Who decided to turn on God's faucets? It's raining buckets in London tonight. Cherubim line the streets in slickers no doubt of it, buckets tipped over and water slapping against the sidewalk, loud enough to drive a sane man crazy and a man who can hear to wish for deafness.
     The Abbey is open, at least for a few more hours, and several folks have decided to seek the shelter of good coffee and art. Beats the hell out of being beaten to death by precipitation, at any rate. A couple or two, sharing wine and half paying attention to the art. A solitary young woman on a bench, making sketches. Another nearby, taking notes.
     And then there's a gent, a well-dressed dapper gent in black overcoat, thin grey sweater over woolen trousers. He fills the white space with sudden color, his short bronze-coppery hair burnished in the spotlights, even though its mostly wet. His coat likewise spotted and water gathered in a pool at his feet.
     Davydd ap Owain ap Gwynedd stands, head tilted, hands in his pockets, leaning in to have a look at something. Dark green eyes lift to the top of the painting, try to find where the artist really wanted them to land, and then surveys it from top to bottom.
     And he looks slightly confused. It's a painting of a flower broken into molecules and atoms, disjointed and reformed by God's more clumsy cobbler, looking nothing like a flower when it was done. The look is puzzled. Is this shite or is it art? Who can tell?

     Ah, balls...
     Fiona comes tearing into the Abbey, long hair braided and nonetheless soaked to a darker side of oak than her norm. Her eyes reflect the pouring waters not of the sky but of the ocean, greys and blues admixed with glimmers of faint refracting greens - as of the kingdoms that border her own, no doubt. She is slightly flushed from her effort to dodge raindrops, and the white blouse she'd been wearing is soaked through, presenting an almost-transparency as she pulls the purple pullover she'd been carrying over herself with a shudder.
     Black boots have resisted the water well enough, grey leggings paired with a black pencil-line skirt. The result combined with the damp is perhaps a trifle on the collegiate side, but then, she hadn't anticipated being caught out...
     Fiona skids to a halt, one hand thrown out to balance herself against the doorway as the other fishes the end of her braid out, coil over coil. And then she looks around - coffee first. Something hot, for the sake of whoever loves her! "Large cappuccino with a shot of espresso, caramel syrup, whipped cream on top. Annnnd... almond biscotti, please. I'll look at the art when I c-can get the feeling back in my damn fingers."

     The main cafe's upstairs, but when a goodly storm moves through they have the foresight of having a portable barista station downstairs. The girl behind it smiles, "Bit beasty out there, isn't it. Large cappuccino with a shot of espresso, caramel death on top. Almond cracker's in the tin," she nods to the side of the barista stand, where biscotti sit in a jar with a lid. "Help yourself."
     The noise of the machine is forgiven on such a night as this. Believe you me, the owner likes the profits but would find it distracting and bothersome. But he ain't here, is he?

     The gent staring at the painting not so far away peers at it as something suddenly strikes him as familiar. It's not the painting, sod that. It's the voice. That voice. From around the corner, the manly cant of a step sounds and the gent makes himself visible, his hair half-dried (he's been here for a while) and, thank the gods, too short to kink out in curls. "The drink's on me, Melinda. Add it to my tab won't you?"
     Melinda, the barista, smiles over at him. "Sure..." She looks over to the latest customer, smirking as she watches the lightning from the gent's eyes land on her. Ooh, electricity. "It's gone all static in here," she murmurs. "There are confessional booths upstairs, if you'd like to get away from it all..."

     That Voice. It might not be the voice of angels on high, but it is a voice which she knows well and more than passing well. A hand slips into her pullover's pocket, as if to go for her wallet; Fiona turns, the smile already forming on her lips as she looks. "Davydd. Fancy it being you. Did you arrange for the storm to drive me into your waiting port?"
     Wouldn't that just be a laugh...
     Not that mother nature and fate need the help, of course...
     She shakes her head ruefully, turning back to Melinda. "The Old Man over there never lets me pay for anything. Sure, we'll take one of the booths, if only so noone comes to his defense when I beat him up for it." As if she could. "Better get him something with a shot of whiskey in it, he'll need the painkillers once I'm done with him."

     "Sorry, love," Melinda grins, "... strictly non-alcoholic here...well, apart from the wine. It's a limited license. Art and swilling whiskey don't usually play nicely together. The booths are upstairs, first come, first serve. Here's your cap," the frothy wonder is set upon the modest counter. No changing of money required.

