Night has a way of going by oh so quickly and well past the dawn hours when one is so amiably engaged. One might even say she's been rather tied up for the span of time. And when sleep finally came, it came dramatically and violently upon the heels of sexual exertion. She had to have an enviable sexual stamina to keep up with Davydd. But even that, it appears, was in some ways just a warmup exercise for the big leagues...
Fiona has slept deeply before, but not so deeply as this. With visions still glowing faintly as if afterimages of a fire behind closed eyelids, she slid into a sleep so deep and so sound that if she dreamed at all, the first few hours of her sleep at least were so deep that she can recall nothing of them. She sleeps as if she will not move again, sprawling where she's been laid (in every sense of the word), lips slightly apart, skin still flushed, thighs slightly apart with one knee slightly bent, one hand curled closed between her breasts and the other arm draped up above her head. And she sleeps with the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Sleeping Beauty could not have been more enchanted...
But eventually sleep relinquishes its hold upon the slumbering princess (well, noblewoman) and Fiona slowly unpeels one eye to look around. Immediately, she wishes she hadn't, and the eye closes again. A creaky sound, reminiscent of an unoiled gate, escapes distantly somewhere from the back of her throat. "Nnnnghrrr."
The visions came in multiples (not so unlike yourself), flickering in between dreams, remnants of the waking story he told against your skin, marking you with the passing centuries of his own experience. Campfires where a youthful face was illuminated by the flames, golden and burnished in the otherwise darkness, a thief with jewels dripping off his fingers, the engraved and elaborate pistols, the rapiers and blades, the bows and arrows of his stolen outrageous fortune...
He showed you also a more modern age, how Black Jack Davy found his niche in the Victorian Age. Though the era of the highwayman of such legend was gone, he found his way. Fortunes were still there to be made, and still there to be taken. Wherever there was a woman willing to be conquered, there was a gloved hand dripping with jewels...
...But the 20th Century ended such escapades, and in truth he and Davydd both have been wandering since, like great oaks uprooted in such vast violence, the quaking of the earth from two great wars and their greater bombs. Davydd was a flier in both. Rhodri remained on the ground in London during the Blitz, giving shelter to those who lost their homes to German raids, giving money back, turning in jewels for The Cause. Donating silks stolen a century before to help construct new parachutes. Parachutes his father might have to wear...
Perhaps it is no strange thing that he has been resting this past 70 years, and that he is still resting now, still in the bed with you here, not in the kitchen making drinks like the last occasion. Not so far as his side of the bed, even. He lies flush against you, on his side, his face half-buried in the pillow. His eyes are closed tight to block out the fact that it is Day and the rest of the city is awake. His tattoos lie still upon his skin, resting even as he does. But vibrant. Very vibrant.
When you shift in waking, you nudge him. "Hmmm?" comes the throaty-rough sound. A moment later, an emerald eye is opened, sparkling, then going half-mast with the curve of a smile. His hand runs over you, mapping out the contours of your shape, and he bends his head, his mouth finding your shoulder. "Water and aspirin," he wonders, eyes closing again.
She winces at the sound, at the words. They're too heavy for her throbbing skull. One hand comes down to cover her eyes, as if from any hint of light that might enter the room. She'd roll over, except god, that'd hurt too much. "Wnnnh." Fiona chokes slightly, clearing her throat, and her head threatens to explode. Shaking slightly, she rolls onto her side.
There was a regret in her, for the coming of the 20th century, with its end to such overt adventure. She lived through none of that - and yet, it is almost as if she had been born out of her proper time, into an era which was not prepared for her, had no use for her. Of what good is a heroine, a martyr, a ruler, in an age that seeks only to worship fame and fortune? And she has only flirted with the idea of fame and fortune, and found them wanting. No wonder there is that kinship with Davydd and with you. What place does this world have for someone who was born too late...
But those thoughts are far from Fiona right now. She's concentrating all of her energy on forming words, trying to put enough air behind it to make a sound without it causing her eyes to erupt out of their sockets. Finally, she gives up.
Kill me.
Even telepathy hurts right now. She winces, letting herself go limp against the bedclothes, slack on the bed. Oh, she's stiff - gloriously stiff, rather in need of a bath and the primary ache right now isn't one from having been ridden but a sour acrid pain from her liver up through her sinuses. Right now, she might want to kill the dust mites for making so much noise as they jump up and down, but she couldn't do injury even to herself.
Most likely kill you in the morning? Hmm... let me take care of this for you...
