She's in a blue mood these days, or at least, that's how she describes it to herself. Not depressed, exactly, but with a listlessness brought on by doing too much, having too much still that needs to be done, restlessness that belies her energy or its lack. Her headphones have become her constant companion, whenever she isn't actively listening for or to someone, something else. They're on her head now, as she steps from a taxi to the curb...
     A thousand thousand song all caught in plastic small enough to be hidden in a fist, and it's become her boyfriend. Wouldn't it figure that the number one sex toy she can't live without has nothing to do with sex and nothing to do with being inserted into orifices? Long blonde hair's twisted up with careless artifice, onyx combs holding it all aloft in a tempestuous mass ready to fall down once their underpinnings are removed.
     And it's onyx for onyx, a black dress she could only have picked up in Paris the last time she was over; noone else makes dresses like that. It's business-like, but once its jacket is removed, it's an evening dress, suitable for cocktails or the glass of wine and the string of pearls, or just to go see the ballet - or if in a fit of whimsy, feeding the inevitable ducks that bob along some Cheapside canal. Her height is de-emphasized by ballet slippers, a golden chain disappearing into the cut-front of her gown. No cosmetics for Miss Arundel, just as God made her, there sits her skin, her eyes, her lips.
     But a good guest never arrives empty-handed, does she? Fiona's made a stop. A box, carried with her, nothing terribly fancy; just a good bottle of Scotch. It rests in the crook of her arm as the elevator carries her up, gaze going from the carpeted floor to the mirrored ceiling until the metal and glass box comes to its halt and the doors slide open. And out she goes, one hand lifting to knock.
     Oh, but the door's open, isn't it? So she doesn't knock, not even a little bit. If it's open, you probably know she's there already. She nudges the door further open instead, pulling away her headphones with the faint sound of the Moody Blues (to fit her self-appointed theme) and stuffing them back into her jacket pocket. A click, a moment later, and 'Your Wildest Dreams' clicks off as well, to the same tempo as the quiet nudge of the door being shut.
     If she were in a different mood, there'd be something like 'Darling, I'm home', or 'Where the hell are you, you blue bastard', but she's not, it's not, and so all she does is turn to look into the interior of your luxurious little flat, back to the door, box still held in the crook of her arm. "The words of Ares are harsh after the songs of Apollo."

     There's music...
     You can tell this not because his stereo is blasting, though there is music -- it must be in his bedroom, it is faint -- but because he himself is singing as he moves from the bedroom, down the hall to the kitchen, back to his bedroom, his song interrupted by his equally melodic whistle. And so on. And the smoky bar sound of his voice, the voice used for guitars and drums and bass and pubs, is nowhere to be found. Instead, it is a voice musical theater would love, if only he could handle the rehearsal schedule...
     The Man of La Mancha...
     And if there were ever anyone to tilt a windmill, it is Davydd ap Owain...
     When you push the door open, you can see he's done a little decorating without you -- he had to have something! There's a couple of carpets from Powis' collection, oriental rugs fit for a sultan. There's also a sofa -- a dark red leather that goes well with the carpets. There are scatterings of candles, large pillars and small pillars alike, gathered here and there on the cement floor, despite the presence of modern lighting.
     "...and thy name is like a prayer an angel whispers... Dulcinea... Dulcinea..." Lyrics dissolve into a whistle as he becomes visible again. "Oi," he chuckles suddenly, a grin breaking across his entire expression, flashing like the comet of old. He looks like Ares might, for certes, with his copper-bronze hair cut Greco-Roman short. "I didn't hear you for all my caterwauling... I had to get a head start," he notes of the arrangements.
     He's in black wool-blend trousers, and a plain, starched white shirt tucked. Dark green eyes light on you for a moment and he comes to you for a greeting kiss. Then he notes the gift. "Aye, what's this? What did you get me?" Davydd rattles off, grinning like a very child.