     Davydd smirks a bit, lips twisting and he gives you a 'get serious' look. "I don't have to resort to trickery to see you now, I hope. Here, let me get that..." He is there to take your cappuccino, to take it upstairs for you. Better get used to this sort of thing, queenie.
     An eye to the staircase, Davydd holds out an arm, gesturing you to go ahead. "What're you doing out on a night like this?" he wonders easily enough. There's a sudden look: no son? Hmm. "Me," he goes on as he heads upstairs, "...I was tracking down more strays. I've become the Dr. Doolittle of south London..."

     She holds onto the biscotti for herself, waving it at you like a pointer as she accepts the help with a slight bit of raised eyebrows. "No, you've got eyes for yourself," Fiona agrees serenely, with a bit of a wave for Melinda. She pats your arm, heading up the steps just ahead - why not present you with an admirable view?
     "I was at a presentation - someone trying to talk me into investing in his company," comes the answer floating back down the steps over her shoulder to your ears. "Only problem is, his product is absolute shite. He's insisting on handling his own marketing on top of it. Rather smiled indulgently when I brought up points and obviously wanted me to be a good ickle girl and keep it shut up so as not to scare away the other possible investors, so I left. Got caught flat-out in the middle of Noah's own deluge, and well, here I am."
     There's a sudden bit of a laugh as she reaches the landing, and Fiona turns to look at you. "Here, let me." She dips the biscotti into the whipped cream, then licks a bit off before white teeth crunch down on it. Once her mouth is only slightly full, one cheek bulging with sugar, "Dr. Doolittle, hm? That must make me Eliza."

     "You're thinking of Henry Higgins," he corrects quietly. "You know, I always wanted to perform that one on the West End. I am Henry Higgins, don't you think. Picking up girls off the street and basically bollocksing up the whole lot when I don't give her credit for anything she does," he chuckles. "Bit too close for comfort, truth be told."
     He comes up the rest of the way and hands the cup and saucer to you. Up the stairs there are several booths available. Some are closed (occupied). Completely private when closed. Remember when you came here after the fateful kiss? How close you came to losing your virginity in one of those booths?
     Well, maybe you don't remember that part...
     Davydd heads for the confessional on the far wall, the one at the end. "What was the product?" he wonders. He seems interested. Better take it while you have it. "Apart from shite. Or," his eyes widen and eyebrows cock up, "...was it actual shite?" He grins, that broad, sudden grin, that flash of his. Knock your socks off? It's splendid, that. "You know there could be a market for that. I hear some folks still make houses out of it..."

     "You'd make a magnificent Henry Higgins," Fiona retorts, "but I do know the difference between the two. You've always been Henry Higgins to me." She takes cup and saucer, laying the rest of the biscotti on the edge of the saucer. "Aow, now," she says in a thick Cockney accent, mock-offended and terribly vulgar, crossing her eyes at you. "Y' don't imagine Ay'd forget a thing like that! Tch, ducks!"
     She follows you to the far wall, shaking her braid and aware of the slightly soggy trail she leaves behind her, leaning up against the wall as you open it up for her. "Penlights for keychains, supposed to help women fend off muggers. Last I heard, a would-be mugger or rapist isn't too likely to be that thrown off by a bit of light in his eyes. Ordinary fluorescence, wants to sell them in designer colours. I could almost forgive him thinking women are that idiotic if he weren't so patently thinking me that idiotic."
     There's a beat, and Fiona looks to you, smiling. "You look good," she says quietly. "I missed you, you know."

     Still standing, he removes his overcoat and underjacket, tossing both to the end of the booth seat, his side. He looks at himself then at you, cocking back his head as if to ask: what's wrong with you? But then he smiles. "Flattery will get you everywhere, you know. Eliza." He snorts at that. "Where the devil are my slippers?" he clips in proper English.
     If only he could be out during the day. He'd make a damn fine Higgins. Nodding with his head, he gestures you to scoot all the way in. "Come on, Dovah, move your bloomin' arse..."
     Davydd settles in the booth, making it shift a bit even, stable and solid as it is. With you and he nicely tucked in, he closes the doors to the booth, sealing it off from the rest of the cafe. Now you're alone in a public place. How convenient.
     His smile slants, "I prefer a good bodice dagger, myself. I mean, they can be a bitch when you're not expecting them, say..in the midst of a robbery... but if I had a daughter, I'd want her to have something more than a fucking keychain light. Other than that," he notes, arms resting on the table, "...things are...okay?"