Rhodri doesn't move from the bed but he does shift upon it, carefully moving to allow him to place a hand upon your forehead. The dehydration will have to be solved in the usual manner, by drinking a bathtub of water, but in the meantime why should you suffer?
There is a warm ease that moves within you. Called 'ease' for lack of any better term. A soothing balm that moves from your soul and blood and radiates outward in suffuse healing. Inflammation of your systems healed, the pain dissolving though the thirst remains. And throughout the wash of his power within you, there comes the sense of his voice moving in pure chants of Welsh, whispers against your soul and consciousness.
His fingers drum against your forehead and then move away, the magic withdrawing with it, and he rolls over, stretching with a great groan. He rises a moment later (all of him), his body with its morning salute to the sun. Rhodri smiles at you lying there.
The ease comes upon her, and is recognized in fullness by degrees. Fiona's reactions are equally given by degrees. First, the furrow between her brows increases - 'hang on, wasn't I hurting a moment ago?', followed by smoothing out - 'okay, it really doesn't hurt, now'. Then the thirst hits, and her eyes fly wide open. Dear god, water. She rolls over to sit up, almost dizzy with the thirst - and that's when the rest of it hits her conscious mind.
It is evocative - that is the word. The sensation of your voice brushing over her as something more than words alone, the shifts in language and in identity, your movements, your gaze, and she blushes vividly with sudden remembrance.
Oh, yes, this really is the morning after the night before, isn't it...
Fiona reaches for a blanket awkwardly, dragging it over herself and then sitting up, moving to stand while still holding onto the blanket, clutching it around her shoulders with both fists joined at the hollow of her throat. "Dread Pirate Roberts are you, now? I thought you were Black Jack Davy." She stalks for the bathroom, conscious of trailing half of the bedding behind her with one pillow clinging to the train like a fluffy underweighted pageboy who's gotten mixed up.
"A pirate's a pirate. I'm also related to Captain Morgan, the Welsh buccaneer. Well, we'll just say that the apple didn't fall far from the tree..." Kelly Morgan, Captain Morgan. What're the odds? Fairly high, knowing this family. "You going to make it, darlin?" He chuckles a little as he watches you stalk off to the bathroom, pulling bedding and pillows behind.
Naked, he comes behind you, lifting the bedsheet like a queen's train, kicking away the pillow to let you stalk off in peace...
What am I saying?
Chuckling in his throat, Rhodri wraps up the sheet, winding it around his arm and reeling you in like the hooked fish you are. You are caught, conquered, and look in the mirror... you're even marked.
In several places...
When you are reeled in enough to feel the warmth of him behind you, he steals the first kiss of the day against the side of your neck. "Now, you can go," his hand lands in a pat upon your rump. "Water. Eggs. Toast and butter," he announces. "They'll be waiting when you're ready..."
"So you're partly to blame for me being so hung over this morning," Fiona grumbles as she waddles to the bathroom. She squawks as her retreat is abruptly ended, stumbling as she fights to retain her hold on the sheets as you tug her in to be held against you, sheets pulled out of her grip and leaving her to recline back against you in her nudity. Naked man, naked woman - what makes the world go round, right?
She catches sight of her reflection and shivers, shivers for the kiss against her neck. "Bastard," Fiona mutters, though not as if she really means it. It's too soft to quite be a grumble, and it's paired with a bit of a sigh as she steps forward again, into the bathroom. "Don't rush on my account. I need to shower and swallow a few gallons of water."
With that, the bathroom door closes behind her, leaving her time and some thin sort of privacy with which to examine her reflection in the mirror, explore the marks upon her body, the languor still residing in the pit of her stomach to remind her that she has been very thoroughly used with splendor the night before. After a few long, even furiously blushing minutes, the water turns on, and doesn't turn off for nearly a quarter of an hour. Well, when you've got Rapunzel's own tresses, you need a little extra time, even with magic...
When she emerges, she makes a beeline for your closet, making free with one of your t-shirts. Black Jack's lady should advertise the pub where it all began, shouldn't she? She makes a side errand to her luggage for knickers and socks, but doesn't bother with more for now, hair pulled back into a damp ponytail that swings from side to side with the motion of her gait as she aims herself at the kitchen. "Rhoooooodriiiii..." That can only mean mischief.
He's dressed himself, and has already started eating even as he's cooking. Bacon in his mouth, bacon on a toweled plate, eggs starting to bubble into 'over easy' status, and a pitcher of water with rare ice cubes tossed in for good measure. "Oes?" he calls back, smirking. A glance over his shoulder gets the gift of you in a pinched shirt. "You break, you buy," he rolls out with a wink.
