While you were gone, he pulled back the drapes to let the sun in. He opened the windows to feel the ocean breeze, to smell the scent of spices rising from the marketplace and bazaars. He bathed and he ate and he drank. And in the quiet of your chambers, he was strummed.
The vibration of sunlight became the vibration of a string. The violin he had played before transformed in his grasp. The wooden body became something otherworldly, iridescent. His fingers moved and Music was born.
Spilling out onto the courtyards below...
Raining down over the port and coastline...
Giving harmony to the dance of spices in the marketplace...
Music...
Amazing sound. Sounds within sounds...
Inspiration becomes as tangible as honey dripping from full hive...
There are things which Fiona can do and there are things which she can't. She is, contrary to what some might believe (though most would believe her contrary enough, it is certain), capable of relaxing. But...
Capable of relaxing by strolling through gardens?
Only on alternate Sundays during blue moon eclipses...
It isn't how she relaxes; it's just not how she's wired. It's definitely not how she's wired right now. And so in parting from her advisors, older and surely wiser than she, she has stepped away; aside; into shadows cast along cool marble hallways; and She has Changed.
Isn't that how she always deals with the stress the world places upon her?
She has not Changed as she Changed when she became a Queen. No; she would not for any number of worlds endanger the children in her womb, and she isn't sure what might or might not do them harm. Instead, she has drawn the skin of her own magic up around her, and the changes are ... cosmetic...
But none the less real for being cosmetic. Blinking-eyed, she steps out of shadows like a chameleon moving from one leaf to another, from leaf to rock, from rock to the edge of rippling stream. And it's there, poised upon air currents (as it were), that she hears...
She was already on her way, but now she is moving more quickly, silently, swift as any arrow, making her way to her chambers and then pausing at the threshold. For all that it's her own room, she isn't sure she wants to disturb the music spilling out. But -
"Every song has to end sometime," Fiona murmurs to herself from the other side of that door. "It makes us appreciate music more when there are spaces between the notes." She raps lightly on the door - once, twice, thrice - and waits...
To everyone else here, the sound is completely New. To you? You know the sound of a guitar when you hear it. Electric, but of no mortal electricity. The currents that move through it are of magic, his magic. The song that comes from it is power, his power. It is the soul of Purple Haze. It is the essence of Teen Spirit.
The door isn't answered. It also isn't locked. The runs of extemporaneous composition occur at a speed that would impress The Ramones. The tonality is pure and create a tangible electricity that reaches past the door and to you, lifting the fine hair on your arms and the nape of your neck.
No song ever really ends...
At best, there is a pause until someone else picks up an instrument and starts a song seemingly from the ether...
There's a low, lingering sigh, and then the door is opened. Fiona steps in, looking for where her lover plays. She doesn't speak; speaking would be interrupting the song. Instead, she just looks...
She has changed her appearance considerably. It probably won't last; she doesn't seem to stay in a constant state of change anymore. But she has Changed. Her hair is presently the colour of cinnamon, with faint streaks of leaf green running through it, chopped short to just below her chin, rising and falling in the power flowing through the now opened doorway.
Her skin is pale, almost ghostly white, but iridescent, as if she's coated herself in micah or diamond dust, with her eyebrows and eyelashes the same cinnamon hue as the rest of her hair, lips the colour of ripe cherries in late spring. Those lips quirk into a slow smile, now, that crinkles the corners of her eyes and lifts the points of her ears through her hair. She's gone native...
But as bush as she might've gone, it isn't complete. The outfit she's wearing's something you might see in London, in the right club on the right night, but it's probably not something usually seen here - and not usually on a Queen. The skirt is black, made of thin, stretchy leather that threatens to roll up over her bottom with any long-legged stride, with boots to match. They in turn reach to mid-thigh on Fiona, tied tightly with heels that exaggerate the roll and sway of her hips; the shirt she wears is short but long-sleeved and scoop-necked, clinging to her figure from shoulders down to two inches below her breasts, red and black horizontal stripes with a black spiked dog collar around her neck. Leather bracers are around her wrists, studded with steel. As if to cry defiance to the colour motif, her nails are only modest in length and unpainted...
