Night passes into day by the natural progression of time, uninterrupted and unimpeded by magical efforts. Fiona slept, a bit; fitfully, not because of where she was, but because of what she'd been told. It's always a little disturbing to be worried about one's significant other...
     And the nature of the disturbances are - of course - supernatural in tone; it is impossible for it not to leak into her dreams, coloring images dramatically, sepia tones and blood red.
     She woke on her own, a bit after noon. Rising, she made her toilette with care, habit making her cautious of waking the slumbering slab of male flesh still occupying the bed. Phone messages are checked, even as she quietly lets herself out of the flat to head to a greengrocer's.
     She could do with a change of clothes while she's at it; it isn't as if she was prepared for an overnight stay. So it is that Fiona with shoulderbag re-enters her own flat, grabbing a pad and pen with one hand to scribble a list even while cradling a cellphone to her other ear. Quiet, brief words are exchanged; she doesn't quite know when you might wake, and in the mood you'd been in, she doesn't want you waking and finding yourself that dreaded word...
      ...Alone...
     A trip to Tesco's, and back to the flat with a carryall containing a change of clothes. If she doesn't spend the night, no harm done - but at least she'll have been prepared. It's a quarter to six. She's chopping vegetables and braising meat, tossing it all into a large kettle for a rich, savory stew. Maybe you don't need to eat - but you seemed to get something out of it. And there's something a bit soothing about the unnecessary domestic activity, anyway, being able to almost tune out the buzz and crowd of her own thoughts in favour of rolling out dough, of cleaning up as she goes.
     When you wake, it will be to enough food to feed a regiment...

     He is glad that he does not dream, or if he dreams that he does not remember them. It was a miserable fucking night, with few exceptions. Your presence being one of them. When he fell asleep at dawn, he fell hard. He slept heavy as he last lay, legs akimbo and face buried in his pillow.
     With a breath, he wakes. Sudden lifefulness after so many hours of just as sudden lifelessness. With a breath, he moves as suddenly. His skin knows you are gone. One his hands and knees, a blue spectacle, he turns his head to see the imprint of where you lay.
     And then he smells food...
     "Fiona?" Who else could it be, boyo? Davydd pulls himself together, pulls a sheet around him like a toga, and heads into the hallway. His heavy footed steps announce him. "Hey," he says more quietly, giving his still waking body to the doorway, propping himself up there.
     He's a disheveled, glorious mess. His hair is spiked up here and there, short and thick, easy to make spike this way and that way, even if completely by accident. He gives his sleepy eyes a rub. "I'm going to take a shower...that smells good, what're you cooking..."

     "Hey." Fiona answers the call without looking up right away, in the process of bending to extrude a sheet of scones from the oven - orange peel and cloves, by the smell of them. She straightens once it's on the cooling rack she's put on the counter, turning towards you and flipping her ponytail back from her face with a brief smile.
     She's got on jeans again - jeans, and a green button-up blouse that's not quite such a good fit as it ought to be, showing a tendency to come unbuttoned on top. Casual clothes, but then - she's cooking, isn't she? Or has been. She drops the towel she'd been using as a protector from the heat, moving over to you where you stand, hands going up to your cheeks as she rises on tiptoe to kiss you.
     It's a deep kiss, and meaningful in its own way, bumping your lower lip and running the tip of her tongue over it rather than just pulling away. Lamb stew. Made a couple of loaves of bread, they're cooling on the table right now - and I've just pulled scones out. The cinnamon coffee rings are cooling on the bar, but don't worry, everything's on racks to keep the wood from being damaged. Fiona answers your question even as she leans up against you, arms going round your neck from your face now. "You are so adorable," she mumbles against your mouth. "Bloody man. You'd better go have your shower."

     "You want to come with me?" He smiles into the kiss. A little drowsy but otherwise seemingly "back to normal". Whatever that means. His arms come around you, holding you where you are, while the sheet wrapped around him begins to unravel. His hand pats the small of your back as the kiss hesitantly takes its leave. "I'm bloody starving," he rolls out, his voice with that morning's roughness.
     You do this all with your two tiny hands? You're a good girl. I'm not worried about the bar. Burn it, fuck if I care. Davydd chuckles a little, giving you a pat as he starts to roll away. I didn't know if you'd be here or not...
     He rakes a hand through his hair, what there is of it (he keeps it so short), which does little to settle it. He looks like a wild wood Cymri, old fashioned royal. Royal the hard way. Thanks, he mouths, and he pulls you in for a kiss upon your cheek. Yes, he is grateful. For much. Even as he is sad for much. But you are still here.... aren't you...
     "I won't be long," Davydd notes. "I won't be soaking in it... but I could use a refresh, I'm sure. Am I gamey?"

     "No, I'd better keep an eye on the stew," Fiona murmurs, still leaning up against you, though her position shifts so her cheek is pressed to your collarbone, eyes closing for a moment. "But you can go ahead. The food'll be ready when you are."
     Reluctantly, her arms loosen, slackening her hold on you. My own two hands. Don't know how tiny they are. I told you my grandmother taught me how to cook. The answer comes like a shot, a little sharp but good-humored, and she shifts to look up at you with a tugging, pixie grin. Where else would I be? I told you I'd stay as long as you wanted me to. Unless you're kicking me to the curb tonight, here I am, in all my sloppy glory.
     She's pulled in again, and there's a small, contented sound from her as she leans up against you. "Not particularly gamey," Fiona murmurs to your chest. "You had a bath last night, after all. But go on. Do what you need to in order to feel a bit more alive. I'll put a kettle on, hm? And let me know if there's anything in particular I can get you to start with."