Pretty soon, I'll have to start chaining my wallet to my britches. You might become a quick-fingered pick-pocket hanging out with me. He points to the bacon, to the eggs on a plate. "There's tea, too, if you want it. But the water's good and cold, fy glomen gwyn..." My white dove...
I've never stolen anything in my life. Well. I take that back. When I was a punk I did do a little bit of squatting. Fiona saunters up to rest a hip against the counter. "Tea and ice water. You're spoiling me. I think I drank more water than I got on me in the shower, too." She moves to a cupboard, taking down a glass and pouring herself some of the cold water. She reddens a little for the endearment, glancing at you sidelong.
"So what are your plans, today?" She asks as if she has a reason for asking, not looking over you this time as she sets the pitcher down and then starts setting up tea for herself as well. "Before I start expecting you to wait on me hand and foot or kiss you on the cheek and take off running. We ... probably should talk a little bit." Just not about last night. It makes her stomach twist again, and she won't be able to get through breakfast, let alone a serious conversation...
"Let's see... don't need to be at the bar until five o'clock. Bit of paperwork, look at the receipts from last night, bartend if I care to. Not much is happening. It's Saturday night, open mike night. I wasn't planning on singing necessarily..." He pauses to eat some of the scrambled eggs, a bit more bacon, and he reaches for a cup of coffee.
The attire is strictly Rhodri: black jeans, a red designer tee with black writing (Welsh if you look closely, 'The Battle of the Trees'), black Docs, his hair undone to hang at his shoulder blades, rich red. He looks freshly pressed -- there is more than one bathroom after all.
He chuckles at the notion of waiting on you hand-and-foot, giving you a look up and down. "Sure..." he waves you to take a seat at the table and is pushing off the kitchen counter to do the same.
She moves to the table, carrying her mug and her glass both with her - two-fisted drinker. She won't be drinking the way she did last night again, not for some time to come. Settling into a chair and perching on the edge of it, she sets down both liquids and spreads a napkin onto her thighs. "Just another night for the hard-working businessman," Fiona quips, taking a sip of water and then picking up a fork.
"So..." How to begin? She really isn't quite sure. "I, um. This isn't easy for me to do. I don't even know where to start. So... at the beginning, then," Fiona says, more to herself than to you. "You need to know a little of what's going on. And it'll be a little, because even I don't know more. Davydd has a Holy Mission, now, I guess you could say - he's going off on crusade, he's maybe going to want my help, but while he's on this crusade, he can't marry me. But," she glances up, reddening and her voice growing softer, "he didn't cheat on me. And I do believe him."
How guilty must she feel, for having done so when he didn't?
He laughs quietly then shrugs. "A well-oiled machine begins to run itself after a while," he takes a seat and begins to dig into his eggs. "I do have to review the receipts from last night," he notes. God, food, good. He suddenly becomes as monosyllabic as his father when food is in his mouth.
But you are still speaking...
Rhodri glances up and his gaze settles on you even as he settles back in his chair. "A crusade?" His gaze is wondering but still with that keenness. "He hasn't mentioned anything to me." Unusual. There is an exhalation as you continue. You express your guilt, but he has none. He regrets nothing.
Setting his fork aside and then his plate, Rhodri leans forward and reaches for your hand. "He has been... very reserved, very quiet for the past month or two. And I know you're sitting there blaming yourself, but Fiona... don't spend too much time kicking the shite out of yourself. Hmm? The engagement's off, he's off doing...whatever it is he's doing... and you've nothing to be sorry for."
Looking to your hand for just a moment, his eyes return their attention to your face. "So... what does that mean for the future?" he asks. Then he grins. "I'm jumping ahead. I do that. Please... continue..."
"He didn't tell me much. I don't know about it yet - I imagine when he's got more to tell, he'll tell it, and I imagine you'll be part of his plans then." Fiona manages a halfway smile, then shakes her head and looks down at her own plate, allowing you to capture her hand for that moment. "I'm not - blaming myself for his reservations. Not anymore, at least. We ... worked things out a bit." Even if the Rock is no longer balanced upon her hand.
Picking up her fork, she stabs loosely at her eggs and lets the tines tap the plate beneath lightly. "He's going to be too committed to this endeavor to marry me - to have," she corrects, "the sort of marriage which he knows I want. He's put a time on it - basically, we can be married in a hundred years from now, but right now - no go, mission failure, return to base with the Moon Lander and all of the moon men. And he doesn't want me to wait for him all chaste and medieval, which is good, because if he did I think I'd have had a few harsh words for him." And maybe a television set flying at his head.
