"I'm just an old fashioned girl with an old fashioned mind, not sophisticated, I'm the sweet and simple kind, I want an old fashioned house with an old fashioned fence and an old fashioned millionaire..."
     She's in good voice tonight, humming and then singing it quietly as the elevator takes her up to the correct floor and her expensive Italian high-heeled sandals take her down the hallway. "I want an old fashioned car, a cerise Cadillac, long enough to put a bowling alley in the back. I want an old fashioned house, with an old fashioned fence and an old fashioned millionaire..."
     Fiona stops her singing long enough to rat-a-tat-tat on the door. She's wearing a dress which is sort of a cross between a sun-dress and a cocktail dress, two straps holding it up on either shoulder, crisscrossing over her back and spine. It's a deep peacock blue with a hint of a shimmer to it, discreetly offering up her cleavage and the diamonds nestling in it. Her hair's worn up, held in place by ebony combs from which another diamond sparkles. A lightweight wrap is loosely around her shoulders, and earrings to match her necklace dangle.
     "I'll stay weaving at my loom, be no trouble to my groom, if he'll keep the piles of money mounting. In our cottage there will be a soundproof nursery not to wake the baby while I'm counting, I like the old fashioned flowers, violets are for me - have them made in diamonds by the man at Tiffany..."

     He hears you singing when you're coming down the hall -- this living dead thing's got to be good for something after all -- and by the time you rat-a-tat-tat your knuckles on his lofty door, he's there to pull it open, which he does with his usual swift flourish.
     Like you, he's dressed for a night on the town, and while he's usually a closet millionaire tonight he's spared you no expense. The suit is charcoal grey (and French -- he doesn't much go in for dago clothing), the shirt is white, and the tie is peacock blue with dimpled knot and all. The fiery hair is cropped so short nary a wave can be seen, and the five o'clock shadow's been shaved completely clean. There's even cologne, for Christendom's sake, something with woody notes and sweet.
     When he comes face to face with the vision of you in his doorway, Davydd takes a moment to out and out stare at you, and then he smiles, full, glorious, quick as the devil and waggles his brows. "Come in, come in... we should have a drink before we go." He pauses to look at his watch briefly before offering you his arm. "We have a bit of time before we should head to the car. You look stunning," he grins, bending to place a kiss on your cheek so he doesn't mess up the make-up.
     This isn't his first time around the block, you know.
     "Give us a spin," Davydd rumbles out, gesturing for you to turn around, pose, flash your diamonds. Or anything else you wish to flash.

     "Oh, look at you." Fiona coos it, moving to you with her hands coming up to touch your cheeks. "You look ungodly, Davy. Promise you won't break my heart, won't you?" Her eyes are on you even as she tilts her cheek to receive the kiss, smile broadening. "I feel like I've cast my bread upon the waters and received back Buche de Noel."
     A fingertip runs down your tie, and her smile resumes. "We match. How clever is that? Did Rhodri call and tip you off as to what I'm wearing tonight?" You gesture, and she turns obediently, letting her wrap flutter as she goes into a runway turn. Then she turns back to you, bending forward with her palms on her knees, offering you a broad wink. "How am I doing, Mister deMille? Am I ready for my close-up yet? I'll take something ... girly tonight."