     "Hey there, Old Man," comes the lazy retort, and you're given a narrow-eyed examination for a moment, grey and green and blue accents to the almond shapes. It's followed by the dissolution into sudden wide smile, box still tucked in as she moves up to you, moving for the kiss, her other hand coming up to grasp at your short hair, a tug. You look adorable as ever. Bastard...
     It is your voice, your sight, more than the flat, more than what it contains that draws a reaction from her. How do you do it? She doesn't know. And in a few minutes, she won't even think of wondering any longer. Your hair's turned loose, and she sways up against you for a moment, her finger coming down to just tap the corner of your mouth.
     "Brought you something," Fiona says, matter of fact tone to conceal the pleased expression that threatens to show at your interest, your curiosity. "Nothing fancy. Just, well, here." And the box is shoved at you both ungrammatically and ungracefully.
     "You weren't caterwauling, but that's alright. Don't blame you for not wanting to wait too long. Man can't live on bare walls and swords alone, can he?" Fiona steps away, as if almost regretting her display, trying for nonchalance again and finding it a hard thing to achieve. "You still well-stocked? If so, mind if I mix myself a drink?"

     A look of protest, as ever, for the tugging of his hair. "You know, a man could go bald with all that, what'll you do then?" As if. He's chuckling at it as he takes another kiss and then takes the gift. "Well, why don't we crack this open. Nothing better than whiskey to toast in a new loft. Glasses are in the bar there," he waves you over to it as he opens the box and removes the bottle. "A good vintage... best not to waste it..."
     Diolch! His Welsh clips beneath your skin like nibbling fangs. Davydd casts a wayward grin as he strolls toward the sofa. "So, I thought we could relax, you know? Before things get crazy with all the crownin' to be going on... and you can tell me what you're going to do to my place..."
     He takes a second look at you, a look at you up and a look at you down, and he cocks up an eyebrow. "You seem a bit on the reserved side. Had a hard day? Tired of conquering the world?" His mouth cants to the side and his eyes go wicked bright.

     "Glasses, right." Fiona stretches her head first one way and then the others, eyes squinching closed as she cracks her neck. "Ugh. Feeling a little under the weather this week; don't know why, well, I do, but it'll pass." She moves to behind the bar to set up the glasses, sliding out of her jacket and leaving it hanging on a corner like a deserted barman's apron.
     "You'll never go bald, Davydd. No more than your tattoos'll come up off your skin from my fingernails," she retorts sweetly, then covers her nose with an abrupt, high-pitched sneeze. "Bless me." Fiona takes a firm hold of the bottle, wiggling it open with the fat bottom of it pressed to her midsection, then carefully pours, twisting the bottle round as she does so that each liquid drop lands in its glass.
     "A little relaxing could go well," she allows, watching the red and gold of it fall into place. "I'm just doing too much. Things're almost to the point where I can hand off stuff on this side to the managers and middlemen - I'll just need to keep an eye on the paperwork. I loathe paperwork. It seems designed for inspiring a sort of defeated hatred of all that's good in the world... Can't wait to start doing more music and less - that."
     The glasses are lifted, one to each hand, and she comes round from behind the bar, heading in your direction with a carefully light-footed step. "I've missed you, you old Welsh goat," Fiona says without acrimony. "I know you won't believe it, but I have. Here, take your damned whiskey and let me sit down. My feet hurt."

     "Under the weather?" he retorts with a quizzical expression. What the fuck? He glances up to the ceiling as if looking for an actual rain cloud or some other. Davydd peers at you for a moment later and then smirks. "Aye? Well... nothing like scotch to get you... over the weather. So..." He motions for the glasses as he opens the bottle. "Thanks for the housewarming gift."
     Forest eyes uplift as he pours, fiery eyebrow lifting. "I've missed you, too," he murmurs, a smile tracing across his mouth. "So...runnin' yourself ragged, eh? Remember to take time out to eat and sleep, hmm? Can't have you fainting in the street. And I believe you," he chuckles. "I know you miss me, what's not to miss? I'm dashing, debonair, disgustingly tidy. Cheers," he says suddenly, chiming his glass against your own as he sits back, setting the bottle aside.