She shifts in her seat uncomfortably, glancing up to you; this isn't easy. "He's promised to see me when he can - as far as he's concerned, there won't be other lovers... I mean, I don't expect he'll be chaste, but he's basically said if he had time for other women, he'd have time for me, and it's really about time, not about - the relationship. He gave me the ring to keep, though he knows I won't be wearing it if I'm not - if we're not - you know." Fiona sighs, leaning back in her seat and picking up a napkin, pressing it between her palms and then winding it around a fingertip. "And he's given me the haircombs... and has promised to dance at my wedding."
His fingers toy with yours, steeple there then sets it free. It's a lot to hear and he blinks at it. The way a dog blinks if someone blows in its face. In the end, his eyebrows knit together. "So...you're not engaged, you're free to marry, and he'll see you in a century..." he repeats. Then the eyebrows open outward and he exhales. "That's original."
It takes him another moment to absorb all of that. It was quite the mouthful. "The haircombs are nice, good haggling," Rhodri grins. The smile softens a moment later and he leans forward, arms resting on the table. "So," his green eyes are on the food he's pushed aside, on the space between you, maybe even on your fingertips, "...now what? You are ... free to live your life... find your own joy." Emerald eyes lift to you, his mouth twisting out a smile, the slant of a pick-pocketing smile.
"What do you want to do, Fiona..."
"For all I know, he does this all the time, but he didn't seem ... rehearsed about it. He gave in too readily on things for it to be rehearsed. He didn't kick me out of Powis, though he did tell me he's not going to be there, really - if I wanted to, I suppose I could stay there. But why be there by myself, when I'm ... not really like that? If I want to be lonely and rattle around, the size of the container isn't going to matter much." Fiona shakes her head, suppressing a sigh and scowling down at her plate. "But you've got the details pegged. I'm not engaged, I'm free to marry - I'm free to do as I see fit, basically, and in a hundred years..."
In a hundred years, the world can be changed quite considerably, can't it? She doesn't say it aloud, though. She drops the napkin next to her plate, then looks up at you. "Are you afraid that I'll tell you that I don't want you, Rhodri?" Fiona asks it aloud, not angrily, not even mischievously. "You know that wouldn't be true. I might - be in a bit of a strange place right now, but I'm not going to lie to you. You know I want you - and I think you know that I love you. If I didn't love you, I ... wouldn't be here, talking to you about this. I'd be making some excuse to be somewhere else, and still trying to make up my mind as to how to do this, or ... something of the sort."
There is a small, eloquent shrug, blue eyes meeting your emerald ones squarely, the sensitive mouth quirking a little bit in irony. "I've - got some ideas. Only a few, so I don't know yet. But before I can really decide, Rhodri..." Fiona reaches for her teacup, cradling it for its warmth, in both hands it's lifted to her lips for a deep swallow. "Ahh. You know what you want. But you also know what you can or can't live with - what you're willing to settle for, and what you're not. I don't, unless and until you tell me. Let's," she smiles faintly, "make a deal, shall we?"
He laughs at himself and at you and at this, shaking his head. "Well," his eyebrows quirk up, "...this is a startling turn of events, isn't it. It's a wonder you felt the alcohol at all, your head was probably already swimming with it." Rhodri rises, "I can't do this sitting across a table...it's too... conference-call-like."
His hand is out to yours again, an offer for you to join him. In all senses of the words. "Let's not talk about a hundred years from now. That's too far in the future to reckon and plan. Let's talk about the practicalities of Now."
You speak of deals and Rhodri grins. "You'd make a bargain with me? I'm flattered. What sort of deal? Let's lay it out, darlin', let's get it in the open air. Come on... let's to the sofa..."
"My head wanted to come right off." Fiona smiles a little bit, shaking her head and rising from the table, taking hold of your hand as she stands there. "I'm not sure it still won't. I ... would be very unhappy without him. I know this. But I would also be very unhappy without you." She slides her palm along the ridges of your knuckles, then backs it up and links her fingers through yours with a little squeeze.
"If I can't have either of you - if I can't have both of you - I don't know. But..." Fiona gives a little shrug, with that earlier eloquence and none of her usual awkwardness. "...I'm open to negotiation. I won't just roll over and die. So - to the sofa?"
"I think it is something we are going to have to get used to," he notes, taking you by the hand, leading you slowly to the sofa. "Philosophically, I don't have a problem with it," he looks to you, "...just so that we are clear and you know." He is quiet for a time, as he sits and as he leads you with him. You have the choice: sofa or lap. Both are inviting.
