It was a long and restless night, and Drancy didn't get much sleep, to say the least. Rather than lie there staring at the ceiling until such time as Dot actually got out of bed, if she was going to at all, Drancy opted to head home before the sun even began peeping over the horizon and filtering through the grey of London's skyline. A hastily scrawled note left on the inside of the front door announces her departure : Had to feed the cat. See you lot later.
     And now there she is, walking in through her own door, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and too much vodka mixed with frangelico, the streets dark and only faintly rumbly with the first lorries of London's great wheels of commerce. Closing the door, she leans against it with a sigh. "Too bloody much... I hope you stayed out of trouble at least, cat," she calls in a low, tired voice, before then heading into the kitchen, snagging the phone as she goes.
     The cat can hear she's home, even if he somehow slept through the door opening and closing, and her speaking, because there's the tell-tale whir of the tin opener, even as she one-handedly punches in Davydd's number in Wales.
     "Bloody bastard'd better be home. I don't care if he's up, I want to get to the bottom of this," the punk snarls, lifting the lid off as she cradles the receiver between cheek and shoulder, dumping the contents of the tin into a bowl. Salmon supper. Fish guts in sauce. It makes her gag slightly, the smell, after all that liquor. "Come and get it," she calls, while the phone rings.

     He was curled up on your bed, and as you opened the door there was no rush of yellow-and-white to greet you. Ah, but when the tin is first cut, the whir of the magical machinery first humming upon the air, he is at your feet, letting out a meow that could wake the dead.
     Hello there, yon mistress fair! I bet if you knew what I knew you wouldn't leave me alone!
     Eyes blink brightly and the tomcat licks his chops. Just like every other man you know. Impatient, needy, right? He moves in and out and between your legs, tail extended upward, pointing his joy to God.

     There are four rings. You see, he actually had to get out of bed...
     It is settling into Almost dawn. Who the fuck could be calling me at this hour? Someone'd better be dead or dyin...
     There's an exhale, a clearing of his throat, a rough but soft, a warm and not-entirely-awake voice that greets you. "Mmm... no one I know would call at this hour," the earthy voice is edged by a thick and drawling accent, flicked with a lilting tongue.
     How deft is your hearing? Can you hear the sound of a bed creaking in Wales, the large form shifting to accommodate the cell phone. Perhaps to check on the one who is most likely sleeping with him. Another exhale, and Davydd murmurs, "...how may I help you at five in the bleeding morning..."

     Drancy sets the bowl down, gently, then leans back against the counter. She can be gentle, even if it's only with (she thinks) inarticulate animals. She's probably a little distracted, all in all.
     "Hello, Davydd," she says quietly, with a chill to her voice that comes less from her disquiet than it does from a sudden, bone-numbing weariness at the mention of the time, as her body's reminded of just how little sleep she's gotten. "It's your least favourite Jewish princess calling with a bloody crisis on her hands. And you're going to help me get through it, because you're the only one who admits to knowing anything, as I'm sure you're now regretting, and I need help before I get myself into trouble."
     A brief pause for breath, and then she's rattling on, not quite babbling, trying to force the desperation down and out of her voice. "And you know if it weren't for that, I'd never admit to needing your help, so just bloody tell me what you want out of it, and we can move on. Is it a deal? Or do I have to figure out how to animate your dragons and make them play hopscotch so you never get a decent night's rest again?"

     There is quiet for a moment -- but for his breathing, and but for the rattle of the tin on the floor as the cat goes to town in the salmon. Dives right in, he does. But Davydd is quiet, listening. Perhaps even thinking. Are you surprised? Maybe he was too. Not expecting to be called this close to his bargain with the Sun. The time when he just has to lie down and forget for eight to ten hours...
     "Let me see if I have this right," he mulls, voice low and gutteral. Might even be sexy if it weren't Davydd. "I have something you want, you sweeten the pot with demands and threats and then I just give in. Ah, well now, darlin', you'll have to do better than that. How about a fucking please, or has that gone out of fashion?"
     I guess what they say about waking dragons is true...
     "We'll talk about my regrets another time," dreamy Welsh clips a bit and he sighs, "...so... what's goin' on, Drancy...."