     "Cheers, love," Fiona answers, deadpan as she takes a sip of the liquor, easing back against the couch and then curling up neatly, turned towards you. "Running myself ragged and ragged, yeah. But in a couple-few weeks it should be more ... under control, or the illusion of control..."
     Another sip, and she sets her glass aside, wrinkling her nose at you. "Arrogant, you forgot to mention arrogant. But I'll forgive you. God knows you've forgiven me for enough. Don't mind me too much right now, Davy. I'm just in a mood, I'll get over it as fast as I can. I'm being too much a girl, that's all. So do you fancy heavy wood or steel modern? I was thinking something a little on the solid side, dark colours, but then, I always liked those myself. Tres macho."
     She rattles the words off suddenly, as if affecting a costume, eyes widening as she looks to you and then away. Her hand scoops her glass back up, bringing it in to her chest, her other hand going to absently check the onyx combs and make sure they're still where they ought to be, holding the tide at bay. Fiona stops speaking as suddenly as the flood came, flopping against the back of the sofa. "I'll even work one or two surprises into the decor..."

     "Well," he looks around with an exhale, glass balanced on a woolen thigh, "... with a flat this modern, steel might make more sense, but I'm not into steel. That's more Rhodri's bag. I'd like it to be ... very swank... mod furniture but upholstered and leather mixed. I'll probably pull these rugs into the bedroom," he looks to his feet, "... I think the bedroom should be old world. Goes with the inhabitant." He smirks at himself.
     Old goat indeed...
     Davydd lifts his glass for another swallow of scotch. He holds it on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. "Tres macho," he chuckles, turning his head to look at you, his hand coming up to move against your hair. "C'est moi," he murmurs. "I like surprises...and what do you mean arrogant?" Davydd rattles off seamlessly. "Me? The very pillar of modesty? Me?"
     Davydd pulls back, giving you a look and a smirk. Arrogant. Bah. "It's no crime, is it? For a man to be occasionally proud." With the tilt of his glass and the tilting back of his head, he drains the scotch with a swallow and sighs, leaning in to set the glass aside. "You in the mood to talk about the future or do you just want to lie here and insult me," he chuckles.

     "I'm not all that into steel. Leather... I do like leather." Of course, that's rather Rhodri's thing as well, isn't it? "And wood. But I'll go with someone modestly modern," the alliteration pleases her, and that shows, "for the front, and the bedroom will be the decadence of which only I can dream for you."
     Fiona almost coos the last half of the last sentence, lips tugging reluctantly upwards at the edges as she looks at you, as your hand goes to her hair. "I'll have to think long and hard on my surprises for you, Davydd ap Owain... first man to walk through the kingdom of my heart... You left deep footprints there, you know."
     You pull back, but her smile remains, half-reluctant, tinged with that hint of wistfulness as you drain your scotch. She sips her own, then leans to set her own aside - enough, or enough for the moment, anyway. Fiona moves forward onto her knees to mock-pummel your shoulder with a fist. "Well, abusing you is always fun, but I guess we could talk about the future as well. Which future? There seem to be too many lately."

     "The one in between now and the rest of forever," Davydd notes with a chuckle. "Specifically," he says more seriously, "... after the coronation." He sits forward and pours himself another glass. A glance to you -- another? "You will be planning your wedding... continuing your work here and... Elsewhere," a small smile. "It's a bit overwhelming, aye?"
     He's building up to something. He takes another swallow of scotch. "I know it was shocking... when I announced I had this place. I wanted to explain it a bit more to you. And I don't want there to be any... misunderstandings between us, so I thought it best I mention it now... beforehand... rather than try to explain myself after..."
     Davydd sits back, half turning to face you. "I don't want you to hear innuendo and make up your own mind. I want you to know ahead of time. The only way we'll make it is if we're honest, aye?"