"I think that ... you being in the middle... is not so strange. I have the very real sense that my father and I are taking diametrical positions. There must be a radius to the circle."
Rhodri cracks a sudden smile. "I can spin this shite out for hours. Suffice to say, I have no intention of rolling over either, nor giving you up, nor handing you over to him. Not next week, not in a hundred years. Can we agree on that?"
"It isn't the strangest thing I've had to get used to, but it's ... strange." Fiona grimaces a little bit, allowing you to lead. She doesn't even think twice about it; she sits down on your lap, sideways, hanging slightly off behind onto the sofa and with her legs stretched out on the sofa to the other side. "But you know, getting used to being in bed with a guy who wakes up when I move is weird to me, too."
She places a hand on your shoulder, looking up at you. "I'd rather not be fought over by guys I'm in love with. If you want to get into a fight over me with a guy I don't give two hoots about - be my guest, I'll bring the popcorn. I don't know how to resolve things, but ..."
Fiona looks contemplative, then shakes her head. "I don't want you to give me up or hand me over to him. That would be cheating - and if you didn't love me enough to hang onto me, Rhodri, then why bother? I don't know what a hundred years will bring - I don't know if Davydd will ... well, I don't know. How he'll react, what he'll say, but there's really only one way to find out, and I intend to have both of you if I can. If I can't - we'll figure that out when we get there. I only jump off bridges once I'm on them."
He leans back, an arm given to the sofa, his head resting on his hand. "Well, he's given up his suit, hasn't he," Rhodri notes. "And as such he's given up any right to bitch about it. Saying that he'll see you in a hundred years, while he very well may mean it literally, is rather like saying he'll see you in Heaven for all that may mean. I just think we'll have to cross that bridge with him at some point, but I'm not going to worry about what he thinks. He's given that sort of deferential treatment away."
There's barely a pause. The normally casual rogue seems suddenly agitated. "What really troubles me is that he's off on some crusade, as you put it, without telling me about it. I can deal with his possible anger about us," he dismisses that with a look, "...but you know...he does this. He did it in World War II. He shoulders everything on his own and half the time you have to beat it out of him. It's irritating." And he is very much irritated. His coloring reddens. Just like You Know Who.
He quiets for a moment, quiets until his coloring returns to normal. "Back to us," he pats you on the leg, and then brushes back your hair. "We'll cross that century mark when we come to it. In the meantime, you're mine, woman." He smiles at that. "And my offer very much still stands. I know it's early, I know you and I need to take some time, but...I'm not retracting it. When you're ready for the ring, you just say so and it will appear..."
He lifts your other hand with his, bringing it to his mouth. "Is there anything else? Particulars to discuss? Or are we agreed enough? Oh... do you want to tell him alone, or would you rather I were there?"
"He's not shouldering it as alone as all that if he's said he wants my help." Fiona doesn't protest entirely, but it's a point she feels worth making, even as she notes the rising colour to your face. Ah - familiar ground, this, at least. "I don't refer to him with deference, Rhodri. He is who and what he is, and while that's driven me more than a little mad in the past, it's not something I'm concerned with right now. But it's more of an issue than you're letting on - not his work, I don't ... pass judgment on that one way or the other."
She watches you, eyelashes not lowered this time; there is nothing coy about this exchange. She is being frank with you, as frank as you are with her. "You're very sure of yourself and your possession of me," Fiona answers after a small pause, watching her hand lifted to your lips, watching you speak. She is not unaffected or cold, but she holds herself slightly tensed as she speaks, thigh pressed to thigh, unoccupied hand furled loosely against a knee. "But I do love you both, not just one or the other. And I did arrange for ... visitations. You say you're alright with that in philosophy, but how will this work in practice? I know it's hypocritical of me to expect it to be just fine..."
"Why? I was prepared to do it before, I am prepared now. I was, in fact, prepared to love you and make love to you without his knowledge, and certainly without his permission. Why should having his knowing change that?" Practicalities of a thief again. An eyebrow raised, Rhodri slants a grin. "I am very sure of myself," he murmurs. "I thought you'd gathered that..."
"I have no reason not to be frank and honest with you," he notes after a half-pause. "The deference is mine to give or not give. He is my father, and he's my king. He's due that. Unless he abdicates it, is what I mean. And this isn't the issue. It's not an issue with me... unless I'm expected to give up what I want, as I said. My concern is .. solely with the Unspoken Matter that he's off dealing with. And until he actually asks for your help, he's doing it alone..."