     She slides in willingly enough, her smile slanting momentarily the wider and she lifts her cup for a swallow of the caffeine-jacked cappuccino. As if she needed any more...
     Fiona comes away with whipped cream on her lips, licking them and turning to look at you again as you slide into place, cutting her off from any ready exit. As if she had a reason to want to escape. "I'd want something more than a keychain light, too. Hell, if it were designer pepper spray - with some of that ink that doesn't wash off, say - now, that I could go for. At least it'd be something for the police to identify the man over my dead body about."
     The cup is set aside daintily. "Okay? Things are - okay, I suppose," Fiona agrees, a bit guardedly as she looks to you. "That depends on what you mean by your ... okay. I only speak English and French and Welsh, I don't necessarily speak 'okay', Davydd."

     "We're going to have to get past it. You're going to have to admit to life being wonderful, and I'm going to have to admit to wanting to be part of it. I can't not ask you about it." About your life. Being in love. Davydd pauses, unlatching the door for a moment. "Hey, bonnie lassie, two more cappuccino, si vous plais..."
     The master barista looks down the way and nods. Two cappuccino, extra foam on the way..."
     Davydd latches the door again and sits back. "I have to ask," he notes. "I love you, after all." He's quiet for a moment, reaching into his coat pocket, fishing after his cigarettes. "I guess it's been a few weeks or sommat, hasn't it? Why am I talking as if it's been years?" He smirks at himself. "Because I miss you, that's why. And I'm bugger all at small talk. Ghastly at it." He shoves a cig between those lips and lights it, sighing out smoke after, his dark green eyes settling on you, your reactions.

     "Life is wonderful," Fiona agrees. It's true, and she isn't going to lie to you about it; the swirling currents of her moods are still there, the turbulence which marks her passage. After all, she did a cock-up on your own life, didn't she? "And I want you to be a part of it. I always have, even when I was screaming at you. If I didn't, I'd have told you to go away and never show up again, or something like that - instead, I kept calling, kept hanging round and pestering at you."
     She waits for the door to be latched, turning on the bench and tucking her heels under the table's foot, putting one hand next to her cup and the other firmly on your knee. "I love you, too," Fiona says plainly. "And I miss you, too. It's going to be a very long century for both of us, but it's going to go faster for me than for you, I suspect."
     Did you want tact? That wasn't tactful; she gives a little shrug for the lack of it. "It's been a few weeks. I still haven't changed my mind."

     "Hmm..." He reaches for the ashtray as he presses his mouth around the cigarette, another breath taken, more ash made at the end before he taps it away. "I'm not looking for confirmation of anything," he counters. "Just asking about you. I just want you to make sure you don't hold anything back." As if you would anyway.
     There's a smirk as you talk about the passing of time. "I'm tired and cantankerous, which is only making it worse really." Davydd shrugs too. "How's the boy? I thought I'd give him a few weeks of bliss before I press him into service. I haven't been... peeking or anything," just so you know. "No funny business."
     He's not sure he could take eavesdropping. Hearing you call out another name. He doesn't even like thinking it, but he can't stop thinking about it. He always did like to scare himself. Shaking that off, he returns to smoking the cig. "Changed your mind? Haven't changed it about what?" Davydd cocks up an eyebrow. What are you talking about, woman?

     Her hand stays where it is, then slowly lifts away so that she can take her cup up, bring it to her lips. "Nice of you to concentrate on the bliss end," Fiona murmurs, "and not on the raving bitch end. I'm sure he'll appreciate it as well, though I'm curious what sort of service you intend to press him into." Her ears could visibly grow points. "I suppose you don't intend to tell me that, though."
     She turns to face you, leaning against the back wall of the confessional booth and swinging her feet up to lay her calves across your lap. "I didn't think you were peeking," Fiona shrugs, not even bothering to blush. "I figured if you wanted to see me, you'd call or come by the apartment to see if I were home. I've missed you, too... though we're both keeping busy."
     It doesn't even occur to her that you might eavesdrop; nor does it seem to occur to her that she might have missed something in like vein, hearing some other woman making those noises under your great Welsh weight. Is it that she is that secure? "I haven't changed my mind about either of you," Fiona answers steadily. "I love you. I want you. I need you. The three basic regulations of my universe. I just thought you might like to hear it. You two are my metronome." The cappuccino's lifted again, with a shrug. Take that...

