She is still distressed upon waking, even with the tenderness shared between you and she. It shows, though you are asleep as if dead (and dead as if dead) and do not see it; in the lingering glances she gives you as she dresses, the tremor to her lower lip as she moves out of the suite and into the patchy sunlight outside.
     She is distressed, not as she once was, by loving you, but by hurting you...
     The distress seems to transfer to the air around her. Nothing is quite going right. Traffic is terrible; the hairdresser makes mistakes (thank god for magic), the soup is cold and the wine is warm. The lift's out of service when she heads back to the new flat, and things entirely seem askew. And nothing seems to make it right.
     Chores are taken care of; finally, things are put more or less right. But she is still on shaky ground...
     When she returns, it's an hour before sunset. There are packages - chocolates from one of her favourite shops, a small overnight bag with a few changes of clothes. Fiona puts things away, then moves to in front of the mirror in the bedroom, beginning to try and put herself to rights. One can ignore earthquakes if one tries hard enough, surely?

     ...Until the quakes begin to rattle the china, spilling the tea. Still, the British would merely go on sipping, wouldn't they?
     Normally he rises at sunset on the dot, at the first second of true dusk. But when you enter, your small noises of arrival, of preparation, even of apprehension creating the buzz of a waking forest at dawn, he wakes early, his full body making the very fine bed faintly sound.
     Davydd exhales, tattooed arm thrown across his eyes in stubborn refusal -- much as your denial of the earthquake is his denial of waking. But waking has dawned and Awareness crests the horizon of his soul as he, and it, wake once more to immortality. He clears his throat and then his body is in motion again, rolling in a reflex to stand.
     He is a tangle of red hair and blue tattoos, and he is quite nearly modest with a covering of blue cotton boxers. There is a grunt of greeting as he more feels you nearby than sees you. His hand motions to the bathroom: I'll be in there.
     The bathroom is more like a bedroom with a tub. Large windows give a view of the central city in all its glory and splendor, that splendor echoed in the mosaics of marble and marble fixtures within. The enormous tub, with its jacuzzi jets, is set like a jewel in a crown in the center of the room and on a pedestal, so its occupant can stare at London's lights while he soaks.
     It's almost obscene...
     The boxers whisper to the marble as they're dropped, the faucet in the tub turned on for maximum heat and the sink turned on to cool. Davydd foams at the mouth like a rabid dog, a hand on the marble basin of the sink for balance as his newly alive and still-stiff flesh slowly waken with blood flow.

     She has no doubts as to her feelings; if she had, she would not upon seeing you as life returns. There is the immediate quiver of adoration, of devotion beyond what one ordinarily expects to find after several years of marriage and familiarity. Fiona turns, watching you as intently as if she's never seen this procedure before. As if she is memorizing it, and measuring...
     You are granted a little time to titivate before she follows; a little time, really, for the sediment of sleep to be shifted from you before she crashes in on you. She is dressed simply enough; designer jeans and a silk blouse, her hair worn in a French braid. She looks as young as the day you met her, but infinitely better dressed. And she takes a seat on the countertop next to the sink, turning her head to regard you. "Want me to send for room service?"

     Spitting foam while his dragons spit fire, his mouth rinsed from the foam until dangerous teeth glitter and gleam, Davydd glances to you. He gives you a second look and then nods. "Yeah... something with beef. Rare, for me. Get whatever you like. The menu should be in the drawing room. I'll be human again by the time it gets here," his mouth smirks and he looks in the mirror. I've a long way to go.
     He drags a hand across his face, his chin. There's stubble, rough growth -- not as full as it was the night he died, but close. "The bar in the room's good, we shouldn't need anything else. But if you want to order something, whatever you like, dearie," his earthy tone is rough with waking. "I could use a tea service, come to think of it." Glancing behind him, he checks on the progress of the tub -- it's like filling the ruddy ocean -- and then switches the water in the sink to steaming hot.
     "Or you can stand here and watch me shave," he chuckles a little. "Sometimes, when you do that, I am reminded of what it was like to have daughters, always wanting to figure out what daddy does in the bath." Davydd snorts a laugh, his face going all steamy and foamy.
     The straight razor catches the light as he flicks it open with his wrist, and the warrior king kills the rising infantry of a night's overgrowth. He's done it for six centuries, and it has the smoothness and the quickness of reflex. It is done as easily as blinking his eyes or smiling.
     "It'd be nice to have dinner with you," he says, glancing back over. "It's been a while since we've done that, the two of us. Maybe tomorrow night, we can actually go downstairs to the restaurant. It's one of the nicest in town."