Visitations. The word is such a ...kind phrasing. A euphemism to be sure. "Let's call them what they are, darlin, conjugal visits," he chuckles slightly, then shrugs. "I'm not going to sit here and pass judgment. As I said, I was ...and still am... quite prepared to have my own visitations without his allowance, or even his knowledge. I was already there, you see, when I tied you to my bed that first night," he leans in, words against your ear. His mouth lingers against your neck. "It won't be an imposition to me. I'm not worried about whether you will like X more than Y, or this more than that. We're different men. And as you say, you love us both. And maybe there'd be a time when you'd want us ... both. We're less father and son than two sides of the same Self," he reminds.
Colour rises into her face again, and now she looks down - not coyly, but because it's difficult for her to maintain that steadfast scrutiny of you, now. "You're a horrible, wretched man," Fiona mutters. "You both are. If I were smart, I'd go get myself involved with ... I don't know. Someone like that bloke I met downstairs, Rhys - harmless, normal, natural and uncomplicated. But," she sighs, relenting in the same breath as she'd begun, "I like you like this. Both of you. If I didn't..."
She'd be, as she'd said, somewhere else - and not trying to work things out with you, with your absent father, and with and within herself...
You move in, your mouth against her skin, and she shivers slightly. "Don't bring up both of you in my bed at once," Fiona murmurs, the breath escaping her and drawing the words out to a fragile shell of sound. "I don't need to be tempted with that idea. Besides, right now I need to get a bed of my own." She turns in your lap, looking up to your face with both hands coming up to frame your face, and she leans in to plant a darting swallow of a kiss upon your lips with her own. "He'll either involve us in this ... quest of his or he won't. You're concerned about that - I'm concerned about how he's going to react to - you and me making two."
She slides her hands down along your throat to hook in the collar of your shirt in front, bringing her knees in towards her chest as she looks at you consideringly. "I think I need my own space first. I won't avoid you - I certainly won't reject you, Rhodri. But everything is upside down now, and I need to get organized. As for telling him ... why tell him anything now? There isn't much to tell. I'm in your bed and I love you - you love me and want me in your bed. Until things go to the next stage up, he really doesn't need to be informed. I ... don't want to trick myself into making moves out of fear and desperation. You deserve better than that."
"I think you should have your own space. And don't worry about making me an extra key," he notes with a quick grin. "As for this place, you're welcome to come and go as you like. I'll have a set made for you. You can have your own bathroom," he says, an excited expression, then chuckles.
He leans in, the echo of that chuckle worn as a smile as he kisses you. The smile disappears, his hands disappear in your hair and the kiss deepens. "I'll be sure to come by for my own visits," he murmurs, scarlet eyebrows dancing up and down.
"So, I think we're agreed. You get your own place, we love and all that entails," his voice lowers to a teasing growl, "...we find out what Davydd's up to and eventually tell him of our involvement, but not yet as there's no point in upsetting the apple cart. Oh, and you will be entertaining him on occasion and I'll be sure to be scarce. If it gets to be more frequent than occasionally, we'll have to come up with a schedule. Does that pretty well capture it?"
"Mmm." Fiona grins a little at your excitement, eyes then closing and grin fading into the intensity of the kiss. Her own hands come up to slide through your hair, lips parting beneath yours as she relaxes again in your hold. "Keeps me from having to feel like I should rearrange your place. He called it off just in time, you know - another few months and I'd have had Powis all turned around."
She subsides into your lap, sliding along you and rubbing her cheek against your shoulder like a cat marking scent - marking territory. "I think you've got it more or less in order. I won't say no to you and your ring just now, but I won't say yes, either. Probably I'll say yes, eventually, but ... I need time." Fiona's mouth twists wryly at that. "It'd be more convenient if I could just say yes... then I wouldn't have to make explanations to mother and father. Just, I'm getting married, I hadn't produced a groom yet anyway, so - no big deal, right? But I'm not ready yet. It's still a little raw."
"That's what long engagements are for. You can ...always trot me out if need be." His mouth brushes against your forehead. "You don't have to tell them anything. Nothing really has to change as far as they know. Besides, it's not like you had a date set, right? No invitations were mailed." He cocks back his head and smiles as eyebrows lift. "Right?"
He closed his eyes as you put your fingers through his hair, there was even a catch of his breath. Something he likes. Very much. "Why don't we say it's 'Yes'," he murmurs, "... but we consider this a long engagement, hmm? No pressure on time, not like we're running out of it. And you can leave your parents to me. I'm quite charming, you know. If you need someone to take the pressure off of you, that is. I wasn't suggesting we make a run for the chapel anyway..."