     Drancy is silent for a long moment while she tries to draw her thoughts into some stage of coherency, staring down at the cat. Why? He's just convenient. A point for her to focus too-weary eyes onto, while she tries to come up with concrete evidence to present to an already none-too-pleased dragon on the other end of the line.
     "Well, I could offer to sweeten the pot with a blow job," she says finally, "but we both know I bite."
     How do I tell him that I'm falling for a bloke, and that I think the bloke might be one of the people he warned me about? Hell, I start, he's going to hang up on me... but what choice've I got?
     None, really. So... pull yourself together and get on with it, I guess.
     "Look. This is going to sound odd, so bear with me, all right? There's this fellow, and I keep getting blips off him. Except... I don't know if it's him, because last night we were hanging out - my best friend was shagging his bandmate, as I'm sure you'd be charmed to know - and I touched his guitar and nearly had a heart attack. So I don't know if it's him or the guitar or both, or what to do about it - and I need to figure something out in a hurry. I haven't much time."
     If the wry quip didn't get your attention, here's something that might - for all her urgency, she's lacking the usual energy which underlines her personality, that angry vitality which normally marks her. It's not in her voice, though perhaps it's gone round back to hide.

     He's quiet again, and the truly fearful might well wonder whether the great dragon has dozed off again. Even he had to wonder, as you can hear a sudden start, a clearing of his throat, a thoughtful sound issuing upon a sigh. "Hmm... well, no more odd than half the shit I've tried to tell you. And if your friend's the... giving sort," a chuckle, "I might have someone in mind for her. Anyway," a grumbles, "back to you. Hmmm... well... it could be both, sure. There's a theory that something like an instrument," he rubs his eyes, there's a bit of a groan there, being awake is so painful, "...could take on the spirit or energy of the one who plays it. Particularly if it's a precious thing. Swords do this, the metal has a resonance, they choose their owners, in a fashion. So... what was the feeling like, when you touched the instrument. Was it like when we shook hands for the first time, or different? It's... really impossible for me to do anything but shoot the shit, you realize," Davydd drawls, "...I don't know the fella or the instrument, so take whatever I say cum granis salis," yes, that was Latin.
     "Especially at five in the fucking a-m. Jesu..."
     "So, since I know you're serious, we'll dispense with talk of a blowjob, besides," a cackle, "I don't particularly want those dragons to move about like they've been shot." You didn't know he had tattoos there until he said so. "Did you just touch the guitar or did you hold it... "

     "Touched it. It reacted enough that I practically jumped out of my fucking skin." Now you know she's spooked... she didn't even react, about blowjobs or tattoos...
     "His name's Dei. Short for Amadeus - he's in a band," as if you hadn't guessed, "that I met when they were playing at the Gory. I interviewed him." As simple as that. A pause, Drancy trying to think what else's worth passing along. "Nice enough bloke, likes Indian food."
     Kisses entirely too damn well for my own sanity...
     "We get on rather well, as it happens," she says primly. "But I don't know... and he... well. What d'you think?"

     "There could be ... well, there's no telling really. Not even I know how to do that. But you know you just have to use your judgment. Same judgment you always use. And there could be any number of reasons that happened. He may practice some sort of magic, pagans are popular again, you know. It might not be him at all, as you say, but the instrument itself, charged god knows when." He pauses. "You like him, he doesn't make you nervous, then... I wouldn't worry about it. See what you can dig up on the instrument maybe."
     Davydd pauses again, sentence halted in midstream. "I don't want you to freak out and get pissed off, it's a personal question, but... hmm... have you... noticed any difference in the energy between them? We touched hands, you recall, and damn near exploded. So... not that I'm insinuating you're doing anything," Davydd wants to be perfectly clear on that, "...but you know... it is a consideration, Drancy." The bed creaks again as he resettles on it, a sniff and he seems almost alert now. "He may be a magician. He may just have some natural gift. It's a strange, wide and wild world, girl, with all sorts of folks runnin' about in it."