     The door unlatches and a waitress appears with the two cups. Rather tame in here compared to other things she's seen. She leaves them and closes the door behind her. Davydd reaches for the cappuccino, sliding a cup in front of you and taking the other for himself.
     Even if you were eavesdropping, you wouldn't have heard anything... not yet at any rate...
     "Well," Davydd rattles out, "...we both have knobs and move them rhythmically," now he grins. "I suppose you could call it metronomical." He considers that then lifts the cup with the smile lingering at the rim. "I wasn't think you'd change your mind," he notes quietly, putting the cup down and returning to his smoking. The smoke billows from mouth and nose, dragon to the end.
     Dark green eyes glance to you. "I love you, too. I don't mean to pick at it, darlin'. Really." A hand comes down and rests upon a thigh, giving you a bit of a squeeze. "As for Rhodri, nothing treacherous. But he is the heir to my kingdom. I need to explain a few things to him, things he might not have noticed. But as I change, love, he changes too."
     He looks at his hand, your leg, and then your face. "Thanks for saying it. It is nice to hear," Davydd notes quietly. "And ...you're right... I've no desire to pop in unannounced, figuratively or literally. It's probably best that such magic isn't used. I've no intention of doing so, even though a part of me really wants to." He chuckles quietly. "You know... to make myself feel set upon by the universe. It's what I understand..."

     "And I'm at the middle, so I suppose that means I set the beat," Fiona says cheekily, setting aside her depleted cup and taking the one you put down before her. "I love you and you love me and we love each other, and that sounds too much like a Beatles song."
     She speaks over the rim of her cup, looking off at the closed door, then glancing to your eyes. "I know you don't mean to. But because I know you will, I keep saying it, over and over again, until it sinks into your thick skull. All three of us are changing, Davydd - but yes, explain things to him as you need. It's only my business if you two decide it is - same as my business is only yours, then."
     She leans back, turning her gaze up to the ceiling in the confessional. "How about popping in announced? I've got to go away for business soon... I'd like to see you before I go, or if not - when I get back. Or would that make you feel too un-set upon?"

     "I know we are. But his is magically changing. It's magic I mean to explain, power. I mean to crown him soon. I think it important," he looks at you seriously. "That my first heir knows he comes first. I'll make him crown prince of the realm of Avalon. As such, he'll have new duties on earth, on this plane. But he's been looking for something to do." Davydd smiles then, in a slow slant. "Besides, part of me wants to keep his hands busy elseplace." He winks at that, teasing.
     Sort of...
     Sneaky bugger. He takes another sip of the cappuccino, setting it down long enough to stamp out the cigarette. "I don't know, Fiona. Popping in unannounced. Not sure I want to... interrupt anything. I have this...knack, you see, of only popping around at the most inopportune moments. I don't think I've seen my friend Edward in full kit at the door in years, girl. And I don't think I'd be able to deal with that particular vision."
     He pauses, looking at you seriously. "Go away for business. Go away where?" Now you've gone and done it. He's curious now.

     "I think it is important to him that you do so," Fiona agrees, humour departing in an instant. "With everything that's going on, I know he'd like to hear from you - and whatever's going on, I think that it'd be good for the both of you to - get things sorted out, even if not ... directly."
     She smiles a bit at the almost-teasing, and she reaches for your hand with her own. Ringless. Not his ring, not your ring. Right now, she is her own woman. "That's why I said popping in announced... but I haven't given Rhodri a key to my flat, and I don't intend to. It's my space," Fiona explains. "Noone will be allowed into it without invitation - you or him. And I'm inviting you. If I'm there, I'm there - if I'm not, I'm not. If I'm not in full kit at the door of it, then I've just gotten out of the shower."
     Her thumb moves against yours, then stops, and Fiona smiles faintly. "I'm not going to tell you where I'm going. It's a secret. I promise I won't be in danger - well, beyond the usual travel risks and so on - and that it's got nothing to do with sex. But I'm not ready to talk about it yet - maybe when I get back. Why don't you talk to Rhodri while I'm gone? That should keep the two of you both busy. I'll give you a call before I go."