     "The scones'd be good... I'll have one of each of everything," that's more like it. Davydd gives a wink and rolls his way back into the hall, heading slowly to the bathroom. I can talk to you from here... this makes it convenient...and nah, I'm not going to kick you to the curb... not when you can cook at any rate...
     His voice slips inside you with the sweetness and the bite of cinnamon and clove. Smoky resonance, it curls within you like incense. The water is turned on. It's a new building; it heats almost instantly. The only sound of his voice comes in a loud groan: Fuck me.
     I'm sorry about last night. I know it wasn't pretty. You alright? I didn't... scare you did I?

     She smiles as you walk away, a bit reminiscent, a bit wistful as she returns to checking on the food. You can hear the lift of the metal lid, the dull clatter of the spoon against the interior edges of the pot as she gives the stew a quick but thorough stir.
     Better not kick me to the curb, blue man, comes Fiona's teasing response. Not when I feed you. Not after I've marked you as all mine. You know, that does get to me? That you let me, I mean.
     Plates and bowls are gotten - a bowl of stew for you, a plate with thick slices of bread and butter, scones and clotted cream, a coffee cake set in the middle. The kettle's dropped into place and she gets down the mugs - domestic sounds...
     The feel of your voice within her always gets to her, even if it no longer distracts her as thoroughly as it did at first. There's a quiet sigh. You don't need to apologize. Pretty? Davydd, you're a remarkably handsome, sexy, virile king, but I wouldn't ever describe you as pretty. Last night was ... well, what it was. You did scare me, a little - I was afraid of what you might do once or twice. She's honest - perhaps brutally so. But you have asked honesty of her, haven't you?
     I was worried about you... and what you might do to - maintain your self-image, mostly...

     I've never been much of a one for branding, as it were, but if I were to be marked, sooner it would be a brand than a ring. This way, it's a bit of both. He cackles, then gurgles, letting the shower fill his mouth with water. Power wash.
     For at least ten minutes, there is blessed silence. He doesn't comment on your fear. He doesn't comment on his own. He lets your commentary hover on the air like it will be the last words spoken between you, though surely you know better than to think that. There's one thing certain about Davydd: he's never one to be silent for long.
     The water shuts off after a while, and you can dwell in the sounds of his preparation. The water running in the sink, the sound of him lathering up for a shave. "So," he calls from the bathroom, having to pause as he shaves. "...I don't know what'll happen there, you know, with the boyos," his mates. "But I guess there's nothing I can really do about it. I just feel sick... I don't know how else to say it...but I'm sorry you were scared, darlin'. And... I wish you hadn't had to see that..."
     That is quiet. He is embarrassed about it...
     "Remarkably handsome," he gruffs, "...love is blind, that's for certain," Davydd laughs.

     She busies herself with kitchen preparations - pouring the tea into the pot, letting it steep, pouring it into cups and doctoring it to taste. You can hear her moving about; you can hear her when she draws out a chair for herself and sits down. And she's quiet while you are, not needing to rush in to fill that space; not yet, at least.
     "I don't know either," Fiona agrees, speaking with her voice pitched so that you can hear her. "I'm sorry, love. I wish that there were some way that I could fix things for you. But ... that's not for me to do, is it?"
     She lifts her cup to her lips, taking a swallow of tea; milder for herself than for you. For herself, there's a single scone, a bit of butter on, but she largely ignores it in favour of the tea. If wishes were fishes, Davydd? Don't be so worried about it. You've seen me dragged down into my own depths. Do you think that I think less of you for having emotions? I knew who you were, your essence, when I married you. And I accepted you then, and I accept you now.
     Fiona smiles a bit, glancing down at the untouched scone on her plate. "Oh, quit your self-denigration, Old Man. You mightn't be a classical statue, but statues break and get ground down into dust. I wanted you, and I still do. Now get out here before your food's stone cold."

     He appears, freshly shaved, hair left to dry on its own, but it's had a towel run over and through it. Dark red, as it dries it turns gradually to bronze, looking like it's catching on fire. Like a better looking Heat Miser.
     Davydd hasn't dressed yet, but he's wearing a towel. It's good enough for a casual affair. Maybe you'll go fetch him a pair of trousers after you finish cooking. Oh, and his slippers and pipe too, thank you very much. "If it were something that could be fixed, I'm sure we'd both find a way. I guess I'm... going to just have to get ...used to the idea of it." He shrugs as he sits, and after sitting takes a survey of all you've done.
     He reaches for a cuppa, sighing over it to cool it a little and then he sips like a real champion. The man does know his way around tea. "Oes, well," he mutters, taking up a scone for himself. He'll start there and ease his way into the meat stew. "It's not exactly how I want to be remembered," he sips at his tea, "...sobbing into my bath water..."

     "That isn't how I remember you, and it isn't what I think of you. As you should well know," Fiona says serenely, sipping her tea again and setting the cup down. She rubs a thumb under the neckline of her blouse, readjusting her brassiere slightly and leaning forward.
     "Listen, you," she murmurs, voice lowering to a soothing tone. "You're my Champion, Davydd. And my hero. My lover, my husband, the father of my children-to-be, my king, my dream... do you think, really, that a few tears shed over honest comradeship are going to change my opinion of you? Bloody silly man."
     She rises again, moving round to put her hands on your shoulders, leaning forward to kiss the back of your head in a display of affection. "I still think that I got lucky with you. More ways than one, too. It can't all be rock and roll."