     And in the kitchen, Drancy goes a shade normally only associated with beets. "I like him, that doesn't mean he doesn't make me nervous! If you mean do I worry that he's going to strangle me with his guitar strings and dump my cooling corpse off somewhere in West Surrey, then the answer is no. And what do I do, try looking for the maker's mark on the guitar? I can't even touch it... I don't know where to look this stuff up, even. S'why I'm calling you."
     For a protest from her, it's fairly mildly voiced, even if it's a yelp. And now it's the really touchy stuff to answer.
     "Uhh... well, uh," she stammers. "If you're talking what I think you're talking, then no, I'm still comparatively inviolate and able to be laid on an altar, eligible to wear white at my wedding, and all that. But," Drancy adds with reluctant honesty, "I know he wants to." With one ballet-slippered foot, she nudges the tin more towards the cat.
     "Nothing's exploded yet. At least, not the way you mean. I just... it worries me, and I'm not sure what to do. And I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially if he's just got bad luck. I should probably just stop taking his calls, oughtn't I."

     "Not unless you want to." He sighs again. "Look, when I told you about energy an' all that, I didn't mean to scare you. Just that you should be alert, is all. I mean, what would you do, now, if you and I had never met? If he's someone you fancy, then return his calls. You can't cloister yourself in fear forever, you know. Someone's going to find you out and realize they fancy you. Do you fancy him back then?" Of course you do, it's audible to the point of being another person in the conversation. "Course, I'm not exactly a master on the whole love issue. I used to fancy women so long as they were breathing," he gruffs, "love's a bit of a late thing for Llewelyn. Well," an exhale, "... just don't touch the guitar, keep your eyes open, and trust your guts. If you start feeling squirrelly about it, then dump him. I wouldn't be able to tell you anything unless I touched the guitar and saw it for myself..." And there's a moment of plain-dealing truth.
     "Hell, for all we know it could have been static electricity," he chuckles, and then there's a groan the likes of which you'd likely only hear if you were layin' yourself on Davydd's altar, but it's followed by a yawned, "Sorry... stretch...umm...hmmm...I wish I could tell you more. Anything else happen recently?"

     Now she's feeling just a little bit foolish, though Drancy mutters, not quite sulkily, "Wasn't static electricity. 'm not that tired." She wanders over to the fridge, tugging it open to look and see if there's anything drinkable in it which hasn't curdled or grown mold, finally settling on some bottled water. "At least you had some qualms, Davydd," she snipes drolly. "You did specify they had to be breathing, after all."
     And I'm such a master, is that it? I've spent all my time and energy fighting not for love, but for freedom from it... freedom from strings and addictions. If Cupid were real, he'd be having a bloody good laugh at my expense about now...
     "I suppose you're ah, a bit busy tonight, then," she says half-hopefully, though knowing it's not going to work even as she says it. She rubs at her eyes sleepily, sliding down against the cabinets to sit on the floor, twisting the top off the bottle, then offering the bottle to be sniffed by The Cat.
     "I can't think of anything. I just got home... I got a cat, but I don't think that's the sort of earth-shattering news you're asking after."

     The bowl was licked clean and now are whiskers swiped by a pink tongue. Nostrils move, pucker, but knowing it's just water, he gets bored with it soon enough and with a last swipe of his whiskers, begins to preen himself.
     This is what ultimate joy must look like...
     What a night this has been. Surprisingly productive. Now, I just need to find out who she's yappin at on the other end of that phone and a circle will be complete. Ha! And then the trap, and then the snare, and then to touch her yellow hair. And then the ride, and then the theft. My eyes are sharp, my fingers deft...

