest's been removed... I spend most of my nights out near the warehouses, wharfs, tenement flats, looking for those no one else gives a shite about...whatever sort of being they may be..."
     Davydd looks up at you in between eating and drinking and explaining to see if your eyes have glazed over in boredom and he tilts a smile. "There's not much to say yet, and what's out there is so theoretical I'm not sure it makes sense, but there you have it. That's good about your handling your business. I'm glad to hear it. That's a relief to me, not that I thought you wouldn't be able to take care of yourself," he interjects before you have a chance to protest.
     "I'm glad you called," Davydd says after another moment, another bit of lamb, "...I didn't know whether to call or not... or whether you might want more... I don't know... time or space or sommat. So, it's not as if I haven't been thinking about you, I just didn't want to... intrude on you..."

     "Davydd." Fiona rises to her feet, nudging her plate aside and moving round the table to behind you, putting her hands on your shoulders and leaning to kiss your hair. "You're an idiotic man, but I love you. If you've been staying away, it's yourself you've been punishing." Her gaze is clear as she says this, voice strong but not strident. She pulls her hands away, then moves to next to your chair to look down at you, arms over her chest.
     "I've taken you at your word in everything you've said to me. I trust you to have told me the truth, and that this is to fulfill your purpose. And in fulfilling yours, I am learning more about mine." She speaks carefully now; this has not been rehearsed, but the words come to her as if they were scripted. She pulls out the chair closer to yours now, sinking onto the edge and leaning forward to steal a piece of naan off your plate. "I'm glad that the thorns have been removed. I think it's good - there shouldn't be barriers around your kingdom, not if the way between the worlds is to flourish, never mind the kingdoms themselves. Though for what you do on this side, wouldn't it be better if you had a base of operations? Not necessarily for yourself, but for them - those you seek to help."
     It's not as much of a change of topic as it might look. Her hands fold into her lap, and she looks at you, waiting a moment before she speaks again, carefully again. "Are you afraid that because you're busy with your own work, that I'd forget you? That my life would become so full that there would be no room for you, and calling would only reopens wounds in me or in yourself?" Fiona watches, but the words are said without anger or even sorrow; it's a question, and she answers it in the same breath. This, at least, is something that she has thought about. "I love you. I don't give myself easily, and once I do, it doesn't just ... 'go away'. I'm not waiting a hundred years in loneliness and solitude, but I miss you. And I'll take whatever I can get of you until the stars," she smiles faintly, "come right."

     Davydd smiles easily but there's a bit of wan knowing there, too. "Aye, I know it, girl," he reaches back, an arm surrounding you. "And I gave my word honestly. I told you truly. As for my ... base..." He tips his head back and looks at you. "London is my base. But it's a big city, darlin'. And it's a lot of work to tend it. And it's more work to find those who don't want to be found, or don't know they should be. But then, a Welsh prince...or king...is but a glorified shepherd."
     He grins at that and his mood seems to lift, like sunrise golden across formerly cloudy skies. "No," he shakes his head, turning to look at you as you take a seat beside him, closer beside him, "I'm not afraid that you'd forget me." As he looks at you, you can see he's not blowing smoke. "I just didn't want to... bother you if you were needing some time apart, is all. I disappeared that evening before you woke. I had to go. I suck at goodbyes anyway. I get all fucking emotional and shite," he nearly gripes that out, his voice gravelly warm. "So, anyway," another swallow of the Guinness, "...it was a scene best missed."
     He can't eat as much as he used to. At least not bread and meat. He's still working on a ...newer constitution. But beer and cigarettes? No problem there. His right hand smacks the pack against the palm of his left hand twice and this a cigarette pops out, lit in seconds. Quick, far faster than he was once.
     "I know you do. And I love you, too, Fiona..." He nods to that, he looks at you and then he looks to the ash he taps on his mostly empty plate. No leftovers then. Dark green eyes lift to you past bronze-copper lashes, fixing on you. You seem to have something to say and he's waiting to hear it, the sound of the other shoe dropping. "I don't want you to wait a hundred years in solitude," Davydd shakes his head slightly, tapping away the ash again.