     "I suppose I shall. It'd be easier without both of us watching you as you left the room. That's an uncomfortable feeling, trolling after the same woman as your son," he grins at that, steepling his hand with your own, his so much the larger. "As long as you're not heading off on some damn fool's errand to conquer the universe and just not telling me... I suppose it's okay. I think more sex'd be the last thing you'd need about now. First nothing, now overload. How are you handling it?"
     It's a serious question, actually, quietly spoken. Or at least it seems serious. Dark eyes lift to you, his hand sliding along yours then interlocking with it. Content with this sort of intimacy. Your skin is warmer than his. He seems to crave your warmth. "I suppose there's really only one answer for that," he rolls his eyes at himself. He's tempted to ask more. You see it. But he stops himself. Aren't you proud of him...
     Yes... questions. How is it. How is he. How frequently. Do you think of me...
     "Rhodri and I will have some work to do in Avalon. It's a large kingdom, part of it quite wild. But I'll make sure you know before I whisk him off. It's the least I can do." Davydd lifts his cup again, taking another sip. It's starting to lose some of its warmth. "So you're keeping your apartment," he's not surprised by that. Relieved. "Glad to hear it. I'm still settling upon my own. Not sure where best to get it. I don't want to bump into Sandrine on a daily basis, so I'd like to stay away from Covent Garden, Meniwell and Claridge's. Kensington's too stuffy. I don't know. I was thinking about the wharf district, South End. Lots of pubs in close proximity, cafes and the like. Remember where we bumped into Rose, down there somewhere."

     "I'm not going to conquer the universe - I'm in a small flat, I haven't got room for it." Fiona tips her head back and laughs, gurgling at her own joke. She squeezes your hand contentedly, then moves closer to you, until she's in your lap properly, lying up against you.
     "I'm handling it. I enjoy it. I get exhausted. I still miss and want you despite it all. Hard to believe, isn't it?" Fiona looks at you, and the smile fades by degrees until she is speaking seriously, earnestly. "When I am with either of you, I miss the other, Davydd. Don't ask me why; Rhodri had a guess, a theory, which I only half-remember and it was poetry and allegory anyway, and what do I know about that stuff? You two are the Welsh. I'm bastard English."
     She leans in to touch her lips to your cheek, then leans back out again. "I am handling it by taking it and giving back, and demanding what I want and either getting it or not. Lately, it's pretty much you punishing yourself that puts the 'not' in things, for you and me both. But you're busy, and this self-flagellation is, I'm sure, serving some purpose. Just leave some skin on your back so that the next time we're in bed I've got something to dig my nails into. It isn't the same if you're already bloody."
     There have been a few changes in her, haven't there? The eyes that lift to yours are still as changing as ever, but now they reflect back the rolling ocean where it meets the sky at the forming mass of her own kingdom. Little girls do grow up... but they still stay little girls in some ways...
     "Please do let me know. It'd upset me to just call one day and find both of you gone with no message at all to indicate that you've gone away for an unknown period of time. Even as rude as I'll be, I won't be that rude." Fiona is ignoring her cup; she's had enough, she draws your hand into her lap so she can take hold of it with her other hand as well. "And yes. I'm keeping the apartment. It's a good place for me to be, in the juncture of London's worlds. I don't like closing things off. Why don't you talk to Rhodri about where to get a place? He'll at least probably have some ideas about that - more than I would."
     She nods to the mentions of Sandrine and Rose - the women who have been in your life in the past. "You'll want someplace you can Be," Fiona remarks, "not only what you are, but without the constant reminders of what you Were. They only get in the way and act to try and slow you down. I had it out with my mother for that reason."

     "It's not self-flagellating," he protests in that earthy way of his, face going red and eyes widening a touch, "... I just don't want to ..." now he's gesticulating, "...walk in on you and my son spread eagle on the sofa," now chuckling, "...Jesus... there's nothing wrong with that, is there? Not to want to see that?"
     The laughter fades but the blush remains. It takes a bit for that to recede. "I'll find a place eventually. For the now, I'm crashing where I will." He sounds homeless for god's sake! "And I'll be sure to let you know about my plans. How long will you be off on business? I might be able to sort it out in the same time, to minimize the amount of interruption."
     Finally, his coloring returns to normal. "You had it out with your mum? What started that?"