     "I'm letting my mother and a wedding planner duke it out, actually. I've told them both what I want and given them lists and told them to get to work. Mother can have the fun of bossing around the wedding planner and being the control freak she's always dreamed of being, and at the same time knows that if she deviates from my instructions I'll take it away from her. The wedding planner's getting paid extravagantly, and one of the things he's getting paid for is to put up with the mother of the bride anyway." Fiona's eyes are closed; did you know that she was this intelligent? She doesn't sound impressed with herself, though, more as if the thought of it makes her even more tired.
     "Mostly I'm working on ... things. Here, there, wherever - I ... did a bit. I'll tell you about it after the coronation, it's a surprise." And she doesn't want to ruin that surprise; she wants to be able to show you her kingdom, see your reaction to what she's done, who she's become. In a sense, she wants you to be proud, while at the same time, unable to believe that you really would be...
     One pale blue eye opens, focusing on you. "You told me you'd need to feed and not just on me, Davydd." Fiona shrugs a little. "I ... wasn't planning on dropping in unannounced. I've been good about that, I thought. But I think it's probably a good idea to shortcut past other people's sabotage, if that's what you mean. Rose?"

     "I wouldn't dream of having you upset your surprise. I like packages, boxes and bows -- I don't want to know what's in the case before I get it. So, no worries," he assures quietly. "I am sure whatever it is will shock the shite out of me, me out of my boots and straight onto my arse. It's your way, Fiona Arundel."
     Davydd sits forward on the couch. His eyes are on the glass for a moment, he turns it around in his grasp and then finishes the second glass of scotch. He deposits the empty on the floor. "Sabotage... is part of it. Rose... is certainly someone for you to avoid. The ... most of it," Davydd turns and looks at you, "... is wanting to ...keep you at a distance from that world. It's... the main reason I was concerned about your... prying into my life when we first met, how you knew things about me." He makes a wave, not wanting to reopen that. He moves on, his hand reaching for your own.
     "I don't want them to know how much you mean to me. When you're wanting to escape notice, what's the first thing you do? Throw off your scent, right?" He looks at you. "So ... there will be women, Fiona. And I know it's going to upset you, but I want you to remember our pledge, and keep your mind on the goal, hmm? Not on who you might hear I'm with, or god forbid see me with. And that's why I got my own place. I don't want yours to become a ... stake out for those who do as I do."
     He takes your hand in his larger ones and lifts it to his mouth. "I will still come visit... but I will be as cloaked as I can be. It's for our best interest."

     Fiona goes quiet. She was already a little quieter than usual, than her wont, but she listens without withdrawing, still curled up on the couch with one hand loosely furled against the cushions. She doesn't pull away, not as you speak, not as you lift her hand, though she does go very still - save for that dim, full pulse that threads through her wrist, that you have (by your own words) committed yourself to preserving.
     "I'm glad you said something now. Rather than waiting, yes. Whether it's - Rose, or ... anyone else." Fiona closes her eyes, turning her face towards the sofa, not continuing to speak just immediately. Not with her mind, nor with her lips, tension wiring and telegraphing itself through her shoulders and running, sheeting out of her like graphite, then falling away. Tension takes too much energy to maintain.
     Fiona begins speaking again, once your lips have touched her hand, and her voice is quiet, subdued - suppressed. "I won't pretend I like it, Davydd. I can't. But at the same time, I can't fault you for it; and I know in a way it's karma anyway, and if this is what's got to be so that I can be with you, then that's how it's got to be, isn't it? I'll try to keep the rabid fox away from my innards. Can't promise I'll always be able to, but ... all things considered, you've been the model of restraint." A ghost of a smile touches to her lips and is gone. "I miss you, though."

     "Well, I'd never ask you to like it," Davydd rumbles on, sitting back on the sofa, collapsing back on it actually, the leather cushions giving under his weight. "I've...grown accustomed to you and Rhodri... I think I understand it better now, the meaning of it all, how the pieces fit together. But... you know... " he grins, "... there are times, darlin', when I just want to knock that shite-eating grin off his face..."
     He exhales, his head against the cushion, he turns to look at you. "I ...do want to warn you about Rose. Not the usual stuff," he stops your protest with one of his own, "...but that I'm...going to have to see her. It's inevitable. And necessary. You have unfinished business with that bloke from your past. I have unfinished business with Rosamund. And... I am going to see her to close the book on it. I want you to hear that from me, not her. I won't be fucking her." At least I don't plan on fucking her. I'm only a man. "Just talking... and I'll give you a full report if you want when it's done and over."