     He chuckles as you mention his qualms, "... aye, well... England's a cold place. Sometimes you just don't want to go it alone, aye? But," finally a bit of a smile, "...those days appear to be long gone." And maybe the pause comes when he turns his head to look at the woman in his bed, resting so still, so completely still. Her mouth still blushed from the last time he assailed them. Her skin a creamy white.
     "Let me guess, the cat found you. Funny how that happens. I just got one myself, and I usually hate them. I'm a dog man. But ... to answer your question... aye, I'm a bit busy tonight... will be for a while. Spring's always a busy time for me. But... maybe ... I'll see. Maybe I can swing a quick trip at the end of the week. I trust," and now he's grinning, "that you're going to see him again...?"

     "You're a bastard, you know that?" It's completely without rancour, which might almost be frightening. Even when she's in a good mood, there's that note of acrimony, but right now...
     "He wants me to go see them perform tonight... otherwise, it'll be sometime next week, he'll be calling me. He's seen The Princess Bride, you know." A complete non sequiteur, but to her, it's a symbol of just how much trouble she is in. And maybe, just maybe, there's an element of hope, that you'd actually come up with some reason for her to avoid Dei.
     "Should I... say anything to him?" Such distaste for dishonesty, in her voice, mingled with near panic. How do you tell someone something like this? How do you not?
     She volunteers, "Yeah, Dot says the cat's got the biggest balls she's ever seen. Long's he doesn't spray, he gets to keep 'em, but if he acts up, I'm taking him in to the vet to get his knackers off." Women are so insensitive.

     And there's a wince for that, a bit of sympathy, "Hey now, no need to get violent..." he clips. "Jesu, if you women had something to cut off you'd not talk about doing it constantly. But... well, I understand about the piddlin'. At least the dogs have the decency to piddle on the geraniums." Course, not saying it does the flowers any good. "And, I am a bastard, this is true. A real son of a bitch. A fucker and an ass. But at least I'm not an ass-fucker," he drolls, which is more than I can say for a few of my friends.
     Not that there's anything wrong with that...
     He gruffs a bit, "I am Inego Montoya, you killed my father, now... prepare to die," you hear him prop up the phone then, a slide of the phone against skin, the regular breathing of one who may well have fallen asleep, but then he murmurs, "...Unfortunately, dearie, I can't tell you what not to do or what to do. I wouldn't even try, not that you'd listen to me. But if you feel like you fancy this fellow and aren't weirded out by him, or having any weird spells of forgetfulness, then... I don't see the harm. As for the guitar, well ...if you keep him around long enough, maybe you can introduce me to him. You ... haven't had any spells recently have you?" maybe she's gotten the hint.

     "Spells?", she echoes. "What're you talking about?" Drancy, capable of taking hints of the greatest delicacy and subtlety - provided they're wrapped round a sledge. She makes a move to grab the cat and pull him into her lap. "I've got a headache..."
     Somewhere, Isabel is likely laughing her head off at the both of you.
     "No, that's not what he said, by the way... he said As you wish." And it just doesn't get any deadlier than that. She leans back against the cabinets until there's a dull 'thunk' of the back of her skull making contact with the faux-wood. "If you get your arse into town soon enough, I can guarantee a meeting. But it'll have to be within the next two weeks... after that, all bets're off..."
     If I can survive the next two weeks, it'll be a bloody miracle...
     "My memory's fine, Davydd. You still hung up on that what d'you call it, your friend thinking he saw me? Kee-rist... that does it, I'm cutting my hair first thing after I wake up."