     "Seeing as he isn't coming over to my flat, it isn't going to happen," Fiona says firmly, looking up at you from her position in your lap. She's content to stay there. Why not? It's not the first time she's been there...
     "I'll get a key made for you. I don't want you stuck with nowhere to go - hotel rooms are all well and good, but they're not as good as a proper bed." Fiona sounds so insistent. Bloody woman. She reaches up to ruffle your hair, trying to grab a bit to give it a light tweak and tug. "I'll be gone about two weeks, give or take. Shouldn't be much longer or less. Do as you need - maybe I'll manage a surprise or two for you while I'm gone."
     There's a hint of smugness to her expression, and then she sighs, shaking her head. "My mother ... well, it was a bit of a shock to realize she hates me, but when I realized it - I couldn't put up with her picking at me any longer." Fiona reaches for the cappuccino, not caring if it's cold or not. Tilting the mug, she peers into its china confines and sets it back down. "She was doing the usual - bringing up my life as a punk, expecting me to show up to ride to the hounds with purple hair and a ring through my nose, letting me have it for what happened with Paul. That ... I think that might've been what tore it for me. She took his side when it happened, you know. And she's never let me forget about it, all these years, always still taking his side. It had to have been something I'd done, because I'm such an uncontrollable, ungrateful child."

     "No offense, love," he says as he looks at you, "...but she sounds like a royal bitch." His nose wrinkles as you tug on his hair. It's a look of comic protest that isn't really protest at all. He likes it, in fact. A point you realize, if you did not know it already, by his tilting his head so you can get a better handful. Damn the man, with his thick and soft hair.
     "A key would be great," since you're on his lap, his arms come around you. Looks as though you're there to stay. "I should have one anyway, even if I didn't need a roof for a bit. One of us," he or his son, "...should be able to get in if need be. Better than blasting your door off. I can do it, but it attracts attention. Mostly of the unwarranted, unwelcome variety."
     Davydd leans against you, his head resting upon your shoulder. "What did you tell her... to go fuck off finally, you old battleaxe?" He can sit here and make up shite all night. "I don't understand parents that hate their children. Even if they grow up to be complete gits, you still love them..."

     She appears to delight in grabbing your hair, a fistful of it as best she can, smiling up at you. There is a softening of his expression for a moment - do you recognise adoration when it's aimed at you, pointed, locked and loaded? But it's there, just every bit as much as ever for your son. "She is," Fiona agrees. "And I've stopped caring. I've stopped trying to get her approval - or even her disapproval. I'll do what I want."
     As she does now, making a small, agreeable noise in the back of her throat as your arms move to fold around her. "I'll get the key to you before I leave. And as you'll have a key, you're not just dropping in; you've been invited. I'll have one of the rooms closed off so that it'll be impossible for sunlight to get in, so that you can make yourself comfortable when you're in the neighborhood." She leans in to gnaw at your shoulder, more playfully than with any serious intent. "God forbid you should have to blast."
     She looks to you, cradling your head as it goes to her shoulder, gently stroking along your temple and behind your ear. No matter the phase of the moon, it affects her, at least, as do you. She enjoys you, the closeness, the warmth that is intimacy. "I don't know that I understand it, but I finally hit the point where I cut loose." Fiona presses a kiss to your forehead, then straightens her head to lean against yours. "I told her that if she kept it up, she'd have no place in my life - not only in my life, but my family and my friends, the life I'm building for myself, whether it includes husbands and grandchildren or whatnot. I told her that daddy has a place in my life, and his place is secure - same for zaida and grandmum. If mother dies, daddy knows I'll visit him and love him. But if daddy dies, she's damning herself to be alone and unloved, and much joy may she find in her bitterness then, because I won't go and see her and I won't take her calls. And by not being even a mother in name to me, she'll have nothing of mine for herself..."

     It is an intimacy that is real, that does not need to be put on display or teased out. It simply is. It exists in the space between where your bodies meet, what there is of it. His arms tighten in a playful bear hug, and lifting his head he places a kiss behind your ear. As adoring of your neck as your Other. If not more so.
     "I'm glad you stood up for yourself, put her in her place. If you were my daughter, I would have kicked Paul's ass. I certainly would never have sided with someone else's son over my own little girl. I barely liked it when they fell in love," he chuckles, "...let alone me making them miserable by choosing their boyfriends over them. That's not right. I'm glad you're free."
     "And thanks for the keys, love. We'll meet to make the exchange. It'll give me a chance to see you before you have to head off for your business." He bounces you just a little, sitting back, his arms still around you. "You're a good woman." Not girl, woman. "I appreciate you looking out for me. I'm fine, you know. I just need to get settled. I've been too busy. I need to take a moment and settle my affairs and get things in order. I hit the ground running and haven't had time to look back."
     He places a kiss on your temple. He murmurs sweet words in Welsh. He makes no commentary about grandchildren. He told you to have them. He can't exactly protest now. And why would he? He thinks to himself of that. Why would I? Children are children. They'd still be mine. "There's no better blackmail," Davydd grins, "...then threatening to take away the grandchildren..."

