However opulent the dinner was (and it was extremely), dessert out-matched it. There were two desserts ordered: the Nipples of Venus (brandied sugar laced with cherry liqueur and topped with a honey-basted hazelnut) and the Flaming Mithras. Yes. A dessert that is not on the menu but was designed for Davydd himself by the chef. It involves chocolate, brandy and fire.
     Who needs to drink cocktails when the food is so rich with brandies and liqueurs?
     After dessert was finished with French espresso, it was time to bid adieu to Juliet's Bower. But who would want to go home so soon after such an evening already? Tasting the last of the sugar from your fingertips, Davydd put you in the car and climbed in after. You did not turn toward Gabriel's Wharf but rather left the South Waterfront behind to head into London's mainland.
     He pulled up to a brick building somewhere in the midst of ritzy Kensington. No sign, no hint of what might be within. And with that damn impish grin he led you to the door, pulling it open with a swing. The lounge didn't seem to have a name, but it did seem to be known by all who were hip and mostly lovely. A live band played the standards of a bygone age -- Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin -- and the wooden dancefloor was cheek-to-cheek.
     It is safe to say you've never had a night like this. Not with him, he knows, so therefore likely not with anyone. Not even Rhodri. The two of you danced surrounded by a similarly dancing throng, quietly speaking at times between the songs. But mostly, you and Davydd said nothing at all. How long has it been? It surely past midnight. Could you guess it was two in the morning? Maybe it was obvious when the crowd on the dancefloor started thinning, when the bar wasn't so thickly packed. But as long as the band played, he was going to sway with you.
     That was an hour ago....
     Now his mouth is on your neck as you travel in a tiny box up to the fifth floor of the loft building to the penthouses. He doesn't dare bleed you, no matter how he wants to (and he does), but the night's been too good. He doesn't want such a short evening. Davydd's hands would wrinkle taffeta with that grasp, holding your waist as he romances you up the side of your neck and straight to your mouth. Just in time for the elevator doors to open with a small, soft ping.
     "What a great night," he exhales as a hand lifts from your waist and presses against the side of the elevator doors to keep it open for you. "And a damn fine morning," he adds with a grin. His eyes crinkle in the corners, their color dark and dusky. "Care to ... have a night cap?" This is the most romantic night he's had in ages. Even with you. And his head is swimming a bit from it. He meant to sweep you off your feet; he didn't plan on slipping off his own.

     Her eyes have been eloquent, tonight. Not that she has ever been good at guarding her feelings (or her heart) where you've been concerned; but tonight? It's a wonder there aren't little pink hearts dangling over her head. Even for an Englishwoman, it's signaled. In the blue of her eyes, in the crook of her smile; the way she's leaned towards you over the table...
     Dessert was something else. With her leaning forward to offer you spoonfuls, then settling back with her espresso; with her leaning to touch your hand, saying nothing, just giving you her smile. And all this, and dancing too?
     She settled in your arms like an angel, only somewhat more solid than angels are usually thought to be. And while soft words were exchanged here and there, most of the time she was remarkably quiet. All night, she has not spoken to your mind so much as once, confining intimacy to the spoken, the audible - and the unspoken.
     You can hear her laughter, low and exultant as the elevator doors ping open. Her hands draw slowly along the nape of your neck, ruffling your hair very slightly. "At least this kiss ended better than our first kiss," Fiona murmurs. She licks her lips, leaning in towards you for a moment before straightening. "I'd love a nightcap. Do you think you have one in my size?"