     He does look a bit chagrined, since you put it that way, and he nods, accepting it. Or at least attempting to accept it. Perhaps he doesn't understand it, but you've always told him the truth so... what choice has he but to hear it and accept it as such?
     As you come around him, Davydd sets down his tea and he reaches around to hold you where you are a moment. "Diolch," he murmurs, and with his hand he gives a squeeze and then a pat before drawing away to make history of that scone.
     "You know... who would have guessed it? That when I fell apart it'd be you here with the duct tape to help me rig it back together?"

     "No one could have guessed it." Fiona remains where she is for a moment, her hand going to the top of your head. "I couldn't have. You couldn't have. Noone else could have. I think most people probably didn't want us to - get together, to hook up. Probably thought our negative parts would drive each other further downwards, or something."
     She moves away, then, returning to her seat and blithely picking up her teacup. "It's funny. You don't understand why I'm here - why I love you. And I ... really don't understand the same things about you. But here we are, right? Both of us. Fighting to keep our heads above water, and working on building things for the future. Davy..."
     Fiona smiles, lifting her hand to wipe at first one eye and then the other with her palm, a smudging motion that would wreak havoc on her eyeshadow were she wearing any. "You don't scare me the way you're afraid of scaring me. You scare me when I think I'll lose you. I don't get as scared of that as I used to, but - you've wound your way into being such an integral part of me, of my life. I just - I suppose it's silly, but I do go all girly around you. Maybe it's just that I'm not feeling top drawer right now - it makes me get more emotional. But I'd like to be the one person, the one thing in your life that you'd know isn't going anywhere... no matter what."
     She recovers a bit, draining her cup and rising to her feet to go to the sink, turning on the tap and rinsing off her cup and saucer. "So how're the scones?" Look. An edible diversion.

     He can't stand to see a woman cry. As you rub at your eyes, smudging away tears, Davydd puts his scone down, green eyes peering suddenly at you with an archer's precision. He doesn't stop you as you rise to head to the sink. "They're good, but what's eating you?" Look, an edible pun.
     "Not feeling top drawer? What's wrong, sweetheart?" And suddenly his own problems dissipate, become fog, and drift away. Visibly so, his energy given action to dwell on instead of his own sadness and regret. Amazing, isn't it? This creature called Man...
     He's rising now, towel and all (held in place by magic, no doubt), and heading to the sink to take you in his arms. His hand lands at your hip. "What is it?" Davydd quietly asks.

     "It's nothing," Fiona murmurs, though she sighs, turning off the water and leaning back against you, then turning to press against your chest. "Really," she insists. "I just - feel a little off colour, that's all. Probably just heading into that time of month."
     She turns a brief smile up at you, then looks down again, closing her eyes as she leans in against your chest. "Sometimes I wish I could stay with you like this forever," Fiona murmurs, arms slipping around your waist. "Just - hang the world, build my own instead. But that's got problems too, hasn't it? I suppose I'm just a bit tired and frazzled, that's all. Uncomfortable in my own skin today."
     Her arms tighten for a moment, and then she sighs, relaxing her grip on you. "Sorry to be so emotional. I know you don't much need this on top of everything else, Davydd. I just - I do get worried about you, you know." Despite herself, there's the prickle of tears threatening against her closed eyelids, though she squirms in resentful frustration to hold them back. "I know that you can take care of yourself... you did fine for over eight hundred years before you ever met me, after all..."

     "I'm fine," he assures softly, shaven chin moving against your forehead as he turns his head for a kiss. "Don't worry." His hand moves against your hair as you lean against his chest. "What... me in a towel?" Davydd jokes. "I bet you want to keep me like this forever, like your personal Welsh cabana boyo..."
     His own arms surround you, keeping you snug against him. "You had a busy trip," he notes. "You never had a moment to yourself without some man coming up to you wanting to shove his ship into your every port." His mouth is warm against the crown of your head. "The banquets, the magic... it's a strain to be there, to exert yourself to keep you there, hmm? And then you come back and your boyfriend's sobbing in a bathtub, talkin' like he's going to ice himself, as if," he snorts, "...and you wonder why you're a bit fagged out? Hell, you were shagged more than wall to wall carpeting in the 70s...you deserve to be weary...here... go eat something, hmm? I can feed myself."

     "Welsh cabana boy." Fiona snorts, then sighs, staying close to you. "Not with your lack of tanning skills, Davy. But that's alright. I like you in anything except other women." She's a bit jealous and possessive, as you know; it shows, from time to time...
     "Busy - well, yes, busy. But it's not the sex - I don't mind the sex." Fiona ducks her head, smiling despite herself. "How could I mind, Davy? You're sexy as hell." She palms your hip, murmuring, "Tempted to grab your arse to see how you'd react, but I'll save it for another time - when I've got more energy. I'm glad you're not going to ice yourself, though. Or fry yourself."
     Her cheek impacts with your collarbone again, and she sighs, a drawn-out, lingering sound that almost echos in the back of her throat. "I'm not hungry - the idea of food just turns me off a bit right now. Had a bit of tea, but you can finish my scone if you like. I don't know - maybe I'm coming down with something. I'll be alright, really. I'll just have a nap a bit later."

     "Why don't we lie down now? Take a nap for a bit. I don't have anywhere I have to be tonight." It's a sweet suggestion. His fingers knead gently at your lower back. "Maybe you are coming down with something... but you didn't catch it from me," Davydd smirks. "Who else have you been kissin', missy..."
     Come on. His hand pats your hip and he starts to pull away. "I'll take a couple of the scones, to go..." he says, gathering a few up. He piles them on a napkin and twists, turning to look at you, to nod you toward the bedroom. Let's go...