The eyes are sharp, everything in their attention is grasped tight. Right now, you are the sole target of that attention. The grasp of his surrounding arms is no more physical than that gaze. "Put your hands in my hair again," he says, the corners of his mouth upturning. "And you can redecorate your room and bathroom," his mouth slides in a grin.
"Right. Mother and daddy don't know anything more than 'engaged', and of course, they saw The Rock," Fiona halfway smiles, "but I can get out of the Rock if I've got to. I already know how." Her hands remain up around your ears, one fingertip rubbing there gently. "I know how charming you can be," she murmurs. "You've charmed me a few times, after all. I'll - think about it."
No promises yet. She's getting a bit accustomed to your snares, hunter...
Fiona slides her hands back into your hair as you grin at her, echoing the grin back to its source. She strokes fingertips along your scalp, then draws her fingernails gently down the back of your head to the nape of your neck. "You're a man, the only time you make a run for the chapel is if it's for sanctuary, there's a gun pointed at you or you've got competition," she retorts lazily. "Hmm... maybe I ought to find you some competition, just to see what you do. But I'll hold off on redecorating until I've found and settled into a place of my own. Maybe I'll move back in over Pashmina's..."
You are getting good at this, he grins but does not say. His eyes drift closed. "What competition. Two lovers aren't enough for you?" The smile is lazy, sliding and full. "I thought you didn't want us fighting for your love or over your body." Emerald eyes glint past slightly lifted lashes, then hide behind the lids again.
"God, woman, those fingers," he drawls out. His eyes would roll but they're already closed. "Okay," he clears his throat, "...you can stop now." One eye peeps open. "Or the couch is going to get very crowded." At least he warned you this time.
"I'd marry you in a heartbeat," he admits. "I've already proposed to you three times," laughter edging the words, "... I'm not like That Other Man You Love. I don't avoid commitment. I'm just choosy about who I choose to commit to."
"Two is enough," Fiona counters easily, settling her arms around your shoulders and digging her fingernails in. Catlike again, testing the tensile strength of the cloth and the skin beneath the cloth with her claws. "If I found competition, it'd be someone I didn't care about, so I could watch the show. I'm female enough to want to see men fight over me - just too bloody softhearted to want it to be you and Davydd doing the fighting."
She releases her hold on you, looking decidedly smug. She's stopped - but she's pleased with herself at the results, as only a woman can be. "It's a nice couch. No point wrecking it." Fiona drags herself off your lap, lying back and leaving her feet in your lap still, legs stretched out comfortably.
"I know you'd marry me, and I know you've proposed to me three times, and ... this time, I haven't said no. I just haven't said yes - or, well, not now." Fiona squirms a little, suddenly less comfortable within her skin. "I want to say yes, Rhodri. Just - last night I was crying all over my best girlfriend about not being engaged. Showing up engaged - I suppose I should swallow my pride, huh?"
"What does pride have to do with it? Really?" He's curious about that point, taking a moment to glance down at himself then smirk. Don't gloat so much. "And if you want to find someone you don't care about, I'd be happy to ice him in an alley," he trips that out as lyrical as a song. "Do you want to watch?" His fingers brush against your feet.
"I don't plan on fighting Davydd. Well, not physically. There might be a shouting match once he finds out. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll be like me, a realist about it." There's that excited look again. So full of shite.
"I know you do," Rhodri murmurs, his hands massaging your feet. "There's no rush, hmm?" Bright green eyes lift to look at you. "We have all the time in the world," he reminds. "We take our time, because it is ours to take, my love."
"Depends what you mean by ice. Freeze him solid? Knock him cold? Or kill him?" Fiona's eyebrows quirk upwards at this sudden reminder that, with you and Davydd, there is a world where life is not as valuable as upon the peaceful village green of Oxford. "I'm not too keen on being listed karmically or otherwise as the cause of someone's death." She'll have to grow into that idea.
Her toes wiggle, and she watches your expressions change, her head tilted to one side. "I hope you two won't fight over it." Fiona considers the idea, then shakes her head. "I don't want to lose either of you. What I think might happen changes from moment to moment. We'll see. Mmm... you can keep on doing that, though..." She melts into the leather, eyes closing as you massage her feet. The real way to a woman's heart...
"Item one. Find apartment and move into it. Item two. Get business straightened out. I know what I need to do about that." Fiona speaks a bit dreamily now, face tilted up but with her eyes closed so that she doesn't see the ceiling. "Item three. Lunch with mother in a week. Pray for me, Rhodri." She sits up suddenly, pulling her feet out of your grasp and sitting crosslegged with her hands in her lap. "I," she announces, "have an idea."