She doesn't try to make it a duet. Fiona just swings the door closed, looking around for where you and your instrument have become sequestered - not quite sure what you've become in turn...
He may not even know you are here. How can that be, when his energy is everywhere? Does it brush against the air like fingertips extending throughout the room? Or perhaps not, for Rhodri's eyes are closed, his fingers move upon strings of gilded light, and his hair sparkles with the reflection of that light that comes from each string's vibration.
He has changed, as the seasons change, as everything seems to change and mutate here, no matter how Orderly it Is. His hair's earthy transformation has no hold here in this place of dreaming. It is red-gold and to his shoulders. It lacks his father's unruly curls, but isn't without a wave. He is without a shirt, even as he was the last time you saw him, and the red leather is back on his legs. On his skin, the tattoos erupt and swirl, hunts turn to epics, and epics to the song emitting from his fingertips.
Rhodri opens his eyes, brilliant green landscapes and fields of apples beaming from within. His skin is slick with the sweat of his effort, a golden glisten beneath the illumination of the guitar. The guitar is an extension of himself, its swirled shape covered by the echo of his own tattoos and given a spin.
Rhodri makes a face -- you've seen that look before -- and the song stops abruptly. He exhales, his hands lifting off the strings. The strings go silent but pulse with the rhythm of his own heart.
"It's hard to look at you right now."
She says it softly, so quietly, seeming the more quietly in the lapse from your playing. Fiona makes her way further into the chamber, and her eyes are as you know them, as you remember them, even if everything else has changed, that sliding, shifting, changing melange from blue to grey to green and back again. "I thought I might be interrupting if I came in. So I went ahead and barged in as you see me, clumsy and stupid like usual."
There are no flowers in her wake, there is no fall of glitter. There is just the quiet clacking and echoing tap of her heels upon the solid floor. One hand climbs, self-conscious, to rub at her cheek; and then it falls again, fingertips rubbing against the leather at the top of her thigh.
"You are unique." Fiona says it plaintively, watching you. "And frightening, sometimes. But sometimes I want you to frighten me. You have so much energy, Rhodri. Where does it all go?"
The instrument gleams, even when he does not play it. Its surface is red and magenta and white, when his hounds aren't crawling all over it. The strings are golden, the light easing somewhat in the cessation of music to seem as golden strings. His fingers pluck at the strings even as his gaze plucks at your figure. A red-gold eyebrow lifts, likewise a corner of his mouth.
"Music and sex," he chuckles. "Or hadn't you noticed, sweetness?" It has had no other expression before. But now? Now there is so much of it that it requires expression. "And I should frighten you. It is my gift," he goes on, removing the guitar from around his shoulders. He sets it aside. "I am your thief, your King of Highways. What would you do if you didn't have me to tie you up, to ravish you, and to remind you of what it means to be free..."
He is standing in your presence now, your husband-to-be and your king. His hands rest lightly but securely on your leathered hips. Sliding, his mouth carves a wicked smile, pleased and inspired all at once. "You ... I like you best when you ... kick off the civility of silk," his mouth pulls and suckles on your own. "...and go for the leather."
Rhodri bends his head, his mouth tugging at your collar. "Where will my energy go?" he whispers at your neck. "In positively affecting the world around me. Music, yes." He grins. "Sex, most definitely. In making a kingdom worthy of my honor, your love, and our children's future." His hand cups your face. "And... you... what about your energy, my delightfully decadent fairy queen..."
His hands steal their way, what else? From your hips to your wrists. He secures his grasp there firmly -- but not tightly -- his hands and yours going behind your back. "We're a good fit, you and I. You're not like any other woman I've ever known...so I guess that makes us both unique..."