     "Alright, alright, I'm coming." Fiona lets you shepherd her into the bedroom, though she's moving slowly. She closes her eyes, stretching and then slouching in a distinctly Drancy fashion as she shuffles towards the other room. "A lot of things about you are catching, Davydd ap arse. But right now, I admit, I do feel a compelling urge to lie down..."
     "Without even the expectation of you sticking it to me... or in me..."
     She scrubs the back of her wrist against her eyes, sighing heavily as she falls onto the bed on her side. She nudges off her shoes, then draws herself up onto the bed, curling up still on her side, cheek planted against the pillow with one eye open to look at you mournfully. Nothing ever kills your appetite, does it? Ugh. You can bring scones if you want, but I'll give it a miss. Maybe I'll get hungry later, but right now I just feel a bit off colour...

     He bends as you lie down, his hands pulling the coverlet over you. He grins, a smile that hasn't been seen on him in nights, and tucks you in like a real pro. "You just lie there. I'm going to pop over to the chemist's. I don't have anything here for ailin' women, I'm afraid. Just scotch and whiskey, and those are hardly medicinal."
     The back of his hand comes against your forehead, your cheeks, in gentle fashion. Quite fatherly. Hmm -- no fever. "Could be a cold or sommat," Davydd whispers. "No fever yet. I'll go get some things and you can hole up here till whatever it is passes." He grins madcap once more. "It's not like it's going to be contagious."
     With a pat on your rump, Davydd straightens and heads to his closet, taking out some clothing. Again, with the Oxford professor look. "It's right up the street, won't take but a moment. You want anything before I go?"

     She closes her eye, sighing again. "Reassurance, I suppose," Fiona mumbles from between the layers. "I'll probably change once I'm feeling up to it - this is a bit much for bed-lounging. No cracks about bare skin, please."
     Shifting to lie on her back, she drapes one forearm against her forehead. "Go on. If you're going, I mean. Mostly I just - I'm getting all emotional. Go on, get out of here before I have to throw a pillow at you." She turns over again, burying her face in the covers and ducking her head under one of the disarranged cushions, squirming and then holding still. Her voice is muffled when she speaks again. "Just make sure you come back..."

     He appears naked from the closet, pulling on boxers, then shirt, then trousers. He watches you turn over in the bed. You can't see it, but his eyebrow makes a slight quirk and his mouth twists. Yes, a visit to the chemist's is in order.
     Shoes thud on the floor and he steps in them, "I'll be back," he grins it out. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You just lie there and relax. There's some lavender oil in the bathroom. That might help you, aye? Calm the rough seas."
     Davydd is back at the bedside briefly, bending and kissing your head. "I love you, Fiona-bach." My little sweet dumpling, he murmurs in Welsh with a growl and a light nip at your ear.
     He leaves you with a patapat on your rear. How fast he moves. As soon as you feel his hand leaving the lump of your body beneath the covers, you hear the door opening and closing and locking. Flash Llywelyn...

     The moment you're gone, she's sitting up as if to protest at your departure, the corners of her mouth turning downwards as she wipes at eyes that have developed a disgusting (to her) tendency to water uncontrollably. The sigh is heavy again, for all the reassurance she's given, and she mops at her face with both palms. "Bloody men. Always causing trouble."
     Shakily, Fiona hauls herself out of the bed again, shedding her clothes like a cat shedding fur in June, clouds of garments and undergarments being kicked haphazardly about. No doubt both of her men would wince to see the cavalier mess. A few gestures and a false start or two and she's over by the closet, finding something warm and flannel-like to borrow in the shirt department; it swims on her, but that's fine by her, right now. Just like a cat, she needs to surround herself with your scent at your departure...
     Once she's draped herself in it, she crawls back into the bed. Not for long, though. Within ten minutes, she's stumbling for the bath, curling over the porcelain...

     He can move between the drops of rain, fast enough to miss getting wet. His shoes may duck a puddle, without so much as a droplet muddying the suede. This, while not even breaking a sweat. He doesn't have to run. He simply propels himself forward, occupying this space, then the next, then the next until the distance is crossed.
     At night, such fantastical motion can be disguised, pass unnoticed by any who might witness it.
     The chemist's was not far. By the time you are hugging the porcelain, he is already on his way back. The keys sound in the door, then he can be heard coming in again. "It's me," Davydd calls out and he closes and locks the door behind him. When he comes in, there are only a few droplets of moisture on his overcoat, but his hair is completely dry.

     The sound which greets you is wretchedly familiar, even if you haven't heard her making it, in the past. You have not been present for the inevitable occasions, following nights filled with too many liquors to count, too many bottles of cheap vin de pays, rum, vodka, gin, whatever it took for her and her friends or her by herself. She hasn't been that heavy or habitual a drinker though since before you met her, even if she still would sometimes go out and tie one on...
     The last time she tied one on, though, she ended up in your son's bed. Not that you need know that...
     Limbs shake, muscles tremble at the gut-clenching emptying of her stomach. Fiona reaches blindly for a towel, wiping her face, wiping her mouth one-handed while fumbling for the handle that will make all the evidence go away, using the handle as a lever by which she might propel herself up to her feet and back towards the bathroom door.
     "Timing, ap Rhys," Fiona mumbles. "Keep food away from me, for the love of god..."

     "No food here, just a little from column A and a little from column B," Davydd says as he fills the bathroom door. There is sympathy in his look as you haul yourself up. "We're going to start with column b." Twisting, he tosses the other bag to the bed.
     Column B. Early Response. A rather sweet looking cream-colored box with blossoming flowers all over it. Davydd looks at you, handing the box over. "You'll need to be in here for this one. Piddle on the stick and then get back in the bed. Before you can take any of the other stuff, we need to make sure you don't have something, someone, completely different going on..."
     "Just a precaution," Davydd adds quietly. "Let's just eliminate it as a possibility straight off." He's looking at you with a keen eye. He knows what he thinks. Now, let's see what Mother Nature has to say...