     "That's good, because I'm not going to." Fiona lifts both hands to your head as if in benediction, staying close to you, touching a cheek and then leaning out again. "It was hard, waking up and finding you gone," she admits, voice softening. "But I didn't blame you for it. I knew. Things all have to happen, and sometimes it hurts, but I know you weren't having fun with it. You didn't leave in order to abandon me, and you didn't leave me for another woman. You left because you have work to do, and while I mightn't like it - I can live with it."
     She reaches across the table for her cider, bringing the glass within range, and she looks to you again, expression frank, open - love and regret are both there. "I'm no good at patience, but it's been forced on us. But I'm not going to be alone. I'm going to get married, Davydd. I don't think that I'm going to have children - I might change my mind, but I think that I want my first children to be yours. And that should wait until you're done."

     "I don't want you to wait on my account," he shakes his head. "I really don't. If you choose to... it doesn't matter if my children are first or...whenever they are if they ever exist. Whenever we would have them, if we were to have them, they would be our first. So... just so you know. I really don't want you waiting if you really want something..."
     Davydd takes a breath here and releases it, stamping out the cigarette and looking at you past the dying smoke. "That's the second time you've said you're not going to be alone," he quietly remarks, the corner of his mouth upturning and his eyes sharpening. "So, what's going on, love... hmmm? You said there was something we needed to discuss or sort out..."
     The next move is yours and he's waiting for it. That you have some sort of news he now suspects and his dark eyes measure your face for evidence of it.

     "If I change my mind, I'll let you know. But yes, it is the second time. What I tell you three times is true." Fiona smiles, glancing down and then up again, smile fading to a ghost as she regards you, hands in her lap. "I'm going to get married, Davydd. And under the circumstances, I wanted to tell you first, so that you can know, and so that you can decide how you feel about it, and ... how you want to deal with seeing me. Because marriage or no marriage, I'm not going to give you up - unless you make me, and even then I'm not going to stop loving or wanting you."
     She laces her fingers together, then unlaces them and relaces them the other way, watching the movements of her digits before transferring her attention back up to your face. "I'd like your blessing," Fiona says honestly. "But I don't know how you'll feel. I'm not going to draw it out and make you ask. It's Rhodri."
     Well...
     The cat's out of the bag...
     And Fiona sits there, watching you, waiting - she's said her piece, and there's no point in adding to it now, it'll just look like some sort of excuses, and that's just what she doesn't want. But there's that faint tension in her shoulders and in the pit of her stomach as she watches you, trying not to look afraid. But for all her fear, it isn't that you might hurt her...
     Or even that you might hurt him...
     It's the fear of losing you that has her sitting so still...

     His eyebrows quirk upward but then his expression draws inward. Like he's hitting an internal rewind button and listening to it again. And again. And again. Until it can be absorbed. In his silence, there is only a breath exhaled. Davydd puts his elbow on the back of the chair and his hand makes a prop for his head.
     He looks at you, dark eyes unwavering when they lift, when the rewind button is pressed for the last time. "Are you marrying my son because you love him, or because he gives you a bit of me until you can have me. Or is there some other reason." His voice is very even and he's a lot more calm than perhaps you expected. He's surprising himself. But maybe it's not calm.
     "Have you ... been intimate with him... It might not be my right to ask, but I'd like to know..."

     "I love him on his own grounds - not as a substitute for you, Davydd. There could be no substitute." She isn't being flippant; it shows in her voice and in her eyes. "His sins aren't the same as yours. And yes, I've been ... intimate with him."
     You have a right to know some of it, even if not all of it. She is not defensive about what she says, though that tension hasn't entirely dispelled yet. Fiona watches you, waiting a moment, hands still laced together in her lap. "I can't ... use people like that, Davydd. I love you. I love him. But you're two different people - practically different sides of the same coin, even. You have a shared history, but my loving him isn't about you. It's about him. You ... you're in a category of your own."

     "I've a double vested interest, I guess you could say. Not that I'd think you'd do such a thing. I just... wanted to make sure. And... how does he feel about you. I suppose it's something more than a passing fuck if he's given you a ring. If he's in love with you, it'll save me kicking his thieving shite arse..."
     Alright, so he's a little bitter...
     "I just want to know that it's for love's sake, that's all. But, you know, I'm not going to sit here and play the hypocrite and pitch a royal fit." Maybe that was for the tension popping against the air.
     Davydd looks across the table to his beer, but he doesn't reach for it. "Do you have any vodka... beer's too heavy. I can't digest food like I used to. Not in the same way. I'm still sorting it out. Alcohol... evaporates faster, absorbs differently. It's... easier for me... if you have it." He's being phenomenally civil. That can mean that he's not that upset about it, or it can mean he's devastated but being macho. At least none of your furniture looks to be beaten.
     Davydd snorts a short laugh, then rolls his eyes at himself. A shake of his head, "Well, of all the men I thought you might end up with, I suppose my son was one of them. He's... a chip off the old tree. You're... happy, then? And let's leave the feelings for me out of it for now. I ... don't doubt them, Fiona. You're... happy with him..."