The cinnamon eyelashes shiver, lowering to partially veil her eyes. She isn't wearing any makeup at all - just magic, Changed and yet unaltered she is, watching you through that veil, that separation of the world in her head from the world outside. "I don't know what I'd do. I'm not good at freedom."
She keeps everything trapped inside where it can't get out. You can see the warmth move into her face despite the pale colour she wears there, feel the heat in her cheeks reflected in her gaze. "You like leather too much..."
It's whispered against your kiss, no resistance made to the slide of your hands against her hips, her head tilting back as your lips travel along her throat. The cinnamon-fringed eyes close, the eyebrows almost hidden in the fringe of cinnamon bangs above. "I don't know what energy I've got," Fiona murmurs, leaving her face in your hands for a moment, eyes still closed and lips pursed as if demanding another kiss with sulky greed. "I'm just doing what I always do. Just ... more of it."
The eyes slit open, impossibly blue as your hands move to her wrists, as she feels her own hands drawn back behind her back. It occurs to her to struggle - you can see the thought occur, dawning on her with the sudden tension in her shoulders as she squirms. "How am I so different? I don't see it." Fiona tips her chin up at you, glowering all of a sudden. "Bloody impossible man. You're too easy to distract."
"And here it was that I thought I was distracting you," Rhodri says with the quirk of an eyebrow. "I'm on to you, darlin'. Your glower's not fooling anyone. You need it... as much as you enjoy it." The kiss you demand is the kiss you receive. Your lips are plucked, sucked and freed. It's a kiss you've felt between your thighs. That claiming, that sudden, that playful.
His hands free your wrists, and he grins. "I like this... the cinnamon. Some night... I'd like to see it lavender. With... vinyl boots and nothing else. In fact, you're overdressed now." Rhodri grins and takes a step back. "Want a drink? How was your meeting?"
What a right bastard he is...
Without the distraction of the guitar, you can see how well the leather fits. He looks phenomenal in red. Your Oak King pours two glasses full of a golden liquid. "It will be my personal mission to help you learn how to be free. It's the Black Jack's gift, right? To help the high born lady kick off her heels of Spanish leather and go skipping madly free among the heather..."
She flushes, and again, you feel it more than you see it, but it's there. You know how pink she'd be turning if it weren't for the magic. You do know better; she does enjoy it, for all that she tries to drive you off. Perhaps it's because she enjoys it that she feels the need to kick so much.
You kiss her, and she sighs a little against your mouth, stepping back even as you free her, turning slightly away - perhaps so you won't see regret in her face. "The meeting went fairly well. Hwyll almost fainted. It seems most of his harem's also pregnant. I've never seen him turn that colour before. Huw was more relaxed about it, but they're both inclined to make a bit of a fuss over it all - wanting me to select a court and so on."
You can feel the face she makes. Fiona sits down on the edge of the bed, then sprawls. At this angle, you can even see a flash of her knickers, satin and lace and the same colour green as the strands in her hair, impudent defiance of the rest of the colour scheme. "Lavender would clash with my eyes," she answers you obstinately, rolling onto her side and propping herself up on an elbow. She watches you again, still covertly, as if unwilling to allow herself to enjoy the sight of you, unwilling to admit to being moved. "What's that you're pouring, anyway? And ... never mind."
There's more she might've said, if not for the wary guard upon her tongue...
"Nevermind what? And this? This is a concoction of cool and sweet fruit juices. Non alcoholic in consideration of our children. I would never call it a delicate state," he chuckles suddenly. "You're not exactly the delicate type. Or rather, you are," Rhodri glances over to the bed, grins at the flash of knickers, and he heads that way, "... but you'd absolutely fucking hate for me to say it outloud."
He stands at the bedside, offering the glass to you. "Then maybe blue instead," Rhodri smirks, "... better yet, surprise me. If I suggest a color that's only to guarantee I'd never see it." God, he's so smart. Couldn't you just slap him?