     "I'm glad the two of you seem to know what it's all about," Fiona mutters, closing her eyes again. "Maybe someday you'll fill me in on the secret. Every time I get a glimpse, it runs up to me, slaps me in the face and takes off again. It's like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, only with more sex and less transvestitism."
     One blue eye opens again, looking at you almost solemnly. "I know how you feel. Why do you think I said you've been such a model of restraint? Davydd..." She reaches for your hand this time, sliding her fingers over your knuckles, then taking a gentle hold. "Can't help that you tend to think you might come second with me. I've seen the thought in your eyes. I'll ... answer it in a bit if you like, but ..."
     Rosamund gets a slight frown out of her, and there is, despite herself, a slight wince. "Speaking as dispassionately as I can, I would say that fucking her would be a bad idea - especially if it's closure you want. She's a very hook-y type of woman, and you don't need to give her the excuse to sink them into you again - or even let her think she has. Speaking as myself," Fiona's smile warps into being, "I can't deny it makes me want to claw her eyes out with a rusty spoon and serve them to her over ice cream. But I'd rather ... know what transpires, Davydd. If only since she might call me to try and use it against me. Ironic, isn't it, that she indirectly drove me into your arms..."

     "Have I heard this story?" His hand covers your own (it's easy), and he inclines his head against the cushion giving you a quizzical look. "Drove you into my arms, did she? I thought I swept you off your feet by making you fall out of an elevator. You mean, it wasn't my charms, dashing looks and incredible manliness that drove you into my arms?" Davydd cackles. "I thought you fell into them, while tripping, honestly..."
     There's no frown from him for Rose's part. Eh, he can't hate her. He won't trust her, but he can't hate her. "Yeah, well... I don't intend on letting her get her hooks in me again. She'd only do it out of spite. She's been on the ride, she's seen the show..."
     There's nothing more to see here. "She likes theater," Davydd smirks, "...but not vaudeville..."

     "Told you once, I think, but maybe not. It's been a while, hasn't it? But no, the elevator owes nothing to her." Fiona smiles, an almost tender look, and she lifts a hand to touch a fingertip to the corner of your mouth. "That was all you. And me being a klutz, as usual. I wanted you to kiss me, you know that. You didn't need her 'help'."
     She lowers her hand, thumping the heel of her palm against your chest and letting it fall to your leg. "But she's the one who thought I could do the Beeb - got me phone numbers and all that. Told me who to call and tips on what to say, told me to have my father call her about some fountain or other they were planning on erecting somewhere, I honestly don't remember the details - the fountain wasn't of much interest to me then, certainly isn't now. And if it hadn't been for the Beeb, I wouldn't have been in Wales for you to see on the telly, would I?"
     She moves forward, onto her knees a moment, touching her lips to your cheek as if in benediction. "Whereas I," Fiona murmurs, "have a soft spot in my heart for vaudeville. Can't appreciate a good drama or a good romance without a bit of slapstick, as Shakespeare knew."

     "Hmm... interesting. I think I remember something about that... well... I know you talked. I'm not sure I knew that. Well," a sigh and a smile, "...I am old, as you so constantly remind me, I can't be expected to remember everything now can I?" And Sebastian is angry with me? Well, that has to change, doesn't it. Eventually.
     Davydd chuckles as you mention vaudeville. "Shall I do cockney pantomime for your pleasure then? Dress up in drag and honk a horn? Gah, I'd make a dreadful woman," he wrinkles his nose. "I'm not as hairy as some others, but the last thing the world needs is a Welshman in a dress..."
     "I do like Shakespeare. I have to say. I liked Henry the fourth part one, with the band of thieves and Prince Hal hanging out with them. Reminded me of myself, actually. Well... if Hotspur and Hal had been one man," he grins. "Well... I'm glad I told you in advance. I thought there might be a little crying... on my behalf.. but well... " Another sigh.