     "What?" She might not be bright, but at least she's cute when she's dumb, right? Fiona looks at you blankly, then at the box. It's as if she's gone suddenly illiterate - inability to process written material. The box is turned over in her hands as she sways, and then she shakes her head, a dawning horror in her face. "Oh, no, no. No. There's no way. I mean - fine, I'll take it, but there's just no way, Davydd. I've been drinking enough of that damn tea to the point where it's a wonder I don't lift my leg when I pass hydrants. More likely I've just developed an allergy to the stuff and that's why I feel so rotten."
     But she's said she'll take it, and reluctantly she steps back into the bathroom, albeit with a small shudder for any lingering smell of bile and vomit. "I'm keeping this shirt as payment," Fiona snips at you, "for putting me through the humiliation of pissing on a stick to satisfy your curiosity about my biology. God, I'd even prefer you killed a rabbit in some arcane ceremony..."
     The door shuts firmly, with the click of it latching in place; then for further discretion, the water is turned on. It appears she's a bit embarrassed about this turn of events. However, after a few minutes, there's the water off and the toilet being flushed again, and she steps out with a glower of defiance that almost suggests she's feeling better as she hands the test over to you. "There. I hope you're satisfied." However, Fiona's still a bit pale, and her defiance comes out just a bit shaky and lopsided, a suggestion of waterworks still in the offing with her lower lip trembling just slightly as she moves to brush past you en route to the bed. She tugs the shirt she's wearing (your shirt) more firmly over herself, testing the buttons in their holes.

     "I'm sure you're right," Davydd coos out gently. He's standing by the door as you come out, his hand reaching over and plucking the stick away just as you shove it at him. He smiles. "Back in the day, we'd have to calculate, cant, weave spells, kill rodentia, scry over a pan of chicken guts... you name it, they tried it. Course," he steps into the bathroom to set the stick down, "...that was back in the day when they'd lock a woman in a tower till her cycle ended. You know, don't trust a thing that bleeds for five days and doesn't die..."
     He's quiet for a moment. You can hear him wash his hands. And as he steps into the bedroom again, that poker face is still firmly in place. "You can have the shirt. That color looks good on y'." Davydd pushes his weight off the wall and heads to the bed -- the test left in the bathroom.
     He picks up the other bag (cold medicines and the like) and sets it on the dresser. No need to open those right away. "Comfortable, sweetheart?" he murmurs, tucking you in again. Davydd leans in and exhales. "You won't be needing that cold medicine, love. It looks like all the tea in China wouldn't have done you any good." Davydd takes in a breath, his mouth curving at the corners.
     "The test was positive..."

     She's curled herself up in the bed, a pillow in her arms like a teddybear, half her face buried in it as if it can somehow protect her from the mean world outside. "I could make you bleed for five days without dying," Fiona mutters snarkily. "Does that mean I should never trust you? Of course, knowing you, you'll just say yes."
     She sighs, burrowing in among the bedsheets and pillows as you disappear and reappear, as you talk, as you tuck her in. "In everything except my own skin," she mutters in reply to your question, closing her eyes and willing tensed muscles to relax. It's all for naught, of course; at your next words, she goes rigid as a board, eyes flying wide open to stare at you.
     "But I - I can't be, I - but..."
     Grace under pressure, she is not. Fiona's first reaction is likely one you have seen before, if not necessarily under these circumstances : sheer, unadulterated panic, her gaze skewing wide and wild around the room as if looking for an escape route. Of course, she's tucked in with you leaning over - and what she's trying to escape from would rather end up going with her.

     "I saw you drink it myself, I saw you all but bathe in it. Still... it's pretty clear," he murmurs. His hand lightly rubs, and though his expression seems to indicate his joy (quirking mouth and glimmering gaze) it also shows his concern. "Shh, now... there's no reason to get upset, right?" Now Davydd smiles. "It's just a bit early, that's all. Right?"
     It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Or gets knocked up.
     Davydd bends, kissing you. "I'll be with you every step of the way. There's nothing to be scared of, alright?" He sits back to see how you're taking it.

     "I ... I just - it ..." She sighs as you kiss her, not relaxing so much as being accepting of you. Her expression is strained, troubled even despite your soothing words. "I thought you said that stuff worked," Fiona mumbles, shaking her head a little. Her hands rise to your shoulders, and she uses you as a brace, pulling herself up to bury her face in your shoulder. Much better than pillows.
     It's too early, Davydd. How am I - how are we going to deal with this? If my mother finds out - I'm trying awfully hard not to freak out, but I'm not succeeding, and I don't know how long I can stay calm. Even in your head, her voice is tinged with that faint edge of hysteria, bordered by uncertainty and panic. She clings to you like a nervous cat suspicious of a veterinarian's waiting room. As for nothing to be scared of, how can you say that? I am scared. I'm trying not to be, but ... but I am.
     And she hasn't even said the half of it, yet.