His hands are suddenly empty and he looks at you in surprise, then quirks up his eyebrows in curiosity. His curiosity is open and warm and humorous, rather than Davydd's wary 'what's she on about now?' sort of curiosity. Rhodri grins, "I don't pray but I will play dice and think of you. It's the next best thing. So...what?"
He reaches for your feet again, motioning with his fingers -- bring them back, baby. "You can tell me while I rub them," he insists with a grin, motioning again. "So what's this idea...?"
"Oh, so I'm Lady Luck, now? Sure you don't need me there to kiss the dice for you?" Fiona's quip is teasing and holds a sudden rush of warmth for your curiosity. Slowly, she brings her feet back into your lap, sighing at the thought - oh, bliss, oh rapture, a man to rub her feet. Who not only will, but wants to. "You bait your traps extraordinarily well, thief," she murmurs dreamily.
One arm sprawls up over her head, over the arm of the chair, her other arm left to drape over her stomach. "My idea's pretty simple. And I think you're going to laugh at me for it, but ... let's get rich and famous and married." Simple, she says. Fiona cocks one eyebrow up at you, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Or any two of the three... what do you think?"
"I'm already rich," he notes. "And you can blow on the dice," Rhodri grins, hands working both of your feet. His thumbs press against your arches, feeling the muscles dissolve in relaxation. "I think married, definitely, and famous might be interesting. It'd at least pass the time for a decade...what are you suggesting?"
Such hands. Agile, deft, strong...
"I'm not rich because I'm cute," he whispers to the notion of traps well set, his mouth pulling in a wide smile. "Well, it helped," Rhodri chuckles. "It never hurts. Why would you want to become famous? What purpose would it serve?"
"Mmmm..." Melting, melting, and not a bucket of water in sight. Clearly Fiona isn't a bad witch. "I've never been famous. Seems mostly like more of a headache than it's worth. But we could do it for five or ten years or so, then fake our deaths or disappearances, or just retire to be eccentrics or the like. 'I vant to be alone, dahlingk.'" Eyes closed, she's sinking down into the leather as if she's going to go right through it.
"Music, really, is the only option," Fiona murmurs, both hands folded over her abdomen. "Can you see me as some sort of pop star, maybe? I'm young enough for the indie angle. Add in an edge of punk - something thoroughly marketable. Once we have an in and we sell, we can start throwing in some twists and turns of our own. Maybe inspire people to something more... unique. That'd be nice, wouldn't it?" One eye reopens. "If I've got one complaint with the music that's out there, it's that so much of it isn't real. Well - by my standards. It's all about the same as Dot's chest, and you can see Dot's chest multiplied by a hundred in the Gory and all over London."
"I propose this," he says, watching you melt for a moment and then tilting his head to look at your feet in his hands. "That we play music, without regard of being either rich or famous. That we seek to inspire. And if the music or message should catch on, great. If not, then we will pick another format."
Emerald eyes shift to you. "Inspiration is for the artistic. The artistic or blessed is rarely the rich or the famous." He smiles at that. "I would love to create music with you, however. I've been... wanting to do that for a while now. I think I'm the one who keeps bringing it up," he chuckles. Rhodri gives your toes a tug.
"How does that sound, darlin..."
"I think I can agree to that," Fiona murmurs, not quite drowsily, from her position among the cushions. "I want to do music, I think. It's the only thing I do at all well, other than make a mess of people's lives. And it only makes sense that we do it together - pity you have to hide your stunning good looks, though. You'd be hell on wheels on an album cover or a poster, or in a music video." She sits up with a wink, then turns onto her belly and slides towards you, putting her head in your lap.
"I'll start looking for an apartment once you go down to deal with last night's receipts," Fiona murmurs, nuzzling in against your groin with a very complete feminine mischief. "And you can contact the others - find out how the baby came out, if it's a boy or a girl so I can arrange for a proper christening present. And then I'll start taking care of my own business, and then, my bastard fairy lover, then you can give me a ring and I'll ... let you know if it's good enough and the right time. Hmm?"
She smiles as widely as the Cheshire Cat was rumoured to have done, eyes very blue from her position in your lap, and then she rolls over again, still in your lap, voice muffled as one hand slides to the waistband of your jeans. "Mother always said," her voice comes up to you, "not to talk with my mouth full..."
"I think this wouldn't be the most ideal time for me to start listening to my mother..."
Posted by rowan at November 14, 2004 10:07 PM