     The befuddled look sometimes worn by dogs but most often by men settles over his features for a moment as he has to pause to figure out what the hell you're on about. When it dawns on him, and it takes a minute, his lips purse into a smirk, then spread into a smile. Smartass. His free hand takes one of yours and he leads you out of the elevator and into the hallway.
     "So have I made you fall in love with me yet?" he quips in a low, earthy tone, grinning straight after. He can't help himself. Your hand on his arm as he leads you, the evening is wrapping up just like it started. Davydd looks at you with a tilt of his head. "I'm almost out of charm. I'll be down to blue humor and crass remarks in a half hour."
     He jokes and his words are warm and loving as he does. As you and he continue to speak without speaking, it occurs to him what this feels like. Like you and he are some old couple, finally the nest is empty, and you can turn to one another and start remembering why you were together in the first place. Only you're not old, and the nest isn't exactly empty. He snorts softly at that thought, glancing to you as he removes his keys to unlock the door.
     "I think we should make a new promise to one another," he offers seriously, looking to you as he gives the keys a turn, the knob a twist and the door a shove. "That we take one night a month to do something like we did tonight. Not the same things, but... to go out... spend time with one another. Get away from the kids and the responsibilities for a night. Shall we do that?" A fiery eyebrow cocks up and he bends, kissing you at the threshold with all the meaning of a groom carrying a bride across it. "I've missed you, Fiona," Davydd murmurs as the kiss parts. A large hand reaches up to touch your face, his thumb and finger going then beneath your chin as he kisses you again.
     A grin disrupts it after a moment and he leans back, letting you go in. "The first kiss was a bit amusing. That was an odd night all the way round." He's looking at you with memories in his eyes as he follows you in and turns to lock up for the night. He punches a keypad to activate the alarm and flips the switch to get a touch more light in here.
     The view outside the window-wall is every bit as amazing as the one at the top of Juliet's Bower. The Waterfront is alive with lighted spectacle, even at this hour. "You know what I feel like doing? I feel like settling in here, watching the sun come up. I haven't done that in a while. Course, you'll have to pull the shades for me," he barks a laugh. "Right after the sky goes pink and just before I pass the fuck out..."

     "Falling in love all over again." She laughs in the back of her throat, the sound almost contained as she gives you her hand. "Like old times that never were, Davy. You can let your charm start to restock, I wouldn't want you to run out entirely."
     Her smile tips down to the floor before being lifted back up towards you, but she doesn't say anything, listening to you as you speak, as you begin opening the way. Her smile is given to you again; as you lift her face towards yours, her hand light and fragile as a wing against your cheek. "I've missed you, too, Davy," Fiona whispers. "My adorable mischief-laden warrior. I'd like that."
     Her hand slips from your cheek by degrees, and she moves then ahead into the apartment. "Only problem with that idea, is then I've got to lug your six feet of hard muscles and dragon tattoos into the bedroom," she retorts. "By myself. And with as giddy as I am, you'd be lucky if I could carry your boots, Old Man." She grins at you, eyes sparkling as she then moves suddenly towards you. "Davy..."

     "Bah, just throw a blanket over me," he rumbles out, heading for the bar to pour another drink. On the way, though, he pauses to remove his suit jacket and undo the tie. His fingers tug on the knot and ruin in seconds what took him minutes to achieve. "I don't need for much when I sleep, darlin'. Just keep the sun off me. Pull the shades tight, should be good enough. I've spent more than one night on those leather sofas, I can tell you." He tosses the tie over the coat and looks up at you as you suddenly turn.
     "Yeah?" he smirks, turning his way to the bar to start the next round (that so-called nightcap). He removes a bottle of bourbon while he's waiting for you to speak, his immortal motions slightly faster than the average human's -- or at least the average mortal's capacity to absorb the sight of movement.

     "Throw a blanket on you. And if it's a loose weave?" Fiona smiles at you, tolerantly more than anything else. Her hands move to her shoulders, clasping herself as she smiles down at the floor, then back up at you. "It's silly," she says more quietly. "But ... thank you. For being here. With me. It would be so easy for you to be so many other places, I know, and ... it means a lot to me."
     She moves to one of the sofas, sinking onto it and leaning forward to fiddle with the clasp of one sandal. Her toenails have been painted a delicate pale shade of coral, just glinting with a bronzed edge. "I haven't forgotten why I love you. But if I'd been in any doubt, I'm reminded now, aren't I? It wasn't Hobson's Choice, marrying you... not at all."

     "Who's Hobson?" Davydd gruffs in that: Is this some other bloke whose arse I'll have to kick? He pours a bourbon for himself and a water for you. Just to see if you notice. He stands at the bar for a moment, taking a swallow of the drink like he needs it and then heads over to the sofa to join you. The sofa shifts mightily as he plops down on it without an ounce of decorum, legs stretching long. He holds the short glass of ice water out for you. "A little something to wet your whistle. And, mind you, don't tell Rhodri I had you on the sauce. He's so ruddy protective."
     Not without reason, and he's one to talk anyway. Arms spread out on the back of the sofa, his bourbon balanced in one of his hands, Davydd turns his head and looks at you. "I want to spend time with you," he notes. "Take you to nice places when I get the chance. If if I have to sneak you halfway 'cross the country for a night's peace." Dark green scatters in the wink, star-splotched foliage in the depth of those eyes. "I should ask about my son and grandsons, but I don't want to spoil the mood," his voice rumbles low, edged with a grin. "Look, spending time with you," Davydd continues, his arms sliding off the sofa and coming round in front of him, glass and all, "... isn't something I'm doing for you...well, I am... but it's for me too. What's this then?" His voice is quiet when he's serious, and he sets his bourbon aside. It's that serious. "You see... upset or something. Sad, almost. You don't think this is all some elaborate ruse, d'you, to make up for something I haven't told you. I can see where you'd think that," he smirks suddenly, "...but it's not. I just ... wanted to take you out. And we've been talking about it. But you seem like... I'm putting myself out or... I don't know... what's the matter?"