     "I'm sure you're fine." Fiona closes her eyes, enjoying the closeness, smiling for the kiss to her neck. "But I'm your wife. It's my job to worry about you." Was. Is. Will be. As far as she's concerned, it may have to wait, but it is just as sure and just as real as if the wedding took place yesterday - or a hundred years ago, instead of a hundred years to come.
     She opens her eyes, she touches a fingertip to your nose, she smiles. "My king," she murmurs. "You work on getting settled - on getting your work accomplished. You tell me if you need my help. I'll have the keys made before I leave on my trip. Maybe it'll encourage you to see me a little more than otherwise." When she is there, she will see you, perhaps. When she is not... well, that's your torture to bear.
     "Mother will behave herself, I think," Fiona remarks. She isn't worried. "She has more to lose than I do - she can't take anything away from me because I won't take anything from her that she could take back. I think I caught her by surprise, though. It feels ... surprisingly good. I expected getting to that point, saying what I did, I expected it to feel worse, to hurt. Instead, it was just as if I'd cast off Sisyphus' stone."

     Your tenderness. The tap of your finger upon his nose. Your desire to see him. When his eyes lock onto your own, his skin goes red. But it's not the red of anger. Nor is it the red of lust. It is simply the blush of being touched, a flash of sentimentality. So much so, that in the following instant, he's rolling his eyes to heaven, to himself, and smirking. Whatever. I didn't blush. They put in red lights...
     "I'll make sure to pop by if I'm going to have my own set of keys," he lilts, voice deep but cadence light. "Are you going to give me a drawer in the loo as well?" An eyebrow cocks up. "Do I get to have my side of your bed? Free use of the kitchen and bar?" Give the man an inch...
     Davydd leans in, closing the hair's breadth distance between you for a kiss upon your forehead, then your mouth. He was waiting, perhaps ... perhaps he still is... for more indication that you will make a space for him... but mostly, time for him. A funny sort of behavior from the man whose idea it was to take the break in the first place. "Diolch," he says lightly near your mouth, his eyes surveying your mouth, your face, your eyes.
     "Your mother sounds like a real pip. It's a good thing your children are going to have a sexy beast of a grandda," him, "... with a good sense of humor. They'll need it to thaw them out from the visits with their granddam."

     "Actually, I was thinking, I don't really need an office in my place - when I start making enough money hand over fist, I'll need the corporate space anyway. About the only thing going for that room is the closet - you can keep what you like in it, as long as it doesn't move on its own." Not something Fiona worries about; she's lived with you before. But she smiles up at you, accepting kiss and kissing back for a moment. "You can have one drawer in the loo. One. I've got more hair than you and the hair care supplies have taken on a life of their own..."
     One hand moves down as she shifts on your lap, leaning up so her knees take her weight to either side of your hips. "I know how much you take of a bed. It's queen-sized, you'll end up taking all of it," Fiona retorts. That isn't exactly a no, is it? "Eat what you want, just leave a list of what you've used up - I'll be happier for knowing you're well-fed." Her hand moves to pull at her skirt, up under it to tug at other materials, then down to the front of your trousers. In only a little more than a trice, her hand is snaking in...
     "My children are going to have a sexy beast of a father and half-brother as well," she retorts lazily, brushing her lips against your cheek. "What makes you think I'm letting you off stud duty? I figure we can alternate. Unless you don't like the idea of getting me pregnant with your babies as well?"

     There was a curious smile as you began to shift. What are you doing? He didn't even feel, nor hear, the ticking of his own zipper. Suddenly there's your hand, and what once lay still now jerks in your hand, thickening. There's much to thicken, as you're quite aware.
     "You want to start now?" He whispers, chuckling. He closes his eyes as you kiss his cheek, and the next sound is a quiet, but earthy roll of his voice. "I ...don't mind it..." His words lilt out the same, but slower. He has to think, and he has a difficulty doing that when the blood's rushing out of his head. "But...what about your husband? Won't he... have... sommat to say about it, Christ... Fiona..."
     Thighs widen beneath you and he slips down a little, his head resting on the back of the booth seat. The confessional booth is close-quarters, but it's certainly big enough for this activity. Davydd tilts his head to the side, eyes wandering to joined laps. "Remember the night we were here... after I kissed you... I was so tempted to take your virginity in this booth. Lay you back on the table...and take you standing. But... then I took pity on you," he grins, eyes popping open briefly. "I thought you might need something more romantic for the first time. Not getting fucked in a public cafe booth..."
     In this position, it is far more easy to note the thickness of your man. Nearly twice as thick as the Other, even if not as long. It's six of one, half a dozen the other. Dragons writhe and war at your fingertips, skin sliding forward to hide the dragon's mouth carved on the crown.