     His hand moves against your hair as he leans forward again. Well, normally it does. But when Destiny wants something to move forward, it trumps the best spells known to man. Tea or no tea, it doesn't matter now. He doesn't even suggest you didn't drink it after sessions with his son. Or the days and nights of multiple sessions.
     That's just indecent.
     Shh, now... it's okay. You can convalesce in your kingdom. Your mother never has to know. And... no matter whose child it is, his arms surround you, and it doesn't matter either way... the child can remain in the Otherworld as the first heir to whatever kingdom.
     The hold tightens a little and his hand comes back up to your hair. "It will be alright, Fiona," Davydd murmurs. "You have two men to help you, right? A solution about your mother. And ...hell... you probably won't even have to postpone your wedding... so... there's nothing to worry about... "
     Now, he's smiling. "It's a bit early... but... we'll make do..."

     She stiffens further. "Oh, god. Which one? That's right, it could be either!" Her brain hadn't gotten quite that far in processing the information. Overload alert; her hands clutch at the front of your shirt as if about to rip it from you, but nothing so picayune or pleasurable occurs as Fiona stares up at you with refreshed panic in her expression. "It could be yours! Or Rhodri's! Or yours!" Well, at least there's only two possibles.
     Then she's scrambling, trying to get to her feet as she starfishes in her attempt to get out of the tucked-in covers. "Oh, fuck. We have to call him. And - and - and I'm going to be sick again. Get out of the way!"

     Davydd jumps up, pulling the covers with him. Sort of reminiscent of a matador jerking away the red flag. Toro! Toro! Toro! "Thank god the floors are cement," he mutters to himself, tossing the blanket back to the bed.
     While you're off for the porcelain throne, he's off for the phone. "I'll make you some orange peel tea," again with the tea -- fat load of good that's done. "... it helps with the nausea..." He's in the other room when he pipes up: "And the phone!"

     She makes it to the porcelain - just in the nick of time. Not that there's much left in her stomach, but the nausea combined with the incipient panic can have only one reaction. Whatever little was left will be carried away to sea in due course.
     Ugh, comes Fiona's response, very faintly. Thank god the tiles are nice and cool. I feel awful. I wish I didn't have to call. There is the mental suggestion of a sigh. Bring me the phone.
     It ends with a flush, and her struggling again weakly to her feet.

     The kettle's on. That'll take a few moments. Davydd appears from the living room and kitchen (and dining room... let's face it, it's all one big room), phone in hand. "You want to do the honors?" He offers it to you, but in his eyes you can see he's on the edge of keeping the phone for himself and making the call.
     But he'll give it if you really want it...
     "I'm sorry, darlin'," Davydd offers with a sigh. I know it's not the way you would have wanted it...

     "I think I'd better, don't you?" Fiona is still a bit shaky, coming out of the bedroom with freshly brushed teeth but her hair still unbrushed and askew, not having bothered to have put on more clothing than the flannel she's stolen from you. "I - I'm just going to tell him to come over. It isn't the sort of news I should break over the phone."
     She takes the phone, but flops forward against you, closing her eyes. You don't need to apologize. I love you. And I do - I do want to have your children, Davydd. Even now, I can still feel my stomach do those funny flip-flops at the idea. She opens her eyes, glancing up at you and then pressing in against your chest. Even if the flip-flops are being outnumbered by the whooshing of having sicked-up all over the place.
     "I just - it's so out of the blue. We didn't plan on it now, and - and you're right, at least I can go over there to do it and noone here has to know or - or even notice, but..." Fiona bites her lip, squeezing back a sudden flood of tears. "Dammit, I don't even know if it's yours. I feel like I'm in a daytime drama on television, and I don't like it. I want to be happy about it, but I feel like everything's out of control, and I know that you're not happy, and I want you to be happy, Davydd, really, I do, and ... and how much have I fucked up your life already that this will be even worse?"
     Her empty hand comes up to wipe at her eyes, and she shakes the phone open, starting to click buttons. "I'll just - call him, and ... and I'll work on not fucking things up more. I'm sorry, Davy. I'm so sorry." Fiona bites her lip, lifting her other hand to finish dialing the number as her eyes lower to the glowing display. The cuff flops over the edge of her wrist and she shakes it back out of the way with an impatient, irritable gesture. "I'm not good enough for you, you know."

     "You poor girl," Davydd rumbles and then grins. "I am happy," he chuckles. "I mean, it's a win-win for me either way, ain't it? I'm either a papa or a grandda. For me," he says seriously, "...I'd be happy either way. Besides... we agreed his would be the first. Stands to reason, you had more time there with him than me... I can't imagine it's not his... so..." He shrugs.
     He was prepared for it...
     Davydd leans in, his arms surrounding you as you call your Other. His mouth places small kisses against your neck. "You're lovely and I love you," he whispers there, mouth parting. Ah, he is happy. His fangs are distended. But do not fear, he won't put you both in jeopardy. You and your new...passenger...

     "You mean you agreed," Fiona mumbles against your collarbone. Ah, she's still feeling a bit cantankerous. "I was all for yours being first, remember? And it might be yours. I was with both of you - a lot, lately. Hell, just last night I seem to recall you apologizing for a load being delivered." Her palm comes up to smack at your shoulder, but she's sighing and relaxing a little all the same.
     The phone is brought in, cradled to her ear even as you cradle her to you, the veil of her eyelashes flickering down to blink back further tears. All of this unseemly and unEnglish emotion. Bah. "I love you, too, Davy," Fiona whispers, jaw going slightly slack as fangs prickle ever so slightly. "Mm... stop distracting me..."
     Somehow, she manages to press the call button, curling in against you with limbs going heavy, soothed - for the moment, at least. "It's ringing, I think..."