     "Hobson's choice. Just a slang expression for no real choice at all; when you're faced with two equally unappealing options, having to choose a bad option." Fiona grins at you, letting her sandal dangle from two fingers before it falls. She takes the glass of water instead, mindful not to spill it on her gown. "In other words, I think you're swell."
     She swallows a gulp of water, then sets the glass on the floor as she turns her attention to the other sandal. "Protective. I'm fine, you know. No reason for you two to be so protective; what do you think is going to happen to me, anyway?" She looks up, sudden curiosity alight in her eyes. She's interested in how you might answer, all of a sudden.
     "...I'm not sad. A bit emotional, but not sad," she insists, "just ... I've really enjoyed tonight. And I want you to know it. I'm not reading ulterior motives into things, Davy. It's just, it's been such a long and stressful time." Fiona settles back, curling up with glass of water again in hand. "I feel rather like I've had to hold a high note and carry it for the last eight months... or so. And now I can finally breathe naturally again - I can finally be myself again. Not that I know who I've been."

     "I don't think anything is going to happen, well... I'm not sitting here worrying over anything. You just seem... well, I guess you are tired. And we're on opposite clocks," he sighs aloud, reminding himself. "I'm not the over-protective one in this three-way arrangement," Davydd goes on (as he is wont to do), downing the bourbon and freeing his hands for a cigarette. The man can't carry on a conversation without his hands being put to work doing sommat. "Emotional." He mulls on that while he lights up, puffing a great cloud of smoke and letting it drift about. He gives his body to the sofa, allowing for plenty of space in between. You can stretch out of it you like. "It was a rough one. But... it's done now," he murmurs. "The boy's doing well. You're recovering, for which we're all thankful. I thought your other son was going to worry himself into a tizzy. They're all going to become fine men. Two of them already are. So cheer up, woman," Davydd rattles, the end of the cigarette burning bright orange with the intake of a breath. Smoke curls from his nose a moment later and he smirks, letting the rest of it tumble out between his lips. "Alright?"
     He doesn't bring up the thing hovering around his brain; the decision he's made that'll change things up a bit. That's for another night. And another time. He'd just as soon have this be an Otherworld-free zone. Cigarette stuck between his lips, he looks you up and down. "Care to get comfortable? You can get out of the finery now if you want. Maybe put on your pee-jays and bunny slippers. There's some here still." An arm stretches out along the back of the smaller sofa, fingers motioning for you to give him a hand to hold. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. We'll do it again before too long," he murmurs a promise to you, bending and twisting to put his ashes into an ashtray instead of on his suit or the leather of the sofa. "You've been you. Just a very stressed, concerned you. The only time I was really worried was when you were standing over there with the sword," he chuckles, gesturing with his cigarette to the very spot you occupied when you brandished the weapon. "Course, the makeup sex was phenomenal."

     "Not quite so opposite as that." Fiona slides across the couch towards you, lying up along you with one hand on your chest. "Peter's not exactly a day bird yet; he's not sleeping through the nights. We'll get there, but I'm keeping hours closer to your own than you might think. Just ... with more day hours included than I'd like; neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat. Mmm."
     The sigh is as she rubs her cheek lightly against your shoulder. "I'll change into my jim-jams if you want me to, but I'd rather you just hold me. And dishevel me thoroughly." The look you get is pure minx, right down to the impish smile and spark in her eyes. "Had too much to drink? At least kiss me good night."
     She doesn't move away, going quiet as she leans into you, a contented sound made quietly. "...The makeup sex was amazing," Fiona murmurs. "Of course, I was pregnant and going half out of my mind. At least I'm not fertile quite just yet. Nursing apparently sends a signal to the body, don't make more babies just yet." Her fingers steal up to the opening of your shirt, lightly touching to your skin. "So did I disgrace you in public, Old Man?"