     She nods, hopping down again, lightly dragging her fingernails along your back as she goes. "I'll order something for myself," Fiona agrees, giving you a suddenly demure glance. "And if you want, maybe I'll sit on your lap and call you 'daddy', but I promise you, the relations I want to have with you wouldn't pass muster with a censorship board."
     She moves back out into the room at large, picking up the menu and the telephone. For you, she orders the largest steak in the house; for herself, shrimp cocktail and a big bottle of pink, fizzy champagne. One of the few things not already in the room's bar...
     Strawberries are added, along with a pot of chocolate; and then she turns away from the phone and moving back to the doorway, watching you shave with a quirk of a smile to the corners of her mouth, lower lip suspiciously full. "You are good at that," Fiona murmurs. "Wish I were half so good at shaving my legs, but there always seems a casualty or two when I do that. Maybe I should make you do it."

     You're flirting with me. He watches your reflection come and go in the mirror above the pedestal sink. "Sure," he gruffs. "Are you fuzzy and in need of shearing, little lamb?" The razor is washed clean, and then his face. He inspects himself as he turns off the water in the sink.
     Now, for the bath. The water in the tub is finally high enough for his tastes, and he reaches over to activate the jets. There's not a second thought for his own nudity -- you are his wife, though three weeks removed -- but neither is there the obvious signs of excitement. It's far too soon for that.
     With a mighty groan, the sound of it echoed against marble and glass, Davydd eases himself into the steaming water, the jets bubbling the surface. "Sweet Jesus and all his little cherubs," he croons out, nearly sings it actually, as he gives his body to the heat and the vibration of the jets. Dark green eyes roll shut as his tattooed arms extend along the marble sides of the tub to provide an anchor. He's all but purring. "This is the way to wake up," he mumbles. Copper eyebrows arch upward and his eyes slowly open. "Want to join me? Oh right... the food's coming..." Someone has to answer the door. Looks like that's you!
     "So... how are you," Davydd wonders suddenly, "I don't think I asked. Did you have a good day?" He knows you saw him. He's not yet sure how he feels about it. Did he not just go through three weeks of nothing? But Davydd decides not to say anything about it. Or maybe with all the heated water and jets he simply doesn't care. "You seem better than last night. Course, that's probably not hard to do, yeah?"

     She swings herself up to the counter again, listening for the door and looking to you. She smiles at you, shaking her head. "Not that fuzzy. Not yet. We'll have to do that sometime, though." Fiona kicks off one shoe, letting it thump to the tiles as she watches you. There is that adoration again, the frisson of attraction and emotion that rises into her eyes. Right now, at least, you are alone with her.
     Without the shadow of your son, that thief...
     "My day was terrible. Everything went wrong that possibly could," Fiona admits to you frankly. Yes, she saw him. No, she isn't talking about it. But neither is she wearing him on her skin, the memory to tug her away from you. "My hair was chopped six inches shorter than I told them; I fixed it, of course, once I was far enough away. But I stopped for tea before coming back, and I got you some chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better, doesn't it?"

     He opens his eyes, and the attraction and emotion you feel is echoed in his look, even if there is the undergrowth and brambles that have formed between you when the relationship was left untended. He listens to you unravel your day, and if his son's fingerprints were still on you such a look would lift them. But they're not there. "Chocolate will help, oes," Davydd murmurs at last. And though the bath is tempting, he starts to rise, his hand coming out and motioning toward you for a towel.
     Standing in the center of the large bath, he drip-dries, the precipitation falling against twelve dragons' scales. They glisten there, and the leaves of the twelve trees, washed clean and gleaming. The air between you is thick, not with lust and desire, for those things are still sleeping, but with emotions, things said and as of yet unacknowledged.
     He takes the towel as you give it over, stepping out of the bath and shutting off the jets. Bending, he tugs the tub's stopper, the water draining as he wraps the towel around his waist. The silence isn't awkward as much as there is just too much to say and it wants to leap all at once from his tongue. But he resists the urge to regurgitate his every feeling and thought, good, bad or otherwise.
     "Have you given any thought about a new schedule?" he wonders it quietly. And he wonders if you and Rhodri have already spoken about it. He mulls on it for a moment, chewing on whether to ask. For now, he leaves his son, his rival, and your other husband out of the equation. "I know there are times in the day that are ... convenient for seeing him. I'm asleep, yeah? Like I care when I'm dead." Only he does care. "I don't know that I like him seeing you during the day when I'll be seeing you that night. He will work it to his advantage - that's his nature. I don't blame him. If I were him, I'd be doing the same thing," he gruffs, heading slowly out of the bath and back to the bedroom.
     "I think the best thing at this juncture, for this time," Davydd continues, towel dropping, "is to ... keep things separate. I don't think it is... healthy... or smart," he pulls on a pair of lounging pants, soft, grey cotton, "... to ... blur the lines. I would prefer things to be ... distinct just now."