He takes a swallow of the juice and sets it on the side table. Sitting beside you, he turns, half hovering over you. He looks to your legs, to the boots, and then to your lovely face. "What's really bothering you, sweetheart?" he murmurs.
Naturally, being Rhodri, his hand steals between your thighs. A finger slips between the silk of the fabric and the silk of your skin. "Do you want me to pick and steal what you're holding on your tongue, suck it off of your tongue, or will you shake it loose yourself..."
"I am NOT delicate." The glass is taken, and for a moment, it looks like she's about to hurl it at your head; but thirst wins out over violence, and Fiona takes a sip with her eyes still narrowed. "I'm pregnant, not ... that."
She looks ready to bite something, doesn't she? She takes another swallow, then stretches to put the glass down next to your own, deliberately ignoring how you hover. And, of course, it is when the thief is ignored that he can do what he does, best...
You can hear the intake of breath as your hand slips in unexpectedly, the soft whimper that's bitten back, as sensitive as she is (as sensitive as she's become). "Rhodri, stop that. Does everything always have to be about sex with you?"
There is again that rush of heat in her skin, the flush almost visible this time. She rolls onto her back, thighs pressed together as if to deny you further access, shake you off. "Nothing is bothering me. Except you. Stop it."
She is feeling contrary...
Rhodri laughs. It's a warm brush of sound. It is not simply analogous to sunlight. It is far deeper than that. "You didn't even hear me. And no... it's not all about sex. Though, I will note, if you don't want me to think about stuffing my face full of sweets, love, you should set such a banquet."
He pulls back his hand with a grin and a laugh, sits up and takes a long drink of the nectar. "Have it your way, love," he murrs. He stretches as he stands. "So ...you shocked the boys, did you? Well, I'm sure it'll pass. I hadn't heard about Hwyll being in "the family way". That will be a riot. He's not the fatherly type." He pours more of the drink for himself. "If you want help picking and filling out your court, love, I'd be more than happy to..."
You could just bet...
"I heard you." Fiona grumbles it, lying on her stomach, head cradled on her wrists. "I just ignored it in favour of what I wanted to reply to. That's all."
That is likely the most honest woman you will ever meet.
"I don't know if I shocked them, exactly, just - it's going to make for a lot of work. Incidentally, there's going to be a big shindig in two weeks which I will require your presence for - so please do make plans to attend." She pushes herself up onto hands and knees, then stretches until her spine pops, leaving her back turned to you. "Hwyll isn't the fatherly type. I don't know what he intends to do about it - other than faint. Huw told him not to faint, though."
She runs her fingers through her hair idly, feeling the silky locks stir and fall astray. "What would your criteria be? I mean, I'm not feeling entirely keen on having a court at all. I suppose I've got to - I just ... right now, I want to play truant on being a queen. I don't /feel/ queenly. I feel..."
She cuts it off with an impatient sound, turning on the bed and then standing - with a little difficulty; those heels are a bit too much for her. She stalks to the balcony, putting her hands on one of the doors and scowling past the curtains. "I've got a lot on my mind," Fiona mutters. "I can't help it. I'm being a bitch."
"You can be a bitch if you want to. It's ever woman's prerogative." Rhodri takes another drink then returns to his guitar. "And some men's." He begins to tune as he watches you stalk to the balcony. The guitar sounds like an electric guitar once it's unplugged."
Green eyes sparkle as you mention a shindig, and he smirks. "What? My funeral or my wedding?" He chuckles suddenly. "I'll try not to be late. Depends on how drunk I get, of course." Maybe he thinks you're joking. Or maybe he's just Rhodri. Flippant and cool as usual. If only he weren't so cute, it'd be easier to be annoyed by him.