     "Mmm," your first husband sounds against your neck, his open mouth brushing your skin, soothing the slight prickling burn that the drag of canines creates. One hand goes to your stomach -- get used to this motion -- his palm and fingers landing gently, moving circularly, as if he could feel your growth already.
     Ah, but it is not just for you. It is to commune with the child...
     "Noswaith dda, da," Rhodri's voice sounds. It's Davydd's phone. So of course he thinks it's his father. "Lucky you caught me, I just got in..." Just got in? Where's he been?

     She exhales in a rush, all this sudden intimacy. When did the two of you become so intimate? But she likes it; it shows in the way she leans against you, in the way she momentarily forgets all about the phone she's still got in her now weak grasp. I love you ...
     The sudden answering of the phone is what causes her to snap back to clarity. Fiona blinks, startled, voice a bit ragged when she speaks. "Rhodri, it's me. I'm still at Davydd's and I need you to come over as soon as you can get here; it's important." Where has he been indeed - she's almost too distracted to wonder, but not quite that distracted, after all. "Davydd's here too; but get here as soon as you can, alright?"
     You are so distracting, she scolds you in the back of her mind. You keep making me want to melt, and I can't. Not now. I've got to be stronger than that.

     "Is everything okay, love?" Rhodri sounds concerned. You can hear his keys in his hands. "I'll be there right away... do you need anything?"

     Davydd lifts his mouth to your ear, breathing there before kissing along your jaw. Okay, I will stop. But you are feeling better, oes? He smiles there and straightens, leaving you alone with a pat. He's hungry. But tonight, the menu consists of scones and scones alone. Well, alright, and the beef.

     "Everything's ... well, you'll see. Nothing that time won't cure." Fiona sighs again, leaning until you move away, then directing her attention back to the phone. "You don't need to bring anything, just don't break your neck in getting here. I - we'll explain when you get here. Nothing for you to worry about," she clarifies, "and nothing that won't wait until you get here."
     She turns her back, then turns to face forward again. I didn't say you had to stop. Women and cats ...
     "I'll see you when you get here," Fiona repeats. "I - well. I'll go get ready. Just try to get here soon, okay? 'Bye..."

     "Love you, doll. I'll be there in two shakes of a Triumph's tail..."

     "I gotta get the scones. Your necks looking too top drawer for me. Can't imagine that'd be good for you now. Not that it ever was." His voice trails off as he heads into the dining room/kitchen/living room.
     You want to meet with him in there or in here... seems a bit maudlin in a dark bedroom, but it's up to you, darlin'. If you think you're going to need to hug the porcelain again, probably ought to stay in there, come to think of it.
     Davydd reappears with a plate of scones (drizzled with honey), and a bottle of water. The water is for you.

     The phone is clicked shut, and she sits on the edge of the bed, sighing forlornly. She looks up though as you speak. "When did I ever complain about how my neck looked to you - or the results? You know damn well it turns me on. Though I suppose you'll be stuck abstaining from my neck for the most part for a while." She frowns at that, but keeps her thoughts to herself.
     I'm feeling a little better, but not entirely - I don't have anything left in my stomach right now anyway. Might as well come out, though I'm not really dressed for it. Damn, I wish I'd stuck to my initial impulse and stuffed a pair of my bunny slippers under your bed, at least.
     Fiona rises slowly, groaning as she stretches a little bit, then cautiously takes the water from you, sniffing it as suspiciously as if she's expecting you to drug her. "Seems okay," Fiona announces. "No immediate urge to sick up. Rhodri should be here pretty quickly - he's taking the Triumph."

     "Well, it's just us," Davydd notes. "And ...yeah," he sighs forlornly, "...no more necking for a while. Pity. I was feeling a bit peckish. Must have been all that wailin'." He smirks and heads to the dining room once more, taking the plate with him. He should be here pretty soon...he's not far anyway. His mouth is full, so his mind does the talking for him. Why don't you come and sit down out here... maybe wash your face so you feel a bit more human. These scones are fucking amazing, by the by. I hope you don't want any...

     "Ugh." Fiona shudders, moving to the kitchen sink and turning on the water, phone set down on the counter. She takes a kitchen cloth and runs it under the stream, wringing it out and then mopping her face with it. She sighs, settling back to stand with one hand on the small of her back, gripping the cloth in her other hand. "No thanks. The scones are for you - and him, I suppose, if you leave him any. There's still the stew and the bread as well, after all."
     She draws the cloth over her forehead and then over each closed eye, sighing for the coolness of the fabric as it makes its damp passage. I'll come sit, yes. Bloody Welsh dragon. How did you get me to calm down, anyway? I can't promise it'll last...
     The cloth is tossed into the sink to land with a particularly loud splat against the enamel, and then she moves over to thud onto a chair, leaning forward so that her cheek is on one wrist as she looks mournfully at you. "You don't need to make fun of me for crying, you know." Ah, misinterpretation.

     "Now, love, I'd never do that. At least not until you make fun of me for crying. You know better," Davydd softly scolds. Then promptly stuffs his face full of scone. Who knew I could be a creature of reason... but there's no point crying over spilled milk, is there. Not when we all filled the jug ourselves and then put it on the edge of the table.
     He chuckles and sits back, reaching for a napkin as he grins (mouth closed) around his mouthful of pastry. When the chips are down, baby, I'm the man to call, right? I'll kiss you on the neck later. If you feel better later, I may kiss you all over.

     And then the door is tried, found to be locked, and so is followed by a knock...