     She smiles at you, the smile wobbling at the edges as you rise from your watery fastness. And she turns to move towards the door, pulling it open for the wheeled table to be rolled in, the murmur of voices telling you that dinner has arrived. It's not until the door's closed and locked again that she returns to watch you drying yourself.
     "I agree with you." Fiona folds her arms over her chest - a bit defensively, though she tries not to look it. She slowly walks to one of the couches, sinking onto it without her arms uncrossing. "Right now, at least ... separation of these different things ... is needed. It would be easier," she continues, admitting it, "if I were able to give one or the other of you up. But I love you too much. I love him too much. Maybe it would be easier if I just gave you both up, I don't know."
     She bites her lower lip, pressing teeth savagely against the skin in the effort to hold back profanity. "...Let's face it, Davydd. The crux is that I'm the middle of it. But no - I don't want to give you up, so the best way seems to me to be ... alternate. Not entire days, with him getting days and you getting nights. It doesn't work, it doesn't balance. But if I give you four nights a week and he gets three, and the following week you get three and he gets four - it works out, it stays even. And while random stuff might occasionally come up, we can keep it from coming up except in emergencies. And - we need to watch him." She sighs. "Anyway. Shall I dish up the food?"

     "We've tried the day-night split already," he notes quietly, nodding at your observance that it doesn't work. He picks up the towel, folding it, as you mention food. "You are in the middle of it. When it's going well, it's a great place to be, I guess. But when it is bad... it is like the old nursery rhyme. When she was good she was very good, but when she was bad she was horrid..." Davydd pulls on his robe and crosses to the living room for the food.
     No eating in the bedroom - not right now.
     Lifting the sterling dome lids, Davydd takes an inhalation of everything. The steak is flanked with a selection of grilled vegetables. He'll likely leave those for you. "You and I... we think alike," he murmurs, glancing to you. "To our detriment at times, right? Want some wine?" He changes the subject as he removes the other sterling domes from the platters. Two bottles were sent up, the perfect accompaniments to the meals offered. He opens the Australian shiraz and begins to pour a glass. Dark green eyes lift to you to see if you want a pour from the other bottle. Champagne? You see that move over him. Strawberries, chocolate and champagne.
     You are flirting with me...
     Even though there is a formal dining area in the grand room, Davydd plops down on the sofa, intending to use the cart as a buffet table. And why not? Patting his lap, he motions for you to come have a sit. "I'm sorry it's like this," he murmurs on a sigh. "None of us are in a good position. We ... need to find something that works. Maybe... the three of us will have to sit down and iron it out. I don't know." He doesn't seem to want to do that, not at the moment.

     "We are very much alike. And when we are unified on a topic, none in the world can overcome us," Fiona answers you, just as quietly. "When we aren't..." Yes, well. She smiles a little, nodding when you indicate the champagne - yes, please. "Love doesn't work so well without a side of communication."
     Her arms finally unfold, and she rises from her seat to crawl over to you, curling up in your lap. "We'll see what we need," Fiona murmurs, lips brushing your cheek before she snuggles down in against you. "We do need to find a solution that works. Let's ... for now, I'm yours. It's only fair, anyway. He had my undivided attention, it's your turn. And we can figure out what we need, what you need, what I need, and then what he does. But you're going to have to figure out if four on, three off, three on, four off works for you, or not."
     A hand comes up, tugs lightly at your hair, and she sighs, going quiet. Love is a son of a bitch. Remind me, if I ever run into that fat diapered freak that's Cupid, to kick him in the balls...

     Your sitting on his lap has interrupted his opening the champagne. He turns his head as you kiss his cheek to catch part of that kiss on his mouth. "We don't have to solve all the world's problems in one night," he murmurs. "Let's... leave the topic for now. You know me... I want it solved and done, but... I'm trying not to say everything I'm feeling or thinking all at once and expect immediate results." He smirks, eyes shimmering green fields between bronze lashes. "This old dog is learning, oes? Finally," he gruffs.
     The champagne is popped gently without spilling so much as a droplet of foam and he leans to the side, pouring it in the glass. He hands the glass to you. "It's good feeling you here," he murmurs quietly, his voice ringing with meaning. "My lap has missed you, you know. You're warm," and so is he from the heated jet bath. Davydd reaches forward to take his glass and a swallow of wine. He holds onto you with one hand, and maneuvers his glass and his steak with his other. He's as good with his left hand as he is with his right. The steak is so tender, he doesn't need a knife to cut it.
     "Want a taste?" He offers a piece of the rare (though cooked) steak. "Prime rib. You can have the grazing food if you want," the vegetables. "I don't need the vitamins," he grins. "So... what else have you been doing," apart from Rhodri, he thinks, "... the last few weeks? The boys'll be happy to see you. We had some good adventures, the boys and me. I took Bran, Aeron and Gruffydd sailing. Did a little camping and hunting. We didn't kill anything, of course, just looked," he mentions quietly between bites. "We didn't find any pirates to the boys' dismay, but we did find a bit of treasure on one of the islands, some trinkets and coins and the like."