     "I've got vodka, yes." Fiona stands up, moving into the kitchen, opening up the freezer and pulling out a bottle. Grey Goose. She's been treating herself. "He's given me a ring. Give me some credit too, Davydd. I didn't just tumble into bed with you at the first opportunity - or the second, either. Do you really think that I'd have let him talk his way into my bed on the basis of hormones?"
     It's said with almost stoic calmness; for all that her furniture appears safe, her stomach has yet to unknot itself. She comes back from the kitchen, moving up next to you and leaning up against the table.
     "Davydd ap Owain," Fiona says severely, setting the bottle down with a solid thump in front of you, one hand still on it as if to say 'don't tempt me, you'. "I'm not going to leave the feelings for you out of it, because it's my heart and I do with it as I want. Yes, I'm happy with him - as I was with you, and as I intend to be with you when you let me, and as I intend to be in the future - again, if you let me. As far as I am concerned, this is not 'instead of'. I love you both, and I want you both, and I'm greedy enough that if I can, I intend to have you both. I can see where you're going with this."
     She unscrews the top of the bottle, then holds it out to you. "I didn't choose him over you. Stop preparing to make yourself miserable. The only thing between you and me right now are our clothes and your own unhappiness."

     "You really are crazy," he quips. "Two welshmen. It's like asking God for a second evil head. If anyone's preparing to make themselves miserable, it's you," he snorts. "But some women need a challenge," he notes after, taking the bottle and taking a drink from it directly. Since there's no accompanying glass...
     Davydd's quiet for a bit again. He seems to be listening. He's still absorbing the last five minutes, to be honest. "Well," a deep exhale, "... the upshot is... if there were a man I would pick, despite the fact that he steals anything that isn't nailed down, it'd be Rhodri. He's a good man, at his core. And if you do ...have his children...they'll be my direct descendants, as well."
     Dark eyes lift to you. "I love my son, he's a friend, brother, confidante, partner in crime. If you're wondering whether it'd sour anything with him, don't worry. We've done this before," he smirks. "Mind you, it never happens in the other direction, I've not stolen a single coin from his pocket or bird from his nest, but ... he's a man that when his heart is plucked, it's plucked. And I know he doesn't fall in love at the drop of a hat. So... I can respect that this is difficult for you both. I can ...sympathize with that, so I won't be... getting in the way of it, pitching a fit, picking a fight..."
     Another swallow of vodka taken, Grey Goose downed like cheap Stolichnya. He exhales another breath as he sets the glass aside and turns about in the chair as if he's about to stand up and go, but he doesn't. He just changes positions so he can lean forward, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands, hands rubbing the copper head and making the short, thick hair stand up as he brushes through it.
     He has the usual questions going through his head: who do you prefer, and all of that rot. But Davydd doesn't share it. He swallows that in a few moments of quiet, moments followed by him sitting up and looking at you. "I'm staying here tonight," he announces. "I'm probably going to get drunk."

     "I love your son too, and I'm glad that you'd pick him for me - aside, of course, from yourself." Fiona watches you from her position, sensitive to your moods, perhaps trying to guess your needs, perhaps not. "As for crazy - well, Old Man, I fell in love with you first, if that's any consolation, and you /were/ my first. The Adam to my Eve, and oh, but there's been apples in it, hasn't there?"
     She smiles at that, reminiscently, eyes glowing in the light. And still she watches you.
     "You're always welcome here. Let me just draw the blinds so that no matter how drunk you get there'll be nothing to come of it." Fiona rises to her feet, moving across in ballet slippers to twist venetian blinds, draw shutters in and pull the drapes closed. She takes no chances. "I've only got the one bottle of Grey Goose, but I've got other stuff if you like. Or, of course, there's still always me."