     And if I said that, you'd call me a temptress. If I feel better, I might even let you. As if she could stop you. Then there's a knock at the door, and Fiona sits up, looking suddenly alert - and panicked all over again. He's here, and I have no fucking idea of what to tell him.
     She rises, though, moving to the door to unlock it. "If you were a real thief, you'd just let yourself in without any of this sissy knocking shite," she grumbles, "making me get up."
     Not that she said for you to get up instead...
     The door is unlocked and swung open, and she steps back, bracing herself as if about to face a firing squad as she turns from the doorway to look to pere. When the chips are down, Davy, I'll call you every time. Even when they're still up in the air - you might be able to make them come down the way I want them to, if I ask you nicely enough. Wish me luck with this...
     "I hope that's you, Rhodri, and not someone else..."

     It is Rhodri, but it may look like someone else. His hair has gone tangerine and cream, an auburn and blond mix that is stunning as it is shocking. The blond bits are platinum, damn near white but with a bit of champagne to give it some color. He's all in leather, orange and red to match the Lucifer Orange of the Triumph, the helmet in his hands is a custom job (his own magical work), with the flames of a bel-fire completely covering it.
     "I'd pick the lock, but it's rude," Rhodri smiles. "You had me worried. From the sound of it I thought I'd find you with your hair all chopped off or...lost a leg or something..." He bends, kissing your neck as he comes in. His eyes lift to find his father. "Hey, da..."

     "What the fuck did you do to your hair, boyo?" Davydd rattles out, standing and heading for the stew. He shakes his head at his son. "What was wrong with the color I gave you, by virtue of my stunning genes..."

     Fiona, for her own part, just stops and stares. Who are you and what have you done with my fiance? One of them, anyway? Her eyes widen, one hand coming up to push her hair back from her cheek. "I, ah, you ... got your hair cut."
     Stating the obvious 101. She shakes her head slightly, gaze traveling up and then down, cheeks turning a bit pink. "...Nice outfit. Going with a theme, I see. Very ... something. You. Um. Anyway." Yes, she's flustered...
     She turns to look from one to the other, then carefully moves back to the table, retaking her perch upon the chair with her hands folded daintily in her lap. "You - well. Might want to sit down, Rhodri. Davydd, is this really an appropriate time to give him a hard time about genetics?"

     Davydd glances up, eyebrows arching fiery trajectories skyward as he, bowl in hand, heads for the dining room table again. "Seems as good a time as any, if you ask me..."

     "I'm glad you like," Rhodri says, closing the door behind him. Taking Fiona's hand, he goes with her to the table. The proximity allows him a good smirk at his father for the commentary, and then he sets his helmet on the table and takes a seat. Leather creaks as settles and emerald eyes glint back and forth between you both.
     "So I gather something's up..." Rhodri leads in. He unzips his padded leather shirt -- it's not a shirt, it's a reinforced jacket, just skin-damn-tight. Beneath are two layered t-shirts, red and white. He looks between you again. "So... anyone want to start...?"

     Distraction, thy name is Rhodri. She finds either of you distracting enough singly; it's a wonder with the both of you padding about like male lions on the move that she can focus at all, see anything at all but bedroom eyes. "I ... yes. I mean - well, yes, I ... I've got something important to tell you."
     And it is important, isn't it? Much as she might want to put off telling that little piece of news now until after bedroom eyes have led to bedroom sighs and all the rest. From fanged kisses to rock and roll godhood...
     She is led, suddenly quiet, suddenly out of breath. Strange air indeed. She sinks onto the chair and crosses her legs (while she still can, right?) and then she places her hands in her lap. "Something's up, yes. Um... well... you might - well, screw it, I can't deal with the suspense anymore. Rhodri, I'm pregnant. And I don't know which one of you is the father and I've already been sick twice today and Davydd made me piss on a stick and it said two pink lines instead of one or whatever it does for all I know it just sings the Halelujah Chorus and Davydd's eaten all the scones so all that's left are stew and bread and you'd better hurry and eat if you're going to and I'm going to have to go back to my kingdom to have the baby so my mother doesn't find out and I'm going to get fat and hideous and you both will end up with other women and and and anyway that's all there is to it."
     She slouches down in her seat suddenly, ducking her head to hide behind her hair, face gone bright red and eyes gone watery again (Dammit) and lower lip distinctly trembling. There, see... she's all worked up again...
     All Davydd's hard work undone...

     Unlike his father's more tempered reaction, Rhodri is up out of his seat, grinning like the very sun, and he's over to you. Hands cup your face, lifting it out of the cover of your hair. He brushes away the gold as only a sun god can, and he smiles down to you. "It doesn't matter, baby." Smiling, he kisses you. "That's fantastic... unexpected... but fantastic. Congratulations to.... all of us, I guess. This is going to be amazing. Your first baby..."
     I know it can be scary but... you've got two men who love you and who are experienced at footrubs for pregnant women. Rhodri grins. "Shh, now. There's nothing to be nervous about...well, not about my reaction anyway. Either way, I have a son or a brother, right? So... let's not worry about fatherhood for a while. What's important is that you take care of yourself..."

     Davydd is a bit more sober about it all, but he's not without his joy. He shows his smile, letting the spoon rattle in the now empty bowl. "Either way, it'll look like me. And not have wacky hair..."

     What's the matter with you two?
     She doesn't say it aloud or even think it where the two of you can hear it, but no doubt you can see it on her face. Here she is, getting all upset and worked up, and - you're both calm and pleased as punch, leaving her to deflate slowly (even if not for long). "But I don't know if it'll be a boy," she argues weakly, glowering at Rhodri, "even if it'd be your sibling or child, or his grandchild or child. I - oh, sod it. You two are disgusting."
     Now she's pouting, but also relenting, sighing as she's touched, sighing as she settles into the kiss and then back against the back of her chair. "I hate you both," Fiona mumbles.

Posted by rowan at May 15, 2005 03:21 PM