     Your cheek has her hand in the wake of her kiss, gentle and tender with the touch of emotion. "We'll work it out," Fiona whispers. "In our own way. In our own time."
     She takes the champagne, smiling at you with approval for your skill. It is sipped, the bubbles allowed to roll against the roof of her mouth before she swallows. "Sure, I'll take a taste." Fiona leans forward, snagging the meat between her teeth and backing up a little to unhook it from the fork. She chews, swallows, then smiles at you, licking any traces of blood from her lips.
     "A lot of sneaking around in the dark of night. A lot of window shopping; moving from the old apartment, things like that. I've outgrown it, I think." There is not a little trace of regret in her voice. "I have held off on putting it away. There were a lot of memories. More than a few. But - I'm not that girl anymore. I'm someone else now, and pretending seems silly. I'm not angry anymore..."
     She reaches for a strawberry, taking a small bite out of it as she listens to you talk about adventures, face flooding with her smile. "And did you put the treasure there, you old pirate, you, or was it really just there to be found? They're good boys. You're a good father, Davy."

     He flushes at the compliment, his gaze skirting to his plate. "I am trying to be. And, no, the treasure was just there. Bits and pieces from a shipwreck. Aeron's wanting to undertake a venture to get the rest of it," he chuckles a little, "Gruffydd is probably drawing up the plans right now. You know his father." Iowerth, your son. "I make sure to see them while I sleep, so I'm always there one way or another. I know Io and Gwi didn't have that from me, and it bothered them. Gwi anyway. He and I have talked as well. I still rattle him, despite not wanting to but... it's better than it was."
     "Anyway," Davydd continues on a clearing breath, not prepared to talk about Gwilym Gwyn Garu at the moment, "...I left them with the Queen on her island. I'll pick them up in a week or so, get them to Avalon for Christmas so we can sneak 'em into Powis." He is finished with the prime rib for now, the meat half devoured, and he settles back with the glass of shiraz.
     "Sneaking around in the dead of night," he mulls out. "Going out with The Davy were you?" He knows what that does to you, for you. And it's not something he wants to think about. "Find anything interesting? Do you have room in your closets left for clothing?" Smooth, Davydd. Lips twisting, he looks at you. Sorry. "Llew said something about the place being in the center city, not far from here actually, isn't it? Llew's happy to have the loft. I think it came at a good time for him, so... that's good." It's a sensitive subject, clearly. His skin goes ruddy to think of it. To think of what it meant to him, what it means. You and Rhodri have a love nest. A place where he isn't invited. And so, he got rid of his own loft, one that you and Rhodri had shared with him. Property and time and loves and lives began to separate then, like oil and water.
     "I don't know what I'm going to do yet. The sale of the loft'll take care of these bills for a while. I think keeping this for the political business I have is good. I guess I'll need to find something, some place where you can come stay without unnecessarily involving you in the other business."

     "I know his father." Fiona looks resigned. "At least he seems to have settled down a little. I'm glad that you and Gwi are doing a little better." She leans down to take your hand, lifting it to her own cheek. "You are wonderful and precious to me," she whispers. She kisses your hand and lets it drop again, then picks up her champagne again. "I admit it makes me feel a little odd, knowing my son's married to an angel..."
     She smiles a little as you mention the Davy. "Some room left in my closet, yes. Not much. Llew said something about trying to talk one of the new girls at the pub into taking over the lease, but she didn't go for it, apparently. Pity. It's a nice flat, I'd like it to be looked after. A bit too anthropomorphic, I suppose." She rubs her forehead, then leans in against you lightly. "Why don't we go shopping for a suitable place this week? Something for just the two of us, yes? Someplace I can strew my high heels and my lipsticks and you can swear at me to pick up my stuff, woman, before someone breaks their neck..."

     You can see that he wasn't sure you'd want a place, or that perhaps such a conversation might be too soon. His eyes crinkle at the corners in the start of a smile that is a bit too bewildered to actually appear. "Well... yeah, we can do that. I guess we ought to look in the neighborhoods around your new place, so you don't waste time commuting..." He looks into his glass of shiraz and then finishes it in a swallow, setting the empty glass aside.
     You are held in an encircling grasp, large arms settling around you. "I'd like to trip over your high heels. I'll buy you new ones," he offers. "We'll buy you some new clothing to go with the new closets, oes?" he speaks quietly at your ear. "Do you want a penthouse?" Another one? He hasn't yet seen your new place. "If you could pick out your second dream home, what would it be?"
     He doesn't ask you about your current home. He doesn't want to know. And he doesn't want to know about the jewels or anything else you've received. He can't play that game with Rhodri, and he doesn't want to get caught up again in the trap of comparison and competition.
     "I'm sure your old flat will find a good tenant. I stopped by there a week or so ago," when he found out you moved. "I took a walk around. We had a lot of memories in that place, you and me." Davydd looks to you, a bit wistful about it.
     Yes, you choosing to move out of there was more than you just moving out of your flat. It was like you were... moving out of him. He was an old thing, a part of an old life you seemed to be leaving behind.
     "The only thing I want to keep from my old place is the piano. I have that in storage. All of the furniture and the rest of it I sold." You can probably imagine how that went. Swiftly, efficiently, but with a lot of emotion.