     "I don't intend to get pregnant yet." Fiona's murmur is low - audible, but she's feeling a bit crowded with emotion and desire; hard to get words out past that rush. "I intend to have my wicked way with you, Davydd ap Owain. And Rhodri knows I intend to have both of you just as much as I can..."
     She rolls up the skirt to over her hips, revealing the grey leggings that halt at the middle of her thighs, the white lace that spins its lazy floral patterns between them; there's the sound of lace being tugged, threatening to rip, and then she eases her weight down with a wiggle, other hand guiding you into position by feel. "Mm..." It's the same breathy little sound she's always made, her skin growing pinker with it all.
     "I remember you kissing me that night," Fiona murmurs. "I wanted you then, I just didn't know exactly what it was all about. I'm glad you waited - but this time, at least, we don't have to wait - do we?" She remains balanced on her knees, giving you a look of mischief and hungry intent; it shines behind her eyes, one small hand still wrapped around where dragons shift, her other hand up to your shoulder to brace herself.
     "I think my one husband can wait to have his turn right now," Fiona murmurs, "while I'm with my other husband. And right now, you're the husband that's with me. Unless you'd rather not be in me, in which case I can always get off your lap. But I'd be a bit hurt if that were the case. Crushed, in fact. So," she bounces experimentally, breath hissing out between her teeth, "you'll come over Friday night to get the key and so I can see you?"

     His hands are suddenly on you, hands that had been waiting, resting on the booth's cushions. Warmth and strength land upon your skin, beneath your skirt. One hand keeping the knickers out of his way, his other finding you, his thumb pressing and rolling and stroking. "The Other Husband." He grins suddenly. "I like the sound of that."
     His hand tightens at your hip, pulling you down onto him, his mouth covering your own, swallowing your groan and his. His hand covers territory, splaying it more than conquers it. Lifting and lowering you, lifting you all the way off, bring you all the way to him, crushed there and writhing. Again, until only the head of him is held within you. Holding you still, Davydd bounces beneath you, quick thrusts and teasing until he pulls you crashing into him again.
     "I love you," he murmurs at your mouth, freeing it enough to speak, to smile. His hand upon your hip slides around you, cupping you, giving you your freedom to move upon him as you please. His fingers and thumbs of his other hand roll and slide between your thighs. "You gorgeous thing...you want me... I'm here, your Other Husband... show me... show me how much..."
     "You'll see me," Davydd whispers. "In spades, darlin'. On your sofa, on your kitchen counter," he chuckles.

     Soft sounds threaten to turn into something louder as you suddenly take command, setting the tempo and the movement. Blue eyes widen and then close, skin reddening with the presence of your sudden touch and clutch.
     "You, god, I can't," Fiona gasps and stutters it out, against your mouth, shuddering a little bit over you, around you, tensing and relaxing and tensing again. Her hands go to your shoulders, grabbing hold of you for balance as she squirms. "I can't think when you do that, I, oh..."
     You have been anointed, given temporary divinity; she squirms on top of you, against the sliding movement of your fingers. How quickly it's gone from teasing entry through to the real deal, the raw sex of it all. She arches forward to bring her chest close to yours, rubbing up against you with a soft mewling, kittenish sound, lips rubbing and nuzzling in against your throat, up to your cheek, nibbling at your ear.
     "I want you..." Little words, meaning much. She rocks on your lap, taking you into herself and moving back up - posting, as if in the saddle. Which, in a sense it could be said she is...
     "I want you to take me, Davydd. I don't want to be able to walk when you've done - fuck me, mark me, make me your woman. I love you..." The words come out in a soft, breathless voice, as if each word is selected from the top of a pile of potential hurriedly, slipping from between her lips without connection to her brain, greedy lustful desire manipulating her voice as much as the arch and twist of her hips. "Go on," she whispers, a hint of excited, highstrung laughter in her words, "go medieval on me..."

Posted by rowan at December 21, 2004 12:06 AM