     "William never met a pair of tits he didn't memorize, but... I take your word for it. You, being smarter, I know, than to completely disregard my warnings when I give them. So... well... I'll see about it, then. I have some things I have to do here." Yeah, yeah, go ahead and be cynical and say 'like Sandrine'. At least with a chap around you like, you'll not be giving her the evil eye any more. Maybe. I never did get that.
     "Aye, well.. you know now that it's long, I liked it better short and neon colored. Less to get in the way. I'm into simplicity," not that you're into giving in to what I want. He smirks at that, "So, feeling better now? I wouldn't worry about it, you know. If you feel weird, get out of the situation." He shrugs and lies back down, heavily. You definitely hear the bed creak then. And he's apparently rolled over onto his stomach as his voice has gone muffled. "Hmmm, as you wish..."
     Isabel, laugh on. It's not like I can tell her 'oh, by the way, I'm a cursed abomination, created by fae magic and the bad choice of one vampire, and if you don't feel weird around me, chances are you won't feel weird around anyone else'.
     Right...

     Drancy snorts a little. "He didn't memorize mine." She seems very confident of that, even if she's probably wrong. With impeccable Drancy-logic, she adds, "After all, he didn't get to see 'em." Lazily, she strokes the cat's pelt, from the head down along the spine to the base of the tail, then repeating.
     "I liked it short and neon better myself. You think it's my idea to have it grow like this? Only problem is if it happens again, how the fuck do I explain it?" A shake of her head, sending the beads and crystals chiming. She makes no comment on Sandrine, but then, well...
     It wasn't ever that she disliked Sandrine, just that she felt grubby and small next to her. Drancy's about as far from a cosmopolite as you can get, in the sense that Sandrine comes across.. but that's a very female thing..
     "A little better," She admits it grudgingly. "And you're not Wesley. Or Dei. Look, I'll ring off and let you sleep, shall I? You're going to have enough shite to deal with getting ready so you can come back to town and meet him... assuming, of course, you actually want to see what kind of tosser seems willing to put up with me. Here's hoping he's not just after my body - I'm not done with it yet."

     "Mmhmm," he says, but to which part? All of it? None of it? "It's your hair," Davydd murmurs, voice quite soft at this point. If Sandrine is awake or merely dozing, she must think he's a mad man. Eh, she lives with him -- she probably thinks that by default. "If you don't want it that way, then... will it to be the way you want." And now the lilt of the already half-dreaming.
     He doesn't snore, unless he's wakefully dozing, so at least there's that, but you can tell he's not long for the world. "Hmm, I'll let you know... I'll talk to you later...oh, and you're forgiven for waking me up. Normally, I kill for that sort of thing." A last chuckle, something of a blown kiss across the air waves, probably a wink chasing it and then the line goes dead.
     And then, funny enough, so does he...

     Drancy snorts a little, hanging up the phone with a shake of her head. "Bloody man," she mutters to herself. But she's not really annoyed, at this point... just... sort of put out with the world. And that's nothing new, surely.
     "All right, cat, off," she says peremptorily, nudging at the cat as she struggles to her feet with the phone in one hand and her water bottle in the other. "Much fun as you may be, you can't talk and hence you're not going to be of help, so I'm off to bed for a few hours... and then when I get up, I get to try and decide..."
     Do I go or not? God... even Dot isn't going to be of any bloody use. Almost makes me tempted to call mum and dad, horror of horrors...
     "Shoo," Drancy says aloud. "Unless you have something useful to contribute, go sleep somewhere other than on me."

     You know, only that you'd call the cops on me or have me killed -- if it weren't for that, I'd pop up now and give you a whole host of opinions. But for now...
     The cat stretches out from under your petting and such and wanders, stretching all the way, toward your bedroom. Yeah, he's claimed that for himself...
     When you make your decision, I'll be making mine. Maybe it's time to do a little... alley cat shuffle. Maybe it's time to take an altogether different tactic. Think, Huw! Think!
     The yellow and white tom circles a spot upon your bed then finally settles there. Probably shedding all over it. And with three blinks and a thoughtful stare, the cat closes his eyes and start to snore.

Posted by rowan at May 11, 2003 05:23 PM