     "We can look anywhere," Fiona murmurs. "Whatever works best for us both." She touches your hand, then laughs, quietly, barely audibly. But it is there. An easing of tensions, just a little. Just as you were not sure, she was not sure you really would want it...
     "Dream home? I don't know, Davy. To me, a flat or a house, it's less what it is than who's in it with me." She touches a fingertip to your nose. "Two bathrooms. A place to sleep. You." Her smile wobbles a little. "You're non-negotiable, Davy."
     Fiona sighs, sliding down in your arms, closing her eyes. Guilt is washing over her again in waves. "The flat was a good one," she murmurs. "But ... at the same time ... it belonged to something that isn't there anymore. I'm not really a punk. I'm not angry anymore. And it was the part of me which I was holding separate from being married - where I went, by myself. I might let you or Rhodri in, but ... it was a wall. A way of protecting myself, in case - anything happened."
     Such as you or Rhodri deciding suddenly you didn't need her anymore...
     She buries her face against you, eyes squeezed closed. "I'm sorry." There is regret in her voice, emotion, and she shakes her head a little. "You ... are still important to me. I don't ever want you to feel otherwise, Davy..."

     He doesn't say it, but his hands whisper it against your skin where they brush against you. Hush, hush, enough of that. "I like this area. It suits me, Knightsbridge and Kensington," Davydd murmurs. "I'll have my money man look into things. Maybe we can be in a place for Christmas. It might be nice to have something like a brownstone, something old." He smiles a bit to chase away the regret and uncertainty. "Like me."
     His arms settle around you again, bringing you a little closer in a slightly squeezing hug. His head turns, mouth brushing against the gold of your hair. "I understand about the flat," he says. "At the time when I found out, I was feeling a bit like something set on the curb, you know. But," his voice lowers to a whisper between you, "... I understand the need for turning over the earth, girl. I do. And... I know now what you meant by it so..." So that's done. It doesn't mean what he thought it meant.
     Different. But what is different? He doesn't think it so loud that you can hear it, but it rests like dew upon the silence. "I know it's not easy, being in between," Davydd murmurs. "And I don't want to compare notes anymore. I can't compete with Rhodri, not for your affections, not for your desires. It was making me crazy. I have to avoid the competition of it. I have to not even speak it, even when I think it." And so he doesn't say aloud those things he might be feeling. "That has to stop with me," Davydd whispers to you, laying another kiss upon your fine, gold hair.
     Closing his eyes there, his arms hold you to him. "All I can do is ... give you what I'm capable of giving you, and of loving you the way I know how to love. I can't play his game. I will lose. I will always lose because there is no way to win. And then... that's when I feel trapped and miserable, unable to win you."
     He exhales and says nothing for a moment. "And so... it's different." That word again. "... We're different. We are what we are and we love as we love. I can't worry about the rest of it anymore, or it will drive me crazy. And it's a short trip anyway," he gruffs suddenly.
     A large hand brushes across your hair. "I'm glad you're not angry anymore. I like the girl, not the fight."

     "I don't want you to be him." Fiona laughs suddenly up at you, eyes opening, a brightness in her look, softening with the emotion of it all. "I can just about manage one of him, Davy. If you were him ... I'd go crazy. He infuriates me sometimes, you know - he's so calm about things, so nonchalant. When he does get upset, and it's very rare he does, it almost frightens me. I don't know how to handle it. It doesn't happen often, thankfully. I may love him - but I don't understand him. Not like I do you."
     There are, perhaps, some advantages to your alikeness with her. Gently, she leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, small as it is. "Don't worry about the rest of it," Fiona murmurs. "I want you to be yourself, Davy. Not Rhodri, not anyone else. Just my own adorable husband. You're dangerous, but I trust you. Completely."
     She settles in your arms, smiling just a little bit. "Most anger comes out of fear, I think, Davy. I was very afraid - of being hurt, of dying, of a thousand things. Love frightened me terribly. Now? I've accepted love, and not to sound like a greeting card or religious sermon, but it did change my life. There are still things I'm scared of ... William, for one ... but I acknowledge what I can and can't do. And - I trust you."

     He gives his body to the sofa, bringing you with him. Resting his head on the cushions, his gaze is fixed on you as you land in to kiss the tip of his nose. He says nothing about trust, but he acknowledges the significance of your words, of your trust with a look, the lift and lower of lashes like a nod of understanding. Likewise, there is nothing said of William. He is terrible; therefore, one should be terrified.
     "I am sick questioning things, tired of wondering how things are with him, with you. If I ever ask you those things again, just... do me a favor and don't dignify it with a response," his mouth cants a smile, lopsided and puckish. "I can't love you like that. I tried, god knows. I've done things I'd never have consented to before, because ...you wanted them. He wanted them. And so... I gave, yeah? I agreed to share you, didn't want to," his eyes widen a touch at that. "But ... I wanted to keep you, Fiona. And that's how I thought I had to do it. To just... give everyone what they wanted. I forgot in the middle of all that to give myself what I wanted, needed. I've done it with William, too, and Edward. And ... I have to stop that too. I've just sat back and taken whatever was given to me or thrown at me for the last few years."
     And, boy, did that become fucking tiresome...
     His expression softens a bit as he looks at you, his hand coming up to move over your blonde hair. "That's just because there's not that much to understand," Davydd quips quietly, chuckling at the edges of his words. "How is it all my sons are so much more complex? It must be their mothers doing that," he answers in a hush. "I'm about as complex as a Christmas cracker." His skin goes a little pink as he laughs at himself. It's not a brooding thing, not a depressive thing, just a self-effacing thing, his humor.
     "You can trust me," Davydd promises, his eyes locking in on yours. "I've laid down my world for you. I do love you, cariad." His dark eyes get a watery sheen as the emotion bubbles up from his soul to the surface of his skin. "And," his voice is rough as he whispers, "... I'm glad I haven't lost you. I'd have been a right poor thing. I missed your arms in the morning...well... my morning," he smiles a little, even though his face is going ruddy with the holding in of tears. "I missed your skin so warm..."