     "I'll make you no promises," he rolls out. "And I'll tell you no lies." You've heard that before. He grins it, because he knows it. "And there might have been a message. For a while there, I was going to just hedge m' bets and wear a plaid tie. He said you changed four times."
     He folds his arms against his chest, his suit having to rearrange itself accordingly, and he says nothing while you're making your little turns. He watches, he leers, and he smiles a rakish smile. "I think you're ready for something. Being close might have sommat to do with it." Dark green glimmers in a wink and he comes after you, not to pounce on you or accost you but to head for the bar. He takes out a short glass for himself (that'll be bourbon, likely) and a martini glass for you. "I don't care what the doctor's say," he announces for the record, "...tonight you're going to enjoy yourself. You deserve it, and quite frankly you can't have a dinner on the town without a drink or two. One here, one at the restaurant." At least.
     There was a method to his insistence (and Rhodri's) that you pump before you go. Ah, the joys of new motherhood.
     "I want you to eat whatever you want, drink whatever you want. Just don't stumble around in that new frock. You look edible in that," his eyes fix on you and Davydd slants a smile. "My little aperitif." He makes you a sweet, girlie sort of drink. It's a Marilyn Monroe -- a sort of pink squirrel martini, with just a hint of vodka, nothing too potent. After a few different bottles are tapped for short shots into the shaker, and plenty of ice, what you get is a lovely girlie sort of martini, complete with little chips of ice and a cream top.
     "We haven't had a night like this in a while," Davydd says quietly, bringing your glass to you. "I've missed you all ... dolled up, just for me. High heels and low-cut dresses, hair just right. I love a well-put-together woman, for certes." Your drink presented, his in his other hand, Davydd leans in, placing a soft kiss on your mouth. "We'll be dining in the finest restaurant in town, or one of them," he says, a hand remaining on your waist as his other does the duty of bringing the bourbon to his mouth. "Best view of London, at any rate."

     "Would I go through that many dresses just on your behalf? Mean ol' poop." Fiona mock-pouts, turning towards you, following and leaning on the bar. "Plaid. That's cheating."
     She watches you mixing the drinks with a sly, downcast gaze and that hint of a smile. "You're so sweet," she murmurs. "Drinks... dinner... letting me indulge myself against doctor's orders... what's next? Getting my portrait painted while you make faces at me in the background to try to keep me from keeping my face on?"
     She draws a fingertip along the edge of the bar, looking up as she takes her drink. "Cheers, darling." Her glass is rolled against the edge of yours for a light chiming tap. "We haven't had a night out in ... oh ... ages. It feels like years. I've missed you, Davy. Not just dolled up; I've missed you, period. I feel as if we've gotten so caught up in other people's drama that we've had no time to just ... I don't know." She laughs a little, looking up at your face as you bend to kiss her. "I suppose a little part of me almost misses the days when I was throwing myself at you headlong and telling myself I hated you."
     She lifts her drink to her lips for a small sip, then sets it down, smiling a little. "Drinks... dinner... then what, back here to cuddle? What've you got hiding behind those green eyes, lord of the castle? Other than forests and trees."

     "We'll just see where the night takes us. I hate to plan too far ahead. I just get pissed off when things don't go my way," he chuckles, downing the rest of his bourbon in the next swallow. "I just thought we were overdue some adult entertainment. Like normal people." He glances at his watch. It's not to rush you along -- he's simply noting the time.
     "And I've been meaning to take you this place for a while now. It's a big hangout for politicos in my arena. No humans after midnight. Which is why we're going at eight," he cracks with a chasing wink. "We'll be sitting out on the terrace, London's lights like stars. I think it'll be grand. If you feel up to it after you digest, we can hit a lounge or two, do a little close dancing." Not the sort you used to do but the sort he prefers to do, where a man and a woman are close and move to actual steps in accompaniment to actual music.
     Davydd nods, "We have gotten caught up. That's what happens when you start having children and running about in never-never-land running kingdoms. You forget to stop and smell the roses, as they say. All these responsibilities can be wearin'. Besides, you had a bit of a rough time of it, had to stay in bed, which I know was pure hell for y'...so...yeah, fuck the doctors for a night. I won't tell them a thing. Or Rhodri either," he grins. You know how protective he can be.
     "Seems like forever ago," Davydd murmurs, head tilting. "Huh... I guess it has been a while now, hasn't it. I lose track of time. Who were those people back then? That pink-haired girl and that red-haired git?" His world's changed completely in a manner of a few short years. Sandrine came and went (lovely all the same), and Edward and William took their leave as well. And then his life became crowded with a new Edward and a new William, and a host of other family members. It takes him by surprise -- you see it. To realize how long it's been and how much has been between you.
     "A little part of me misses it too," Davydd says, "...but I don't want to get all misty-eyed and melancholy. We're going to relive some of those nights, my little missy. A lovely woman on my arm, me trotting her out for all t' see. Drinks, dinner, creme brulee. Goddamn it, I'm starving," he suddenly announces. Eyebrow cocked up Davydd looks to you. "You ready, darlin'? It'll take us a few minutes to get to the car, and about ten minutes to get there, hand the car off to a valet, et cetera. It's seven-fifteen now..."