"Hmmm... my criteria for a court. Well, for your court. Smart, capable women who would tend to your every need. Beautiful, naturally. It's not all that matters, certainly, but courtiers should serve as decoration as well as entertainment. I think you should employ courtesans to distract visiting counts and dukes. In the short term, and seriously for a moment," as if the rest were a joke indeed, "... I think you would benefit by having a female steward of your castle. I can speak with Bianca. She is used to running a court, and a kingdom to be honest. And she has experience with pregnancy. The last thing you're going to want from me is advice."
"It'll only be your funeral if you don't show up. Otherwise, it'll be your wedding. Assuming you still want to get married, of course; I'm only pregnant, it isn't as if my life relies upon it." She is so much less cool when she is flippant - you could almost see the sparks flying from the ends of her hair, from the tips of her fingernails as they're waved impatiently.
She turns in the doorway, standing with one foot slightly in front of the other, hands on the edges of her skirt hem. She plucks irritably with nervous energy, as if to pull it down or up and hasn't made up her mind quite which direction that hem ought to move in. "I've already got courtesans. They're known as nymphs, and they're most of them busy trying to get the captain of my personal guard to foreswear his oath of chastity in their favour. I feel bad about that, but it's the lure of the unattainable - not much that I can do about that. I need to talk to him and Huw again - and Hwyll, I suppose, though less Hwyll - about some arrangements concerning my pregnancy and after."
Business can divert her, it seems, from her bitchiness; Fiona glances over her shoulder, then sets a course for you, stalking determinedly and stumbling to a halt. Those shoes should never be worn standing up. "Bianca is the head of your court. It wouldn't be right for me to pull her away from you - and besides, I don't know if I'm comfortable with that." Fiona glances to the side rather than at you, even though she is now close enough to put her hands on your shoulders if she just would. "I don't know if I want advice from anyone right now. I do know I don't want to fucking walk in the gardens to calm down."
"I could spare her for you," Rhodri notes, no sign of flippancy anywhere. "But only because I love you." He winks at that and sets the now tuned guitar aside. Sitting on the sofa, he spreads out with a sigh, a hand raking through his hair. "I'm not going to advise you, but I really don't want to see you have a sprained ankle on top of being gloriously pregnant with my ... I mean our...baby, baby."
He shrugs a little. "I'm happy to talk to Bianca if you want me to, but that's up to you." Rhodri studies you for a bit, tattooed arms folding across his ornate, and broad, chest. "You know... the only one suggesting you walk in a garden, which is something you don't want to do I understand, is you, sweetheart. So... care to talk about why you're chasing your own tail at the moment? I'm not going to blame everything on the hormones. That's just lazy husbanding..."
"I know that you could, but I don't want you to." Fiona sighs as well, then abruptly drops - into your lap, curling against your chest and closing her eyes. "Bastard," she mutters. "Why can't you get possessive about the things I want you to get possessive about, when I want you to? Why do you always have to be so contrary and stubborn? Instead of being all understanding..."
She squirms for a moment, tugging at one of your folded arms, plucking at it to drape it around herself instead. "Huw and Hwyll were saying about walking in the gardens and relaxing, and - well, it just, I can't relax. I feel like I've got fleas, only under my skin instead of on them. An itch I can't scratch, and it's driving me crazy."
There are plenty of things worrying at the back of her mind...
But she looks up suddenly, challengingly. "Don't you know what I want by now?" Fiona glares at you pugnaciously, moving in so that her nose is almost to yours. "You watched me long enough. You planned it long enough. You tell me what I want."
Rhodri oofs as you plop down on him, and after his shock he surrounds you with his arms. "You'd hate it if I were controlled that easily," he notes for the record. "No cat likes a dead mouse. Dead mice aren't entertaining. Same with compliant husbands," he grins.
"Hmm... maybe you do have fleas," Rhodri teases. "You could have a bath. That always helps Davydd. It's bound to help you. You're about as stubborn. And you're worried about him, yeah?" He nods in answer to his own question. Yeah. He exhales, and he looks suddenly understanding. "Stop fighting it then, and call him would you. I'd rather you talk to him on the phone than take your frustration about not calling him on me." He grins suddenly. "Oooh, he's soooo smart, couldn't you just hate him," Rhodri teases in a whispered coo.