     She smiles at you, moving down and snuggling close to you. "I'm a lot less complicated than I used to be. You've got a few sons from me, now. Are they are complicated as the rest? I don't know. I haven't met that many of yours other than mine." And Rhodri, of course. But the name's a sensitive topic now, isn't it? She leaves it alone.
     "I do trust you," Fiona tells you, smile again wobbling with emotion. "You haven't lost me. I'm right here, see? I'm warm, I'm alive, and not even a little bit a phantom or memory. And I still love you. So much, Davy." She bends, she kisses you firmly, devoutly, then nuzzles in against your neck, whispering words against your skin.
     "Without you, Davy, my life just wouldn't feel complete. You ... comfort me. I recognize you..."

     It's been an emotionally charged period, these last ten years, far more than any single decade in his ever-lengthening past. There were the lows of a breakup with Sandrine and the highs of finding a new love with you. There was the grief of losing lifelong friends, and the tumultuous storms of jealousy when your affections became divided. There was the exaltation of newborn sons, and the wistfulness of watching them grow and become kings on their own. It has been so much joy, so much grief, it has been difficult for his heart to adjust.
     Davydd holds you in that charged silence, unable to speak for several moments after you do. The warmth of your lips still lingers on his mouth, the humming of your living energy against his own in an electric current of youthfulness. His tongue peeks out and he tastes you there, salty and sweet and alive.
     There's the hint of spray upon his cheeks like he's been kissed by a coastal wind. But that's all the tears there were, the rest remaining in the sheen over his eyes. Davydd laughs, throaty and earthy and warm, without any sound of lingering doubt or burning uncertainty. "I don't believe you, or any woman that says she's not complicated. Less than before, maybe. But there are a lot of things about you, certain things I touch off and others I don't," he murmurs. "I know enough about women to know that." The other things? Well, those are things between you and Rhodri. Your need for mystery and moonlight, thievery and capture, are archetypes that do not find release or recognition in him.
     His heart still burns with questions and curiosity, but he is smart enough not to speak. A heel of his hand to his eyes, he wipes away the reminders of emotion. "They're all puzzles," he says. "Smart men, crafty in their own ways, aloof -- they are all aloof in different ways, strangely quite, for all my spit and storm. Our sons," Davydd notes, "... are the most complicated by far. Iowerth, even little Bran and Aeron. They've all got your brains, thank god."
     His hand pats on your hip. "Mind pouring me a little of that champagne?" He could use a little uplift, a little joyful frothiness.

     "Of course, darling." She sits up without demur, smiling at you with all the emotion she feels still filling her to the brim. She rises, moves to get bottle and a glass, filling it and carrying it back to you and watching the streaming bubbles fighting for the surface, for freedom.
     "I don't feel complicated, I suppose is what it is," Fiona whispers to you. "It all seems so much easier than it used to be. It's less complicated, without the anger, without the desperation. I'm not clawing my way along, anymore."
     She tweaks your ear, then drops heavily to your lap again, smiling and leaning in with eyes closed. "They are mysteries to me. I don't know how they've come out the way they have; they're all strangers to me, even though they're my children. I look at them and I'm just - confused by it. Because I'm not any older than I was, you know? And here they are, growing up and being big, strong men and boys. And I look at myself, and - I love them and I'm their mother, but at the same time, here I sit."
     Fiona sits up, leaning to slurp from your champagne and grinning at you impishly. "I don't know whose brains they have. I'm not so convinced it's mine."