     "Adult entertainment." Fiona smiles at the idea, tilting her glass back to take another sip. "I like that. Without little boys - or big boys - or any boys, except the one I married. No humans after midnight? Tsk. Well, then, yes, better we go sooner, and not dawdle through dinner too much. Should I look properly and thoroughly smitten, or only so-so?"
     One eye closes in a wink, and then she sighs, a comfortable, at ease sound. "Caught up. I was starting to think I was going to spend my life running." There's a glitter of unshed moisture in the corners of her eyes; her pregnancy, and how it so nearly ended, is still a sensitive spot with her; a touchy topic. Her hand lifts, absently straightening your tie. "It's nice not to have to run, now and again."
     You roll out your words, and she laughs; she can't help it. Her eyes brighten, her entire expression does, and she takes a final swallow of her drink. "We'll relive everything in time, my love. One of the benefits of marrying an absolutely ageless old man, right? I'm ready as I'm likely to get. I'll be that pink-haired girl some other night; tonight, I'm the dressed-up dollymop clinging to your arm and moving sophisticatedly through crowds with a golden smile. Offer me your arm like a proper gentleman, Raffles."

     "Rafael?" Davydd cracks. "You must have me confused with one of your other boyfriends." As if. With eyes crinkling in the corners and a comet smile, he offers his arm to you. His other hand comes up, large as it is, and covers yours completely where it touches his suit. "Juliet's Bower does serve a rather... exclusive clientele after midnight. But she has promised me we shall have the brandied sugar mounds with almonds. The Nipples of Venus. If I were capable of dying, they'd be worth it."
     He leads you from the loft, turning and locking the place up tight. You're whisked down the elevator, not to the lobby but to the subterranean garage. His gaze is not on the cars, or even on where his 1966 Jaguar convertible sits, but on you. A press of his thumb on the keypad in his other hand and the car announces its presence four spaces from the elevator.
     "I do like it when you're dressed to the nines and tens. I've missed it. I remember that night I saw you in Davy's. I was drunk, Sandrine and I had had some argument or another, there were plenty of those, or rather not even arguments...just not seeing eye-to-eye. And there you were with your magazine chums, all dressed like a proper gentleman's daughter..."
     At the car's door, he lets your arm go to open the door and hold it open for you like the one-man rebirth of chivalry. "We can dawdle a bit. Surely it won't take us four hours to eat," he quips. "Shite, the way I usually do it takes less than half an hour." Dark green eyes sparkle in a wink, even in the low light of the parking garage. Once you're in and secured he closes the door solidly.
     You have a few moments of quiet to take in his approach and entry. When was the last time the two of you spent any time alone together? Davydd looks at you as the driver's side door closes and he starts the car with a roar. "Of all the women that have put their lovely selves on that side of this old car, you're by far the loveliest," he croons. And you can just imagine how many women THAT must include...