     "I'm saving my tears for later, when I won't disgrace myself with them," Fiona says, very seriously. "I ... won't be able to help it. But what am I supposed to do, Davydd? Get you all soggy over something you're going to do, that you've got to do? It's not as if you've said you don't want to marry me anymore. I might not like it - I'll be jealous as hell - but there's no point in my arguing with you on it. If this is ... what you've decided to do ... I'll save my energy for more worthwhile battles."
     She sighs, shifting closer on the sofa, leaning up along your arm. "I'll just - have to make it so that you don't forget me, in these other women's arms. So that you can't stop thinking of me, even if it's not me you're with. But I'll save the tears for ... for when you haven't got to put up with them, brute. If I can, anyway."
     She lies there, just like that, eyes closed, working on shifting her mental gears away from images she doesn't want to imagine, scenes she doesn't want to see. "...I've only met Rose twice, not counting the phone stuff. Once, when you introduced us. Second time, at Davy's. That was before you and I'd - done anything. You were with Sandrine, and she was discreetly pumping me, and, I think, trying to warn me off of you - chasing off the competition, maybe? But lots of talk of you and your friends. I remember her being vaguely catty and somewhat surprised that I know William but not Edward; I suppose she thought I'd demand to meet all your friends, as if your life were some sort of wardrobe for me to shake out and rearrange to my liking."

     "She hates William. It's mutual. He doesn't like conniving women, and she can't stand beautiful men who aren't into her. Well, and Will was always competition for her, wasn't he," he says it like he's talking to himself. "I'd go out with my mates, and well... being that he's the biggest and the most... hmm... how do I put this... elitist," he decides, "...he became something of a symbol for everything she hated about me." A pause. "Well, that's our theory anyway." Ours. Meaning his and William's presumably. Though, quite possibly, also this fellow Edward.
     "Well, Edward's a great bloke... love the stuffing out of that man, but..." he likes fairies on toast with jam? "... he's been busy a lot, you know, with his own love life. I've not seen him in months now, this is a record for us." And not a good one either, by his sudden frown. But nothing more on you meeting him. It really wouldn't be a good idea.
     "Well, just as long as you'll be jealous," Davydd clips, "I suppose I'll content myself with that." He heaves a theatrical sigh. "While you're off making me grandchildren." He chuckles then. "So... that's that then," he finishes in a murmur. "More scotch?"

     "I can't imagine hating William for that." Fiona says it factually, as if it's just - something outside the realm of reality. "He is what he is. If it bothers her, she doesn't have to spend time with him. There's no point in hating him for it."
     She hasn't spent time hating William, even when she disliked him on principle. Of course, that's probably partly because she isn't dead.
     "They're your friends, Davydd." Fiona says it with a degree of finality. "We know some of the same people. Not all. It's one of the things I've never understood - this belief that if you're with someone, you've got to all be friends with the same people. People don't work that way. I imagine we'll always have friends that the other doesn't know, or doesn't like - as long as those friends don't ... lead you to decide that you hate me, it's really not any of my business. Which won't stop me from asking questions from time to time, you understand; I have curiosity to satisfy. But wanting to know isn't the same as needing to control."
     One hand comes up to touch your cheek again, and Fiona murmurs, "If I was after a man I could control, I picked the bloody wrong one, didn't I? But I am jealous, Davydd. I'm jealous of the air that bears the weight of your appreciation of any other woman - any woman that isn't me. I'm jealous as hell, ap Owain. And if I thought it'd make one bit of difference, I'd try to convince you of it. But it won't, and I don't think you're doing this to see me grovel, so what would be the point? I've got to trust in that you don't want my unhappiness, so turning into a watering pot all over you would only make us both unhappier."
     Fiona shifts position, pulling herself close so she's hip to hip with you, leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes. "No more scotch for me. You can have my share. I've got to be somewhat sober while I figure out how to make sure that no matter what women you bring back here, it's me you remember..."

Posted by rowan at March 03, 2005 09:29 PM