     This is more like it. He was apparently hoping you'd get in some good pawing and mauling, but was going to leave it up to you tonight. You're the one who's just pushed out a nine-pound boy, who's he to ask for special favors? But green smolders like forests in fog when you lean in and finger his shirt. "Not at all," Davydd murrs out, leaning over to stamp out the cigarette (that's enough of that) and turn his attention to you. One arm goes around you, his hand lifting to your hair. He plucks out a comb to watch some of those oak-blond tresses hang down. "You were a gorgeous thing on my arm. A queen among girls." He bends, his mouth claiming yours widely despite just having had a cigarette (some manners). You're used to it by now, right?
     Another comb is plucked from your hair, letting another portion of your hairdo tumble down as Davydd parts the kiss and opens his eyes to see his handiwork. The disheveled hair and the kiss-blushed mouth the only art he was ever capable of making. A chuckle sounds in his throat and fiery eyebrows cock up both at once. "Not fertile, eh? Is that an invitation? We are going to have to be ... much more careful in the future," he notes seriously for a moment, his fingers dripping their touches down to your diamonds. You feel the weight shift as he rids you of them faster than you can say Black Jack Davy Is A Sodding Thief. "You and I have other things to do besides filling cribs. It may be a good few years or a dozen." He closes your mouth -- or rather opens it -- with another kiss, his arms enfolding around you and drawing you up against him. Your dress is going to show the scandalous wrinkles, tell-tale signs of improper acts in high fashion.
     A hand full of diamonds slips away from you, letting the jewels drop harmlessly on the table. "Good night? Good morning," he corrects with a grin. Your hair is halfway up, halfway down. Your dress is wrinkled and your jewels are cast off like yesterday's shoes. You are the picture of dishevelment. Tilting his head to look at you, Davydd marvels at his artistic prowess, grinning all the while. "The despoiled debutant," he whispers, chuckling as he rolls you, your back pressed into the neverending cushioning of the overstuffed leather sofa. "I should take a picture." He is sitting half beside you, half hovering over you -- a position the sofa allows in its construction and padding. One might think that you bought these sofas with this in mind, on purpose. One might think.
     Bronze lashes lift and lower as his gaze does, lifting from the view of your breasts, ample in recent motherhood and made to seem all the more so by your dress and newfound position, to look in your eyes. "What about you... too much to drink... too soon?" he wonders. You can see he rather hopes you haven't had too much to drink or that it isn't too soon after the birth for such hopes...

     You receive such a demure smile as she snuggles all the closer, as her hair falls down along her back. "My sweet Davy," she murmurs, licking her lips. She doesn't even complain as you rid her of her jewels. If you steal them, you are stealing them for her - yes? Of course you are.
     "More careful than what? But alright." Fiona sighs a little, head-butting your shoulder gently. "Not a dozen years. I can't wait that long, it wouldn't be fair to me or to Rhodri. But ... a few years, alright."
     "You'd leave me sitting here," she murmurs up at you with another lick at her lips, "to go get a camera?" One hand comes up to draw her fingers slowly down her cleavage, and you receive the full bloom of her smile, now. "Davy, why do you think I've been pushing off to the other side of things? I heal faster there. And with magic, to boot. My head is spinning, a little, but it's you more than it is the drinks. And besides," she gestures to her glass with a pious expression, "for the last half hour, I've had nothing but water!"

     "A few years," he agrees softly, his eyes following the trail your fingers make. "Enough to forget what it was like and want to do it all over again. But... of course... then there's you... looking like this, which I love by the way." But then, as everyone knows, Davydd is a breast man. A hand comes up, brushing against your shoulder to lead one of the straps down. Ah, but it's zippered in the back. Just his luck. Well, he'll tend to that in a moment. For now, it's just enough to stare at you.
     Besides, it might be more fun to see just what this dress can handle. You see that flicker in his gaze (he's so obvious) as his gaze lifts from your cleavage to your face again (however briefly). "I just don't want you to think that... because I took you out to the most expensive, exclusive restaurant in town, and spent untold amounts of money," he didn't even let you look at the bill, "...that I'm expecting something, you know, from you, to reciprocate." Davydd chuckles. "I'm not a complete cad."
     He says that and then his mouth makes a liar out of him as he dips his head between your breasts, his tongue more crafty than taffeta. The small amount of slack created by the lowering of a strap was just enough to allow tongue to fish out a nipple and suck. "You know," he breathes at your neck, his head lifting after a moment of suckling attention, "...I'd hate you to think I'm just another bloke, out for your body..." The grin is wide, madcap and quick. He's so completely full of shite. And he knows it.