     "With you, there had to be nipples involved," she laughs. You can see that it crinkles the corners of her eyes. It pleases her, really; you, so earthy, so immersed in the ripeness and sensuality of it all. And so pragmatic about it. She never would have thought...
     "I never would have imagined myself here, you do know that?" Fiona says suddenly, following her own thought through. "Of all of the places I could have ended up, of all the men I could have married... That I married at all is shocking enough." She laughs, letting her head tip back as she is buckled in, as you are climbing in, and her hand moves to rest on your thigh. It isn't an announcement of lust, but of affection. 'I'm here and so are you', that hand says. And she turns her head to give you the full weight of her smile.
     "That I ended up with a manly man," her head tips to the side on 'manly' and then the other way on man as she laughs at herself. "Instead of some god-awful wimpy would-be poet turned accountant... well. I'm glad it was you, Davy. Even if it took bombs and words thrown like bullets and jumping off bridges and dredging through oceans for it to be you and me. I'm glad."
     She looks down, smile intact, mercurial whimsy and wistfulness in her eyes as she looks up again with that gesture women use when they think their hair might be coming down but it isn't. "Did you notice me in the pub, Davy? I didn't think you did, you were so very drunk and so upset over Sandrine. I admit it, I was glad to see you. Not just because you were, well, you, but because it let me escape from all of those people who I just didn't know what to say to. At first, I thought you didn't recognize me, and then I thought you wouldn't want to see me."
     Your compliments make her close her eyes, and Fiona has to laugh a little at that. "Don't," she murmurs. "Not too many compliments. I might cry. I seem to have lost all my toughness lately, Davy. I don't know where it's been hidden."

     Davydd laughs that earthy-rough-musical laughter that has years on it, for certes, but is rich with the pleasures of life. The car is in motion, his hands moving it, directing it seamlessly like he's been doing it all of his life. He likes to drive, and he likes to drive fast. But then, he only really knows one speed: all the way or not at all. But out of consideration and care for your recent condition, and in order to avoid making you car sick before dinner, he drives relatively slow (for him) up the corkscrew curves of the parking garage.
     London's brash and bold when night falls. It has all the newness of America these nights, at least on the south waterfront side of the city. You're not going all that far. Juliet's is on the south waterfront side, just a bit further down from Gabriel's Wharf, where Davydd lives. It's crowded tonight, being Thursday. The official start of the weekend.
     "Well, I think it was that night you sort of first let me know you were interested. And ... while I will admit," he grins, "I was at least twelve sheets to the wind, I do recall sommat about that. Or maybe," his voice drops into an affectionate hush, "...I was just egotistical enough to think you had something for me. You know me." His hand takes a break from the stick shift just long enough to rest upon your thigh and give your knee a little squeeze. "Don't you go crying on me," he quips a warning, "...you know how I am, prone to blubber at the first sight of a woman's tears. Christ, you'd think I was the one wearing the peacock frock and diamonds. Did I give you those? They make nice baubles for your baubles," Davydd grins.
     The restaurant is busy. There's a line for the valets, but one line is reserved for the exclusive of the exclusive. They recognize Davydd's car by sight (he comes here frequently) and wave him over. He puts the car in neutral, pulls the brake and leans over to plant one on your painted lips. "Do I have lipstick on? I don't want to walk in looking like a giant poof."
     Your door opens and a very put-together gent offers you his hand. Even the valets have valets here. "Madam," he says -- even though he's older than you. Davydd's piling out, and putting his hand to the familiar valet's arm in a solid pat, his other hand giving over the keys. "Donald, good on y'...good to see you..." Money is exchanged, certainly, and soon you are back with your husband, Donald's off with the Jaguar and your escort is turning to the next car.
     "After all this posh, we'll go out and do something seedy," Davydd whispers, grinning. He leads you into the brownstone building and the splendor known as Juliet's Bower.