Leaning forward, he kisses you gently. Upon the crown of your head. Upon your forehead. "I'm possessive only about one thing. And that's you. The little things... well... they come and go. Not everything should be a war. I'm expert at picking my battles, sweetheart..."
She grumbles wordlessly as you hold onto her, then turns and gnaws on your shoulder when you tease her about having fleas. "I don't have parasites! Gah. Bloody man." Another sigh, then. You are too perceptive. You know her too well. You have cut to the heart, the meat, the marrow of the matter in one stroke...
She's worried...
Maybe she wasn't even allowing herself to know it. "You're too fucking sharp," Fiona murmurs, closing her eyes and tipping her face down towards your shoulder, chin resting there. "You need to watch you don't cut yourself, Rhodri. And here I was just waiting for you to toss me onto the bed and tie my ankles to my wrists again. But I'll go call Davydd instead."
She accepts the kiss, accepts your words, hovering on your lap for a moment before lifting her face to meet your lips with her own. Intercept. "I do love you... even when I'm a complete bitch. Don't ever think I don't. I'm just ... not good at this..."
And then she begins sliding from your lap, reaching through ether and air from nothingness for a cellphone. Magic. One thousand and one uses, and absolutely no roaming charges...
He closes his eyes at the kiss. A moment of sweetness taken and given (with him, something is always taken). "Oes, do us both a favor," he murmurs, teasing lightly again. But there's some seriousness to that. Maybe you're not the only one who's worried.
As you slide from his lap, his hand lifts to pat you. "I thought about tying your wrists to your ankles but thought the last thing you'd want is swollen ankles. However," Rhodri leans toward you, "I think you would make a lovely picture over by your curtains," a nod to the balcony. "Your hands wrapped with the curtain cord, pulled up over your head. In your high-heeled boots, with me making love to you from behind. Think about it," he winks. And with that wink he rises.
Considerate, he gives you your privacy as he goes over to the windows and the drapes to test his fantastical theory.
Beneath the micah-like skin, there is that rise of warmth - for the picture you paint, for the kiss. "Bastard," Fiona murmurs - but it's affectionate, in its own way. In her way. The gaze she turns on you is emotional, though then you move away, and she turns away, the heels clicking as she makes her way to the bed, a number already being punched in as she raises a hand to her other ear as if to shut out the roar of the sea in its fading crescendo.
Will he even answer...
Is he alright...
Her mind is too good at painting dark pictures, with the midnight memory of recent events too close to Fiona's thoughts for comfort...
He does answer. In the background, there is laughter -- men and women. The clinking of glasses. A party? The sounds begin to fade as he makes his way outside. You know it's outside for the sound of traffic. "Yeah?"
He didn't even check to see who called. Or... maybe your "line" doesn't come up in his caller ID.
Oh...
It isn't that she deflates, exactly. But she doesn't know what to say, all of a sudden. "Didn't mean to interrupt the party," Fiona says lightly, trying to keep the brittleness of her feelings at a distance. "But I wanted to call." So lightly she says it. As if it didn't matter.
And underneath, it's like the floor plummets away under her. Her chin tips downwards as she sits on the edge of the bed, one knee drawn up while the other leg's folded under, a hand out to brace herself against the impossibly soft down and plush of it.
It's almost as if you two never hooked up - her in her punked-out kit, calling from her place, pulling you away from whatever you're doing. It gives rise to all the old insecurities. "So, I ... anyway." The hand lifts and then falls with a dull plumping thump. "You're okay, then."
Oh, it's you. There's a sudden warmth to his words: "Hello, darlin'. Ah... right, that. Yeah, I'm up and about. Friend of mine had some money in one of the West End shows. It's intermission." It's not exactly a party, but he's not exactly sitting at the house being all depressed and pitiful.