     "A few years," Fiona agrees in return, however cautiously. She bites her lip as you look at her. "I'm not inclined to wait all that long. I know, it's ... silly, but ... part of me likes being pregnant. Knowing I'm going to have a baby. Knowing, especially whose baby it'll be."
     She squirms slightly in the dress, ducking her chin and then looking up at you. "It's silly, isn't it?", she whispers at you. "Here I am, a grown woman, mother of three, and ... each time, it's as if I'd never had a baby before. Even though I know what it's like, and the actual pregnancy part of it is a right pain in the arse... I want it all the same."
     She reaches for your hand with her own, sliding her cheek against your palm with a little sigh as you lower your head, as you bring her nipple to such rigid attention. "We've already ascertained what I am, Davy," Fiona murmurs, voice hushed on the edge, the brink of laughter. "Now we're just negotiating over price, aren't we?"

     He laughs suddenly, caught in an unconscious haggle. "What are you trying to say?" But he's laughing again before you can even retort. The mood isn't lost but it is diverted. Rolling to land with his back against the couch, his hand at his stomach from the laughter, Davydd grins at you. "I don't think I want to negotiate with you. Every time I do, I lose my shirt." In the spreading of his grin, you see the edges of his canines, those dragon vipers. "The last time, I ended up tied to the bed with my own necktie, you six months pregnant and ... wait a minute," he chuckles, "...that was a fan-fucking-tastic night. Alright, you drive a hard bargain. I'll sleep with you...but I want to be respected in the morning..."
     He spreads himself there, letting you pile on as he guides you with an arm to his lap. "Hmm... you think you'd learn," Davydd rumbles low. "But I guess once you start peopling the world, it's hard to stop. But... we'll give it a while yet. I'm not ready to be a father to another baby. I want to be with my girl a while when she's not either crying or pushing me to the bed and taking complete advantage of my weakness for her flesh," he teases, his grin straight from the devil. "I want her to get back into her little school girl outfits and make me remember I'm a bad man who does bad things..."

     She's almost miffed by your pulling away, but not quite. Hiking up her gown, she straddles your lap, leaning forward to kiss you with open-mouthed intent, her arms winding around your neck. "Bastard," Fiona accuses softly, her smile twitching into being nevertheless. "Bringing up my pregnancy-driven foibles now, of all times. I promise I will respect you just as much as I do now; my respect for you can only increase."
     Her hands draw up and down along your chest, and she hugs you tightly for a moment, pressing her cheek as if listening for your heart beat. "I'm not in that much of a hurry," she murmurs. "I want to be me for a while, I agree. Not ... not quite so crazy. Besides, I promised you that you'd have me to yourself for the same amount of time Rhodri did on our honeymoon, remember? Though you'll have to take it in installments, I'm afraid. I was thinking of taking up a hobby, you know. Beyond the school-girl uniform and teasing you by calling you daddy."

     "I'd already forgotten that," he murmurs as you set his mouth free. "You know," he rumbles, "you are really going to have to start taking advantage of my absent-minded old age. You could have homes and minks galore by now." Winking, he brushes his hand along your hair, removing the final comb to let it all hang down. Listen as you might for a heartbeat, the heart is not human. Not anymore. But his blood moves all the same. "We'll spend as much time as we can. You've a lot of boys depending on you now, not just me." Davydd leans, bending his head so he can kiss your forehead.
     "What sort of hobby? I didn't realize dressing up in a school girl uniform was a hobby. I thought you did that just for me. Who else has seen that?" he quips, feigning jealousy. "I thought I was your only professor." He's one to talk; this from the man who hires Japanese girls to walk on his back. Well, if only he were serious. You hear the rumble of his voice, you know the character it takes on when he teases. "Am I going to be your secret little hobby?"

     "Not so much secret about you, Davy. But I take you much more seriously than any hobby," she says softly. She leans out, once you've kissed her forehead, fingers beginning to gently unbutton your shirt. She is in no hurry. "I could take advantage. I suppose I could; but I'd rather just reap the rewards of being your girl without having to cheat you. I'll save the cheating for the marks, right?" She looks up at you with bright-eyed and sudden mischief. "As is right and proper for Black Jack's Lady. I'll save the beating on you for when you've wronged me."
     Ah, that's better. She makes a contented sound in the back of her throat as she frees your shirt from your trousers, leaning down to kiss your dragons, one at a time, the ones visible. "Hello," Fiona coos. "And how have you been, lately, hm? Your scales could use a good polishing, I'm thinking. I was considering taking up a hobby because every time I have musical aspirations, they get interrupted. And I need to do things. Right now, I'm not doing things; I'm being things. A mother. A wife. A queen. That's not ... activity, it's ... jobs, almost."

Posted by rowan at August 31, 2006 09:59 PM