     He moves as you move. It is an explosive motion, quicker than a human, something unfairylike. As the blinds fall, he is tossing himself onto the sofa and kicking off his Docs. You've seen him like this before, you know the mood and he knows you know it. You saw it at Davy's at least once, when he and Sandrine weren't speaking. Just call him Atlas, he shoulders it all himself.
     Propped up so he can drink uninterrupted, Davydd takes a swallow of the vodka and sets the bottle on the floor. "Yeah, well... it's easy to seem amazing to a woman who has nothing to compare you to," he chuckles. "So... what does he do that you like? If I'm going to have a rival, you have to give me his secrets..."
     "The vodka's fine," Davydd notes a few minutes later, arm lying across his eyes to block out the artificial and electrical light. "Come over here..." he moves his arm away and he looks to you, his complexion ruddy and high, like it was so frequently after you first met. Before the pallor of his new... existence set in...

     "You are being a git." It's not in a scolding tone, though. Fiona moves from the window, turning to you and watching you, blinking at the speed of your motion. She doesn't know how to do that. But she goes over to you nonetheless, sinking down next to the sofa and leaning forward with her forearms folded along it, one hand playing loosely against your side.
     "He's not better than you. He's different. I like what you do. I like what he does. And," Fiona sighs, "he likes to give me a hard time about how much I like you both..." Now the colour rises high in her own face at unbidden images and fantasies. She closes her eyes, then reopens it, as if resetting a picture frame.
     "Do you want me to turn off some of the lights, or dim them? I've got candles," Fiona offers, not moving just yet. "I can light them if you prefer. And ... You're different people, Davydd. You gave me one ring. He gave me a different one. You're both tattooed, you're both Welsh, you're both ... majestic," she smiles a little. "And I love you both for who and what you are. Even now, when you're feeling sorry for yourself."

     "I think I'm fucking entitled," he rattles out, "...my son is fucking my future wife. The mother of my children may in fact be the mother of my grandchildren first..." Davydd's eyes widen and he even laughs. "I mean, it's fucking ridiculous, really. Worse, it's so goddamned American."
     He moves again and Motion folds upon itself. In less than a blink, he's sitting up, sitting beside you, his hands resting and fingers interlaced between his knees. "No, no candles," he shakes his head. "Different," he says after a moment. Alright. He takes a breath and lets it go again and then sits up, legs spreading out in a stretch, his arms going wide against the back of the couch. Dark eyes settle on you again, dark forest eyes fathoms deep, as again his hand becomes a prop for his head.
     "So now what, Fiona," Davydd murmurs. "I'm supposing the conjugal visits are going to be out," a wry smirk at that. "You're serially monogamous... and I can't imagine that the thief's going to want to let another thief finger his gems."

     "Why would the conjugal visits be out?" Fiona's eyebrows go up, and now she moves to lean not on the sofa but against your thigh, against your side. "I may love a couple of bloody antiques, but I'm a modern woman, and I give myself where I choose. I have chosen two men - you and Rhodri. No more, no less. Frankly, you're going to be busy enough for a hundred years that you're not going to have all that much time for me anyway. Rhodri will have the rest of my time and attention, he can spare a bit. And when the hundred years are up - well, we've got time to figure out a schedule then. You get night shift and he takes days, or something." She waves a hand.
     She reaches for one of your hands with her own, firm about it as she takes hold and doesn't let go. "The thief already knows that I don't intend to give you up. He'd be here to talk to you except I told him not to, because frankly, this part isn't about him, it's about you and me. You two can talk to each other later if you choose - and I imagine you will. You're too much a glutton for punishment."
     She sighs, then, looking over at you. "Don't forget that your future wife might be your many times descendant," Fiona points out, "and that she's already your queen. Unless you intend to undo that? I'll still be a queen whether or not, but I admit it would hurt if you did."

     He exhales and frowns. It's a glower as he stares at the great wide nothing, giving his upset to the air around him rather than thrusting it at you for you to bear. By the time he looks at you, the frown is seemingly permanent but there's no heat to the look. Or rather, at least no anger. "I'm not undoing it, I'm not here for that. I don't know what to say. It could be worse." He's at least realistic about it. "It could be better," his look goes suddenly humorously wry.
     "There's no point in worrying about it now, at any rate. There's nothing I can do about it, you're in love and happy as I wanted. We'll... just leave it there then. So..." the mouth puckers a moment, "...when's the date?" And I have to dance at it. "When you asked me about your wedding...when I came to...talk about the postponement...had he already asked you?" Dark green eyes cut to you. The question comes out of nowhere, a sudden realization maybe, a lightning bolt. As if he just added two and two and got four instead of twenty.
     The next look comes with a half-smile. Don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. Davydd exhales again, call it what it is -- it is a sigh. "I'll get used to it eventually," he quietly notes. "Maybe not tonight," he clips out, frowning a bit again. "But, at the end of this age, you will be mine. Your children will be my heirs, as if they were my own. I'll have to draw up a line of succession... and give Rhodri's sons or daughters their proper place in my line." He's not sure if you're worried about that or not, but you need not be by his tone and the look that comes with it.
     A squeeze of your hand and Davydd rises, his energy not able to content itself with sitting just now. "I'll say only this, I'll not come second to any man. When it is my time, it will be...my time."