     Her hand remains light on your thigh, though she keeps her eyes closed for some of those high-speed curves. She'll deal with fast when she has to, and on her own terms, not before. "I'd been in love with you for ages and not admitted it," Fiona murmurs to you, as if confiding a secret. "I didn't admit it then, not really, but ... I'd gotten out of my armour, a bit. Which left me feeling awfully vulnerable and afraid of what might happen. I expected to get my heart shattered into absolute fragments, Davy. I did, you know - but I felt so bad for you, sitting there, looking like your dog'd just been run over. All I could do was what I always did, though. Be myself."
     She draws a finger along your knee, then withdraws her hand with a smile over at you. "I had something for you, alright. I just ... didn't expect you to want a thing to do with me. More of a luna moth than any kind of butterfly, aren't I? And moths're just as fragile and stupid about flying into spider webs and walls and things." She looks down with a low laugh. "You can't even keep track of how much jewelry you've given me, can you? This one's from gran and zaida. But," her voice drops teasingly, "I'm wearing jewelry you've given me somewhere else."
     She doesn't explain, just gives you that smile with the hint of mischief behind summery blue eyes. Her sons don't get it any place strange, not in this family. She looks up as you put the car in neutral, to receive your kiss. "I'd lick your lips to be sure, but I think you'll be fine, Davy. I don't think anyone will think you're a poof. Just having a sedate dinner out with your wife, that's all." Of course, sedate for how long, her eyes ask, but it's all in fun, isn't it? She turns as her door opens, and she allows herself to be handed out with a small smile.
     Your arm is taken again, one expensive toe put in front of the other, her chin dipping as you whisper to her. "Going to flatten some footy types' noses in my honour at long last, my Davy?" Fiona murmurs, fighting to keep the smile from going from sedate to impish. "Well - I'll wait and see what you've got in mind." She gives your arm a little squeeze. "How old do I look, anyway?"

     "Nah," he rumbles out low and long. "Not in my good suit." Ha! He grins at that, cackling a laugh even as he leads you through the beyond posh interior of the restaurant. "I'd say twenty, twenty-one if I had to guess," he whispers. "Old enough to drink at any rate."
     The interior of the restaurant is definitely French, with a nod to Louis XIV - XVI. There is a bar downstairs on the first floor, but the main restaurant is upstairs. It means another elevator ride. At the top floor, it's like you've entered Versailles. Beautiful hostesses are there in their fine Paris fashions. He's smiled at by the lovely hostesses as you and he enter. They greet him in French. "Il est bon de vous revoir, Monsieur Llywelyn. Votre table est prete et Renald attend pour vous servir."
     "Bon, bon," he says as he hears the name Renald. "Il est bon de vous voir aussi, Aimee. Ah, comment Juliet est-il ce soir? Est-elle dans la cuisine ce soir?"
     The hostess smiles at him and then at you, nodding slightly. "Elle est certainement. Elle a dit d'etre sure de vous dire qu'elle a pris les arrangements pour les mamelons de Venus. Elle sait vous aimez des seins, sucre ou autrement."
     His ears go pink at that but only momentarily as he looks at you. "Everyone knows my weaknesses," he chuckles to you. "I am a sugar fiend, to be sure. Je suis un monstre de sucre," he adds in French for Aimee.
     You are led past swank booths and lovely tables and through French doors onto the rooftop of the building. There is a rooftop garden, softly lit, with round tables covered with linen tablecloths set here and there amid the amazing cityscape views and garden exterior. There are very few seats here. They are for the truly important, wealthy or favored.
     "Here we are," he murmurs at your ear. "Welcome to my little secret surprise." There is no mistake for the hostess that you and he are intimate (how she would not venture to guess). There seems to be no danger posed from her. She is kind and officious, if gorgeous. At the table stands a gentleman, a waiter in fine clothing. He smiles slightly as Davydd holds your seat out for you. "I will bring your brandy. Something special for the madame?" He looks to you.