Disappointed?
"Where are you?" Davydd's voice quips. "Well, don't give me exacts, it's a cell phone. Still... you... okay? You sound like you're upset. Did I forget your birthday?"
Rhodri remains on the balcony, watching the evening settle over the coast and kingdom. The sea is pinkish with the sunset. And his hair takes on a coppery shimmer from it.
"Glad to hear it's going well. And I'm in my bedroom," Fiona flops back on the bed. "The Two Hs send their regards and their congratulations. The bigger H is having a few conniptions - seems I'm not the only lady of his acquaintance who's enceinte, if you follow my meaning. I'm..."
There's a hesitation. Okay? No, not really, but how does she tell you that without making you worry? And she can't make you drop everything every time she gets emotional - or hormonal - or even just worried. So it trails off; maybe she'll blame it on the connection. (It's hell to get enough bars on an inter-dimensional telephone call. Just not enough inter-dimensional cell towers.)
"I'm glad you're doing okay," Fiona decides on, finally, lifting her head onto the pillows in order to watch the balcony - the sunset, the man standing there, the combination it makes. "I shouldn't keep you, if it's intermission - it's bound to be over soon. And no, you didn't forget my birthday. I don't think you could, considering it's one of your favourite holidays that it falls on. But if you forget, I'll kick you for it then."
Another hesitation, and then, softer, "We really should get together sometime soon, Davydd. Dinner, maybe. Not tonight, you're busy and I've ... got things on my plate anyway, but ..."
"I am... doing better," Davydd decides to say with an exhale. "And no... not tonight. Y've a man there, I'm sure, who hasn't had much time with you. Or you with him. I've... been a bit greedy. And it's not fair. So.. no... you stay in tonight. You enjoy the quiet, enjoy your boy there. We'll do dinner soon. Let me look at my calendar when I get back to the house. I've got a few meetings this week."
There are voices behind him as others step out to get a breath of fresh air (most likely to smoke) before intermission is over. "You sure you're alright?" Davydd murmurs gently. "I have a few minutes yet..."
Rhodri's hands rest on the railing as he looks over the kingdom, the wealth that his children shall own. He does cut a figure in the sunset. As you continue speaking, he turns, lighting candles with fire that leaps from his fingertips with a snap. Soon your chamber is full of flickering golden light, soothing. Even romantic.
"Something like that." A man there. Yes, she has. Fiona glances up, sidelong, watching the younger of her two husbands. And despite herself, she smiles a little bit as she watches the candles being lit.
But her attention isn't long diverted. Her gaze goes back downwards, her voice still soft. "Look at the calendar," Fiona agrees, "and ... well ... let me know, okay? I just - it's nothing in particular, but ... we should get together and discuss some things." One hand strays down to over her belly. There is no swelling there. Yet. "No emergencies or anything. But - it's nothing that can't wait, I guess. I just would rather it not wait too long."
She looks back up, and she sighs, a quiet, forlorn sound which she tries to aim away from the phone, away from the hearing of either of her husbands. "I'm glad you're okay," Fiona finishes, wistfully. "So there's that, at least."
"Oh aye?" Davydd wonders. What could it be? "I'll try to give you a ... call... well... a call ... when I get home tonight. Or tomorrow when I wake up, depending." On how late he's out. "Either way, I'll call, oes? And I'll come see you. Don't worry, Fiona. I'm alright ... I'm sorry you ... had to see all that. Now you're scared... can't say as I blame you there, but... try not to worry, alright? You've got to care for more'n me, you know..."
Candle light is like star light pocking the otherwise growing darkness of your room. There's the soft scent of honey and wax, the scent that defines warmth. Rhodri glances to you as you speak but does not otherwise intrude. There are colored votives by the bath. Those are lit as well.
And in that lighting, hued by all the illumination around him, Rhodri removes the leather.