     "He'd asked. I'd said no. He'd told me he was in love with me - and I told him that I loved you, and that I'd promised you everything, and that I wasn't going to break that promise." That honest, Fiona can and will be. She remains where she was, looking at you, expression calm without the earlier stoicism. "When you ... released me from that, by way of the postponement ... his offer remained open. I considered it, and I examined my own feelings, and - what I know, and what I believe. So I ended up saying yes..."
     She leaves her hands available to you, watching you, waiting to see what you will do. "And we spoke about it, and what to do about it, and neither of us wanted you to feel disrespected, or - confronted, or isolated. Because, Davydd - no matter what else, I /do/ love you. I don't want to be another Rose in your life, or ... make you feel that your presence in my life, your influence on me or your love for me is in any way trivial or meaningless. No matter what Rhodri means to me, I wouldn't be who I am now without having met you, without having fought with you, made love with you, argued, kissed, held and been held - you can take at least partial credit for things. Think of my fears when we met. You were the first person I could trust enough to be both naked and unarmoured with for any real length of time."
     Fiona takes a deep breath, watching you rise and move. "As to what happens at the end of a hundred years, you will have your due. The details, I'm going to leave to the two of you to discuss and hammer out and then you two can come talk to me when you've finished your yelling and your fighting and your drinking and if I don't agree, I'll either send you back to try again or - well, we'll see, then. But I think it's fair to say that you will not come second, Davydd. I don't see how you could even worry that you might."
     She rises to her own feet, watching you with something like curiosity, moving towards you but not touching; if your energy needs space, she'll give you a little bit of it. "As for succession ... that is yours to decide. I don't know that Rhodri and I will have children. If we do, it won't be any time soon. I will be too busy for fertility for some time..."

     It is kinetic, his energy. Bombastic. On the edge of bursting at the seams, and yet the fabric of his mood and that of his own power remains in-check, remains held back, remains in control. Davydd walks your living room for a moment, arms folded against his chest. He is in so many ways different from his son, your Other. Where Rhodri would shrug and sit and wait for such histrionics to be done, Davydd is motion, fire, speed and power. Where Rhodri may be an archer's aim, Davydd is the whizzing arrow.
     "I know how love can be," he says. "In a hundred years, how much can change. If I am not here, if I am not with you to nurse your affection, to tend it like the gardener tends to winter pruning for better plants in the spring, will the garden grow wild and in ...other directions?" He makes a frustrated wave. He does not expect an answer to that. It was a question given to the air.
     As his pace leads him back to the sofa, back toward you, making an orbit as if he were suddenly the star approaching his planet, the room gets crowded, his power all around him and meeting yours like the palm of his hand meeting your own. "You'll never be a Rose to me," he assures suddenly, his expression open, warm but still in that half-puzzled way. "You know, unless you and Rhodri did it on my sofa or sommat," he grumbles. "That image is going to be stuck there for days." Green eyes flicker toward the sofa, toward you, and lastly to the vodka. "How about another drink," he offers. "And you can tell me the sordid details. Can't be worse than what I'm making up on my own..."

     "Davydd, it took me years to get over what happened with Paul, and in some ways I'm not entirely 'over' it and probably never will be. If he were to knock on my door again now, I'd probably slam my fist into his face again, out of the sincere belief that his nose will never be quite flat enough to suit me." Fiona watches you, not trying to keep up with you in your wandering back and forth. "My love /is/ a wild thing, but it's not so erratic as you seem to think. And you will see me as much as you choose to see me, as much as you have time for me.I'm not the one keeping you away. There are no 'no Welsh kings here please' signs on my door."
     She settles onto the sofa, pulling off her vest and tossing it somewhat haphazardly in the direction of the coffee table, looking at you with those clear blue eyes. "Sure, another drink is fine. But I'm not sure why you need to know sordid details, Davydd. You're over eight hundred years old and have been having sex most of that time. Are you really that insecure in your technique that you think he's better than you?" Fiona's eyebrows lift. "Because he's not. Come on - take your vodka and sit down and I'll tell you a bedtime story. But you're going to have to give me a damned convincing reason for me to tell you about /that/. After all, I haven't been telling him what you and I do together."