     She follows the conversation easily, without signifying that she does; save for the very faint smile that touches her eyes, a knowing look in an otherwise placid face, the slightest twitch to her lips. "You broadcast your weaknesses," Fiona retorts lazily, "but I am to be on my best behavior tonight, aren't I? Otherwise, I'd say your weakness is, in some cases, a strength."
     She presses your arm lightly, that little twitch to her lips now moving to her hips. She may talk English, but she walks French. You can easily interpret what her hips say, can't you? But the smile she turns up at you says it even if not.
     Her attention is rapidly taken by her surroundings instead, eyes widening for a moment as you hold her chair, and she takes her seat as daintily as a kitten. "I leave myself in your hands," Fiona says demurely. "Whatever le garçon recommends, I think. It seems a shame not to take ample advantage of opportunities when they present themselves, oui?"
     You receive a glimmering glance, the edges of that smile sweet. "Sugar, Davy?" Fiona murmurs. "I think you're just a fiend. But I like you that way." One eye closes in a wink.

     "My pleasure, madam," Renald says in his perfect English with the French accent barely audible. "I shall find something to please you." He leaves without further order or command. Other servers arrive, pouring water into glasses and delivering artisan bread and fresh churned butter.
     Davydd settles across from you, that smile rakish as it cuts across his mouth. "Je suis un monstre terrible," the earthy tones of his voice linger in his chest. It rumbles into laughter as you and Renald finish on the subject of drinks and the other servers come and go (muttering about Michelangelo?). "He is a master of knowing what to serve, when. I should think he's a mind-reader, but perhaps I'm just that obvious." He winks across from you, his hand reaching into his coat pocket and removing cigarettes and lighter. He'll have to smoke with his brandy. It's a requirement.
     "Great view, what?" Davydd glances around briefly then returns his attention to you. "And I'm not even looking at cityscape," he winks again. "Oh, he's a devil tonight," comes the whisper afterwards as he grins. "It's going to be a long, but damned enjoyable night. I recommend the braised Normandy steak. It's a bit of heaven, that. Goes great with the brandy. Brandied onions. The magret in cinnamon oil is also mind-shattering..." The menus are there. It is fine French cuisine, with avant garde, haute cuisine elements and offerings.

     "Adorable rake," Fiona murmurs to you, settled now into her seat properly. She crosses her legs with that demure smile, letting you look at her with a glance of invitation. "It all sounds good." She opens the menu - more as a matter of form than anything. "I think I'm going to place myself firmly in the hands of our waiter and the chef. You can get whatever you want, but seeing as I've never been here before..."
     For now, she contents herself with her water, swallowing thirstily. "London's still a beautiful city, though. Even if it is a city." She sets her glass down with care, picking up her napkin and tucking it onto her lap. "I miss it, when I'm out in the country. But when I'm out here, I get to missing there, too. I think I'm just contrary and will miss whatever I haven't got. That applies to you as well, you know."
     She tips her face down towards the menu with a small smile, then closes it, looking up at you again. "You're so handsome, Davy. I feel a little Cinderella-ish."

     "It's not the whole midnight thing I mentioned earlier is it?" he asks as blithely as his son, finishing it off with a grin. "You'll be in safe hands trusting your stomach to Renald and Juliet," he murmurs. Green eyes, dark forests between the bronze, lift and lower, inhaling the menu as he will the food that comes from it.
     Setting the menu aside, and taking the time to light the cigarette, Davydd smirks at you. "What, me? Handsome? Le monstre sucre?" Chuckling, he lets the flame turn his face momentarily incandescent, setting the zippo aside after a breath of smoke. He puffs out smoke like a proper dragon, slanting a smile at you. "It's been that long since I've doted on y'? Now I'm embarrassed," he chuckles. "I haven't been able to spoil you good and proper for a while I suppose. Well, you're gettin' it now, aren't you, my lovely?"
     Renald appears again with an attendant. He is carrying a bottle of brandy (old and expensive). The attendant is carrying a tray with a glass upon it. The glass is colored blue and green as a peacock. "For madame," Renald begins, "...I have created a drink, its base is amaretto though it is not so sweet as the liqueur would be on its own. This should couple nicely with my recommended offering tonight: braised Normandy mutton, brandied hazelnuts and stuffed figs, with a compote of amaretto and cinnamon."
     Davydd's eyebrow cocks up as Renald pours the brandy for him and then sets the bottle down for his enjoyment after. Holy shite that sounds rich. "And for you, Monsieur Llywelyn," Renald continues, turning Davydd's way, "The chef recommends you veer from your habitual beef and have the magret of duck, dates and cinnamon compote."
     "Who am I to argue?" Davydd chuckles, nodding to Renald. "She has never failed me, so... yes... I will have the magret of duck." He glances to you to see if you will accept Renald's recommendation or venture out on your own after all.