     "They're all good boys," he notes quietly. "Even Heckyl and Jeckyl," his lips twists wryly to repeat Gwilym's nicknames for them -- it fits, he must admit -- and he takes up the glass after you help yourself to a swallow. "Nah," he gruffs after a swallow of the fizzy, sweet stuff. "Especially Heckyl and Jeckyl. We took a lot of naps between searching for pirates, the boys 'n me. We sunned ourselves like lizards on rocks. They've both mastered the bird trick, by the way. Bran's the raven, and Aeron's the starling," both black birds, the heirs of the Holly King, taking his totems and all. "I think they do it just to annoy their nephew, Gwilym." Half-brother and nephew both. Strange family.
     Tipping the glass, Davydd finishes the champagne in a swallow and he sits back, his arms anchoring around you again. He just wants to hold you. There's no ulterior motive. "They've got my stubbornness and smile, and your good heart," he says next to your ear. "You're a good mother. your boys all adore you. No matter how large they get, they're still small enough to fit in the palm of your hand." He snorts. "Myself included."
     Bending his head, he rests his chin against your shoulder. His mouth cuts a wicked slant. "This seems easier to you? I'd hate to think about how it was when it was difficult. But it had to happen sooner or later, you know, you being happy. I'm glad you're happy," Davydd murmurs. Even if I'm not always the reason for it, he keeps to himself. Rolling down, he brings you slowly with him as he stretches out on the large sofa. "I'm glad you're not clawing your way out of your skin anymore. It's different, you seem different even from the last time we saw one another," his mulls, considering the truth of that. "It seems suddenly longer than three weeks."

     "Does it annoy him? Though I imagine if they insist on calling him nephew, that would annoy him." Fiona murmurs it, leaning comfortably against you. It is a companionable sort of comfort. "I do love our boys, Davy. It's strange to me, how much I end up wanting children with you. With Rhodri, that drive just - isn't there as much. I wonder what it means?"
     She is not analyzing it that much. She sighs, her arms going up and around your neck, her smile loving as blue eyes meet your green wooded ones. "No, I'm in my skin to stay, I think," Fiona tells you. "If I change, I change, but ... the foundation's secure, now. I know more who I am. I like different things at different times, and there's nothing wrong with that, as long as everybody's happy."
     "Tell me, Davy... what do you need, to be happy?"

     Copper eyebrows lift in a curious arch. "Really?" There is a thoughtful sound held in his throat and in his chest. "I think that motherhood is not the ...energy he touches off in you. What you and he seem to have is... highly charged," he turns a little red from the memories of witnessing such moments. "But you are so into one another that there is hardly space for anyone or anything else. It is difficult to be in a room with you when you are together," he admits. "It is impossible for me not to compete against it, even though I know it is futile. Maybe ... that's the reason the drive is not there."
     He has analyzed it in much more detail than intended and deftly redirects, "My energy has always been paternal. Always. So, it is not strange that you pick up on the difference." With Rhodri, you have amazing sex. With me, you have amazing children. There is a trade-off for everything. Davydd lets the thoughts whisper out to you faintly.
     And then, he is silent for a long while. A hand moves against your hair and along your back as he thinks about your question. What do I need to be happy? Davydd's hand stills after a moment more. "I... need to be needed, I think. I need to know that ... I serve some sort of purpose." He's not sure that really answered your question; you can see that by the narrowing of his eyes.
     "I guess that's pretty broad... I don't know... like what I need from you or just ...from life in general?"

     "Maybe. I just - it's easier to be with you, sometimes." Fiona makes the admission quietly, the voice slipping into inaudibility. "...The energy is high with him. But at times ... it's exhausting. I can only be on a roller coaster so much of the time." She smiles at you, lifts a hand to tug at your hair. "I guess I'm not as young as I used to be..."
     It is tightly knit. She acknowledges what you say without saying anything. And instead, her attention turns to you, to listening to you, and her lips pucker a little. "Yes and no and both, Davy? I don't know. I just - I mean, yes, I want to know in general. But I also want to know in specific, from me. Because if I don't know ... how can I make sure that you get it?"

     He's not good about talking about this stuff, and ever-so-quietly his heels drag. He can feel them starting to dig in. But this time, he does not plant his metaphoric feet in the earth and give into his stubbornness or his unwillingness. Instead, he slowly starts to speak. "I guess it's just the little things. The little patiences, encouragements, same as any man. I mean, this last month as an example... I just need to know that I'm as important to you. That you want to see me, even if you can't. That I make you ... feel good."
     Rhodri doesn't have to wonder about that, he is certain. But he wonders. He has since another man has touched you.
     "I'm trying to have tunnel vision," he whispers. "About you and him." Davydd tilts his head to look at you. "I just ... want you to be with me when you're with me... and to call me occasionally when you're not with me to ... let me know you're okay. The shite I make up in my head is a thousand times worse than anything you could actually do, fun or otherwise. Does that at all answer the question? I'm not good at... this... part of things..."
     He smirks at the notion of being/not being young. "Yeah, well... you seem to keep up pretty well."

     "It does answer," Fiona whispers back to you. Her hand touches your cheek. I understand. "Remember ... when you left? When you were away ... and I was wondering what was going on... hearing from you, it would've made things easier. I know."
     She touches your cheek again; she is filled with affection tonight, leaning in to lightly nip your ear and then settling back. "I will be better about it," she promises you. "You are in my heart, Davy. We have this ... unique energy, this husband-wife, father-daughter, adversary-lover thing going on. And I need you. Without you - I drift a little, you know..."