     The sofa squeaks as he gives it his entire weight, and it's a heft thing, all at once, not in gradual terms. The bottle's left on the table for now. As he sits forward, he lights another cigarette. "He doesn't need to know," he stares through the smoke, then glances at you.
     He smirks at the notion of technique. It is a question he's always balked at. Technique? What technique? "Nah, fuck it, nevermind. I'm talking shite as usual. I'm probably better off not knowing. I'm just not sure what else to say..." He billows smoke both through his mouth and through his nose, just like a proper dragon, and then he lifts his eyes. "Will y' come sit by me if I stop pouting?" he smirks suddenly.
     He's not completely out of his mind. He knows he's being moody about the whole thing. Not without reason, mind you. If he came to tell you he was marrying some other bird, imagine the fall-out.
     "I'm being selfish," he says suddenly, "I haven't even offered my congratulations. Nor much of my relief that... at least I don't hate the bastard. I mean, there are plenty of men you could have chosen that I'd want to kill. That Dei sot, for starters. Or Huw, for god's sake. At least he's a good man. I know he'll take care of you, and that he'll care for you. That's why I had you stay with him in the first place..."

     Davydd rolls his eyes suddenly and shakes his head. "I mean, I sent you to him." He laughs. "That's one hell of a ringing endorsement. He's lucky I love him, the cheeky bastard."

     "Of course I will. I just didn't know if you wanted me to." Fiona slides over on the sofa, and then she's more or less in your lap, pressing up against you with a sigh. She still wants your warmth, that much is plain, your strength. There's a relaxation of tension as she eases into you, eyes closed as her palms go to your chest and curl slightly, cheek resting against the front of your shoulder. "And I'm not blaming you for being put out. I'm glad you're not homicidal about it."
     Really, it's going much better than it could have...
     "He loves you also. And you two both know each other better than anyone else - including me." Fiona doesn't open her eyes as she says it. "Anyway, I'm not going to marry Huw. Or Dei. God knows what ever happened to Dei - can't believe you even remember him, there was a time when you were urging me to go chase him, you remember that? But Davydd, I only have room for two men in my life. I don't want more, and I certainly don't want less. So unless you intend to ... bow out ... I intend to hang onto you, you know that, right?"
     Now the eyes open, looking up at you expectantly. "So do you want bedtime stories, or ... do you want to talk about something else, or - what? We both seem to spend an awful lot of time being understanding of each other's potential need for space, and I think in a way it maybe doesn't work so well for us. We're used to crowding in on each other."

     He gives you a nudge, gentle though it is it does move you, and he continues smoking his cigarette. "Sure, why not. I'm man enough to take it. Besides, I'm going to have to keep up with the Jones at some point, aren't I. What sort of bedtime story," Davydd exhales smoke as he sits back, cigarette held safely out of the way, his other arm surrounding you.
     "I don't think we can prance around it, darlin'. I think that if we don't just... get into it, we'll be dealing with it for a hundred years. I mean, I'm touching you, looking at you. I can make up stories on my own or you can tell me the truth of it. Either way, there's going to be a story..."
     Davydd turns his head and takes a drag off the cigarette. It needs to be crushed out. He takes a last drag off of it and his great body rolls forward, crushing it out with a last billow of dragon's breath. "I'm not homicidal. I mean, if I hadn't released you, if I hadn't had to concentrate on these ...other matters, that'd be different. I'd be quite pissed then, if you'd found him or he you. So... now you've had two men, what d'y' think of it... of us... you say we're different... how?"

     Fiona shifts, though remains ensconced close up against you. She's comfortable there. "Different ... I don't know. You're ah, built slightly differently," and now she begins to colour a little bit, "in various ways. You both have a way of going for what you want that ... well. Anyway. You know, it's not like I stayed up all night trying to come up with a graph or Powerpoint presentation!"
     She runs a hand back over her pinned hair, colour high in her face now, and it's plain that she's gotten a bit flustered. "With you, I take your weight and you ride me all night into the headboard. With him, he ties me to the headboard and I keep guessing. With you, it's ..."
     It trails off. It's hard for her to think about it without it leading to other thoughts, more explicit thoughts, and she squirms uncomfortably for a moment, reaching up to rub at where the teeth of the comb bite in near her scalp. "With you, it's ... midnight and mystery and religion and woods. With him, it's - leather and exposed skin and movie cameras. I don't know if that makes much sense to you."