     "We've been busy, haven't we?" Fiona retorts, giving you that glimmer-eyed glance. "Children popping out of the woodworks with their problems, me round as a beach ball and trying to kill you... it's a wonder you want to spoil me at all, darling." There's a contained chuckle held in the back of her throat, stilled as attendants arrive. With drinks, at that.
     She listens attentively, then sighs. "Oh, that sounds lovely. I place myself in your hands, monsieur." She rolls the words on her tongue with a trill and the hint of a laugh, glancing across at you. "Veering from beef. Quelle shock - are you sure you're still Welsh? No, no, don't pinch me, I know you are." You get a bit of a smile, and then she turns her attention to the drink with interest.
     "Colorful," she murmurs, "and everything matches. You have an excellent eye, Renald. Thank you very much."

     Renald does not smile but seems satisfied with your responses. He leaves the table without further questions or comments to see to the remainder of your meal, his attendant in tow.
     Davydd chuckles smoke like a Dickens factory. "Part of me wanted to laugh when you came at me with the sword. I mean I was concerned for my jimmy so I didn't, but it was a little funny. In retrospect. But it wasn't the first time and probably won't be the last time a woman pulls a sword out on me and threatens to kill or geld me. Doesn't even factor in in my wanting to spoil you. I'd spoil you anyway. You deserve it. I love you. The end."
     "I know," Davydd rattles out, setting his cigarette aside and taking up the brandy. Not even William has brandy this fine. "Maybe we should check the nether regions and make sure the dragons are still there. A Welshman giving up beef for duck. Ah well... when in a hallucination of pre-Revolution France, eat French I say. The dinner's just a warm-up for the real treat anyway. The desserts are why I come. How's the drink?"
     It's a lovely thing, to be able to sit across you in a nice place, a brandy and a cigarette in hand. Davydd'd say it's damn near perfect.

     "Tsk. Other women've pulled swords on you, Davy? I'm crushed - and here I thought I was the first," Fiona murmurs. But she's smiling. "Next time, I'll have to come up with a more creative and original threat." She picks up her drink, swirling it around lightly. "I love you. And I'm here to make sure you'll always get everything that you deserve."
     She sips delicately, tucking her ankles down with care. It has the ring of a threat as well as a promise, doesn't it? Just the way she intended. "The drink is..."
     She has to pause, has to stop to find words which will make any sense. She's got her eyes closed, lips slightly pursed, parted on the edge of speech. "Delicate. Stained glass. Colorful pieces assembled, not so much to speak individually on their own, though the notes are there, those pieces, but to present an image, a whole, when the sunlight streams through. Here, do you want a sip to try, or are you going to stay with your brandy?"
     The glass is offered out to you, and then she laughs, a quiet, bright sound as she tilts her head back and then down again. "I love you," Fiona whispers. "And for some reason, Davy, all I'm remembering is that time back in Wales when we got caught in the rain. Do you remember it? We found that rowboat and went across, and we came back, me in that silk shirt I'd gotten at that sale, and both of us soaking wet and coming stumbling into the kitchen. Do you know, Davy..."
     "Even with all the painful moments and inconveniences, I don't think there's a bit of it I'd change, knowing we'd come out to the end and be here? Not one bit."

Posted by rowan at August 30, 2006 09:29 PM