     And that is how we are different. I am the father figure, the old hearth and home. Who would have ever thought that I'd represent stability?
     "If I could have anything I wanted," he murmurs, "... I would be everything to you. The father of your children, and the man who sets your heart on fire. I know I'm not both to you. I do know what part I play. And I don't really regret it. There are parts I wish were different. If I could have you to myself, if I could represent the fire in the hearth as well as the solid stone and earth, then that's what I'd want. But ... that's just not how it is between us. I'm the Pater Familias," he comes up with the term that best suits it, his role. "I am not the Lover. I have tried to be that, and I've tried to equal him in ways that were, and are, impossible."
     Davydd exhales, his hand moving along your back. "I wish I were the one who truly excited you. Who whisks you off of rooftops and into the moonlit darkness. But I'm not. I've come to realize that. Slowly, mind you, and with wounded pride and ego. But I have realized it, Fiona."
     And that is the part of him that nearly walked away to leave you to the passion you have with another. "You want my children in your belly," his voice most softly between you, "...you want him in your bed."

     "You are excitement to me as well. No - not the same kind of excitement." Fiona is not arguing with you; her voice is correcting you instead. Her hand lightly pats at your chest. "Or do you forget your stalking me through the night? You're a king. You had monstrous moments when you were alive. And now ... you still have them. Your appetites. Which seem to have commingled with mine; my blood on your tongue, my hands in your hair, my weight in your lap. It's been that way since before he appeared, too..."
     Her hand moves to your throat, fingers slipping into the front of your shirt; holding on loosely, without emphasis, gaze locked onto yours. "I want you in my bed as well. In your case, specifically, I want you carrying me to your bed; as your wife, or as the English girl whose family lands you've just seized for Wales, or in whatever other suitable context you can think of. It is different. You restore me, more. That doesn't make it less exciting."
     She sighs, falling forward against you and lightly thumping her forehead against your chest. "I wish you could see that it's not mutually exclusive," Fiona murmurs. "I can love you, want you, desire you, be excited by you without it being the same thing. Cordite and dynamite both burn, don't they?"

     He is quiet -- he is listening to you. There is no immediate rebuttal; there is no digging in a defensive position and daring you to prove him right or wrong. There is only quiet, filled with his hearing you, and the sounds of breathing. Yours out of need; his out of habit. No man wants to think that there's someone who loves his woman better.
     Davydd exhales, closing his eyes as your forehead thumps against his chest. His arms rest lightly on your back. "I suppose that is true," he murmurs finally. "It's hard to see it that way, but I'll try. Am trying," he corrects. He is quiet again for several moments, his hand tracing a haphazard pattern on the flat of your back. "There is this whole paternal energy that has always been there, that is just part of our dynamic, of who we are. It's been there since the beginning, but when I was the only show in town, it wasn't as noticeable. It wasn't as distinctly drawn."
     Arms enfolding you tightly, Davydd makes a half-roll, carrying you down to the surface of the sofa to rest upon it partways and on your side. He is on his side to face you. His dark green eyes are softened in their attention. "Sometimes, I have felt too much like the father and not enough like the husband. But that's on me," he notes. For the most part. "All my jealousy of Rhodri," see? He can say his name! "... comes from that same place, feeling that I am the father figure, not the one who really ...thrills you. And ... it's a kind of thrill, I know, being with me, with the father of your children, and all of that. But... in my mind, they're not equal things. One is stable and safe, and the other is the love and the chance of a lifetime. That's what it feels like."

     "It isn't easy, is it?" Fiona nods sympathetically, smiling with fondness as you roll with her downwards. "I understand, Davy. I don't know how to ... resolve it. But to me ... you are my one chance of a lifetime. Even now, much as I love Rhodri, much as I enjoy him, I can't help but feel a little like he - well, took advantage. As an interloper."
     She makes her confession to you, closing her eyes with a little sigh; as if it is suddenly painful to look at you, with that admittance. "I love him. I love you. And it is what it is and there's no point picking at it. We could go on for hours about if you had done this, if I had done that, if he had done the other thing ... but it is what it is. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not being unfair to both of you. I probably am. I feel, sometimes, as if I should just - go away. Stop complicating things. Let everyone get on with their lives..."

     "I don't think anyone wants that. We could, each one of us, make a case for it," he murmurs. "But... then we'd all be miserable. There's no point in that." His arms hold you to him and he closes his eyes. "We shouldn't rehash," he whispers. "It serves nothing, changes nothing. We should concentrate on where we go from here. You and me."
     The talk begins to dwindle, but the emotions that are left behind are strong. They are stronger in silence. Though there are conflicting emotions, and there has been and remains upset and jealousy, beneath that is tremendous affection and love. He could no sooner leave you than you him.
     "I don't want you to not love him," Davydd whispers. "I wouldn't wish misery on my son. Or on you. So... maybe we should leave that there for now." It's not going to be resolved in one evening's worth of talking. But at least you know where he's coming from now. All is not lost.

Posted by rowan at October 23, 2007 10:20 PM