     His arm is around you, he holds you close against him, his hand losing itself in your hair. Deft fingers (his son isn't the only thief) pluck a comb away, tucking it elsewhere for now, letting a wall of golden hair fall down around his fingers. "So I'm old fashioned and he's kinky-moderne?" He smirks at the over-simplification of the issue and differences.
     He expects to be slugged for that one... however true it may be...
      "So... what do you prefer? The mystery and religion or the kink and the leather? Do you like being tied up then?" That's not something you experienced with me, he seems to think it outloud, his expression echoing it. I wasn't your first for that. "I don't want to embarrass you, I just want to know..."
     Davydd looks at you, leaning in, his mouth brushing against your forehead. He sighs there, then tips his chin down and looks at you. "I see you do like it, you don't have to say it. More intense than... " Us is not spoken. The fiery eyebrows knit together again and he frowns a little. "I'll ... file that away for later... so... anything else... he's longer, I'm thicker, what?"

     "Davydd!" Fiona smacks a hand against your shoulder; it bounces off, of course, but she doesn't look apologetic in the slightest, and by now, she's approaching a shade of red seen in supermarket strawberries. The colour might burn its way in. "It's not more intense. It's a different kind of intensity. For god's sake, do I give head the exact same way Rose or Sandrine did? You've been with how many women? You should understand this!"
     She couldn't redden further, but the colour seems to have hit a plateau; it stays, not fading and not intensifying, gripping your thigh with both hands as she glowers up at you from very Drancy-lowered eyebrows even as her hair begins to unwind into her eyes. "I haven't taken a measuring tape into bed with either of you. I don't know who's thicker or longer. As for intense, do you have any idea how much you turn me on? Just because he uses a different method doesn't mean you don't. Can't I like smoked salmon and filet mignon?"

     "First of all, and I want to make this perfectly clear, neither Rose nor Sandrine ever gave head. Rose didn't like to get dirty and I never bothered to ask Sandrine -- I didn't want to be rude. That's what waitresses are for," he laughs suddenly, the first cracking sound of that rolling laughter that you've heard all night. "You, well... I'll let Rhodri continue your training..."
     The grin widens as you grip his thigh, his face contracting in a mock complaint and protest. "Well, let's keep measurements out of it," he rumbles. "That's never a way to settle an argument." At least you found an analogy that seems to work (food). His mouth twists as he considers that. "I suppose," his voice mulls upon the idea of it. "And I understand it...sure...but it's different. Men don't judge like women judge. I can sleep with a thousand women and each one is different. I don't think of comparing them. I never have, I never will. But women compare everything."
     He halts his questions for a few minutes and for that time he's quiet. He looks at you, his hand brushing your hair back. "I ... never got the sense you didn't enjoy it. Maybe it was a little frightening from time to time. I don't know," he murmurs. He sighs finally and rakes his free hand through his hair, leaving it to stand up after. "You're right," he notes and looks to you. His eyes lower and his look goes inward. You're being a silly shite, not just a shite. "Smoked salmon, filet mignon. Sausage, what-have-you." His hand strokes your hair. "You can like them both without the fish not being worthy of breathing water, aye."
     Dark green eyes settle on you, "So... how much do I turn you on? Let's talk about me. Fuck him, he's not here."

     "Oh, so I'm just a waitress, now, am I. See if I serve /you/ food again. Bastard." Fiona scowls for a moment, chin thrust out pugnaciously, then relaxes again with a small shrug. "If you're willing to go down on me, seems to me only fair I try to do the same for you. I mean, well..." It's still a little awkward, talking about sex; she's just not used to putting it into words. The only time she has was with Dot and Lily, and you're neither of those (and thank god for that).
     "It was a little frightening at times. But I didn't mind, did I? I've got a mouth and I know how to complain. As for being tied up - you did tie me up first, you know." Fiona slides forward on your lap, moving to face you while straddling you, resting her elbows on your shoulders so that she can be nose-to-nose with you. "Maybe you forgot. But as for how much you turn me on... let me see if I can come up with a way to tell you that will mean something to you."
     She mulls it over, still at that close range, chin propped on the tips of her fingers. "Here's a pretty good answer, I think," fiona declares with arched eyebrows and a puckish sort of smile. "When have I ever not been in the mood or turned you down for sex?"