"Don't worry about me." Fiona sits up, drawing her hand through her hair, leaving it more rumpled than it was. "I'll be fine - I'm more resilient than you or Rhodri both." Brave words. She makes a face at the phone, at herself, then continues.
"Call, yes, and I'll see you - well, when you get here, or something. We should discuss a few things, though. I'm ... going to have a couple of tests done," she says casually, "just to make sure everything's normal, so to speak, or as normal as we can expect. And I'm not calling you like this because of the other night. That's just ... symptomatic."
No, the real problem is deeper than that...
At least in Fiona's opinion...
"And don't worry. I haven't forgotten about my duties and responsibilities and commitments, Davydd. I do care for more than you." Fiona rolls her eyes at that - as if she needs the reminding! "Just ... let's get together soon, okay? I've got nothing else to say except the usual - you know. That I love you, adore you, would pour my heart's blood out in a minute for you if you needed it, all the usual. Now ... go on, enjoy the second half of the show. 'Kay?"
She so seldom uses the word okay...
And she sighs, peering through the darkness as she sits up, one hand to her hair, loose rather than tightly held. And, again despite herself, she smiles. You don't have to call, Davydd. If you want to, you can, but ... I can wait until tomorrow. Bloody impossible man... Go on. It'll be alright for tonight.
And she watches, eyes drawn inevitably to the undressing, and soundlessly, Fiona blows a kiss to the husband that's with her, thoughts following the kiss to its recipient. I'll be off in just a minute. And then I've got a surprise for you. Sweet. You really are, you know.
"Alright, yeah... I'll call in the morning. Well, my morning anyway. Not sure what time it will be for you. That kind of math makes my head hurt. So, better go so I can sneak in a fag before I have to get back to the box," box seats no less. He's riding in style. "I love you... let's try to keep the blood in our bodies... and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well," he murmurs.
Your younger husband's mouth makes a smile as he looks across the room to you. He tosses his leather aside. Sweet? Who... me? Ah but I love surprises...as you know... Such a figure he makes stepping down into the bath that is a pool. His second bath of the day, but it is the best way to relax that he knows.
Apart from sex, that is...
"Yeah, you too," Fiona whispers back into the phone. "We'll ... connect later. Have fun, right? But not too much." Insecurity. Jealousy. She is like you too much, in some ways...
She puckers her lips, whispering, "Don't forget, Davy-boy." And she rings off, just like that, on that descant note, banishing the phone somewhere else even as she stands up again. "He's fine. He's at some show being backed by a friend - terribly West End from the sound of it. Box seats. I got him at intermission - suppose I should be grateful wasn't during the performance. Sounds like he's living the high life."
Fiona manages a smile, though her eyes are still darkened by circumstances as she begins to make her way from bed to bath. "If you're not tying me to the bed and riding me into the sheets, I'm getting out of these boots. Bloody man. Can't even be relied upon to be cruel to me when I need it." She tosses her head, then pulls off one of the leather wrist-cuffs, aiming it at you. "You are ... very ... disconcerting, Rhodri..."
"The night is young, sweetheart," Rhodri grins as he relaxes back against the tub. Red and blue votive light lands against him and against you. "Come here," he murmurs. "Before we can get dirty, we should get really clean..." He chuckles suddenly and winks.
You're right...
He is a bastard...
The clothes melt off of her like so much spun sugar - the best way of getting undressed. Well - the fastest, anyway.
"I'll wash your back if you wash mine," Fiona murmurs, "but you've got to promise to really make it up to me later, brute. I'm getting sick of all of this Alan Alda sensitivity crap." Another piece of leather is tossed, falling short and splatting on the tiles. And then there is a naked woman slipping into the tub and leaning up against you, skin slowly resuming its normal coloration.
"Rhodri... by the way..." She smiles sweetly as she snuggles in, curling against you.
"I wasn't kidding about the wedding..."
Posted by rowan at July 03, 2005 08:28 PM