     "Did I?" he wonders quietly, fiery eyebrows arching slowly, as slowly as his head tips back to look at you and where and how you settle. "When was that? After I got back from London?" He has to search his centuries' old mental bank for such a thing, such a night. "There was something about vines, I remember." But it's not the same thing, really.
     Davydd smirks, leaning in, mouth parting at your chin. "No... not that you were a waitress. That's what I would use the waitresses of London for, ducky, when I was seeing Rose. There were certain things Rose wouldn't do, so I found others who would. That's how a man finds his way. You've always been rather eager, and very willing, to let me do whatever it is I want. For which I thank you." His hands slip underneath your rear, cupping you to him, hands that massage where they cradle.
     "I won't ask anymore," Davydd murmurs. "If there's something you want to say, say it. But... I don't think I need to hear any more. You don't need to convince me, hmm? I'll try not to think about what you're doing when I'm not around, now that I know who you're doing it with..." His eyes glitter darkly. "And when I see you next time, we'll just go straight to bed without all the noise of conversation..."
     Sighing, he leans in, his mouth finding your neck. There's no biting, no drinking, no kissing even. Just a bit of an 'I'm sorry I'm such a shite' nuzzle.

     "That's what makes it midnight and religion, Old Man," Fiona retorts, but it's lazily said, without heat, with a certain enjoyment of the contact. Her elbows slide away, her arms going round your neck. "I like doing to you what you do to me. I like it when you grab me and pull me close - I like that edge, that thrill just as much as when we're just wrestling. I fight you until I have to give in, and I love giving in to you. You're very good at getting under my skin, and I want to be just as good at getting under yours."
     She holds tightly for a moment, lips gliding along your cheek to your ear where she whispers. "You tie me up in knots without needing leather or rope to do it, Davydd ap arse. And you'd realize it if you were paying attention. Both of you turn me on individually. But I want you - right now. And I don't need apples for that."
     Her head tips back, eyes closing as your mouth finds her throat, and she laughs a little bit. "'I want words to sting, hands to clutch'," she quotes. "Don't you remember? I love you. I want you. I need you, Davydd." Eyes reopen, focus in on you with that faint curving grin. "Not just for sex. For everything. I may not have started out liking you, but I do like you, you know, as well as all the rest. You are a remarkable pain in the arse, but you are also remarkably endearing. You are also, when you're not feeling sorry for yourself or being overruled by the other voices in your head, one of the best men I've ever known."

     "Well, every man can be a good man for five minutes," he teases himself with that, his smile streaking across his face, claiming his entire Self. There's a moonlight moment, when light descends upon him just like sunlight once did -- or the memory of it. "Maybe in a bit," he whispers.
     "My son's not the only one who can be a little teaser."
     For now, he seems content to hold you where you are, his hands cupped beneath you, keeping you pressed to him. "I just like to hear your heart beat," he says softly. "Four-four time. I could compose to this sound." A hand lifts to your face, to lift your chin and direct your mouth to his own.
     But just shy of kissing you, he fixes a look upon your face, dark green eyes giving his worlds to you, thick forests, thicker, twisting vines full of purple grapes, orchards full of fruit. "He can have you for Christmas, but Halloween and Yule are mine. We'll go to Wales...I want you there, in my bed..."

     "Bastard," Fiona murmurs, though she seems to accept being held with a fair grace. It isn't something she minds. She sighs a little. "I've missed the feel of you, the smell of your skin." Her hands rest in place, finding warm pockets of cloth where it folds over a little, warming herself by your fire as she invited you to warm yourself by hers.
     You touch her face, and she accepts that direction, eyelids suddenly heavy with something other than sleep. Sex and mysticism are a hypnotic combination under the right circumstances, and with you, it seems, that has often been under the right circumstances. "Alright," Fiona acquiesces. "I told you we'd spend birthdays together anyway, and as Halloween's mine, that's only keeping my word, isn't it? I," she shivers, just slightly, "like being in your bed. As you should know. Mine seems too small, somehow, and too big at the same time."
     When she is alone, in the middle of the night, even if she is not so afraid, it is still a lonely time, isn't it? She lifts a fingertip to touch your ear, then the side of your throat. "I'm going to surprise you one of these days," Fiona murmurs, half-promise, half-threat. "And I think then you'll see how good a catch I really am. Now ... kiss me, or else, you Old Man. I'll still be a child bride next to you, even given a hundred years." She doesn't give you time, arms tightening around your shoulders as she lifts her face even further, meeting your gaze with a directness all her own.

Posted by rowan at December 10, 2004 09:31 PM