Tudor snatched me back, putting himself in front of my chest. “Are you being serious?” He swerved back to me. “Is he being serious?”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
I walked around to Tudor's side, just in time to see Tink reach behind him for the remote control and fall back into a fencing position, challenging my new lover: remote arm out, left arm in the air. “Come on, you bulky bull, I’ll take you. En garde!”
Tink began shuffling his feet forward and Tudor just stood lock still, absolutely dumbfounded at Tink’s standard over-the-top-antics.
The fencing fairy lunged forward and began stabbing relentlessly at Tudor’s hard stomach with the end of the remote, his only accomplishment being to turn the TV on and off at an alarming speed.
Tudor was watching Tink in amazement as he made ‘Hi-yah!' sounds and twisted his wrists to vary his shots and angles. I walked behind the prancing idiot, picked him up by the waist and spun with him in my arms, dumping him on the couch.
“Wil, you bitch!” Tink shrilled, jumping up and storming off to his room, but not before stabbing me in the thigh with the remote.
“Owww, witch! What the hell?” I seethed.
He put on a cocky smile from his doorway. “Not sorry, porky!" he yelled, and flipped me his middle finger, before slamming the door shut with gusto.
I groaned and dropped down onto the couch, joined seconds later by Tudor. “What the hell just happened?” he asked in disbelief.
I looked straight ahead and shrugged. “Tink's pissed; he finds straight sex offensive to his delicate disposition.”
“Wow,” whispered Tudor.
I nodded silently. We sat there for about five minutes before either of us spoke.
“What do we do now?” Tudor asked, stroking my cheek.I patted his thigh. “Oh, just sit tight, His Majesty will be making a second appearance soon enough. This is far from over. He likes to keep us waiting to make his finale all the more dramatic.”
He moved closer and laid his head on my lap. “Well, I’m settling in for the night then.”
I stroked his head, staring at the fireplace.
After an hour of waiting for His Royal Highness to come out of his grand chamber, Tinkerbell finally breezed into the living area, chin tilted high, coming to a stop directly in front of us. Tudor had fallen into a light sleep, and I was still caressing his head on my lap.
"Babes, wake up, Tink is ready to read us the riot act," I whispered quietly whilst shaking his shoulder lightly.
Tink waved his hand around dismissively in response to me calling Tudor 'Babes'. As if he could talk – Pookie and Tater-Tot, really?
Tudor got up slowly, all sorts of gorgeous as he wiped the sleep from his eyes with both hands. Once he had pulled himself around, he took my hand and quickly pecked a kiss to my mouth, then sat back, awaiting the expected rant. Tink watched the little display of affection, his mouth gaping in outrage.
I shuffled forward. "Before you start harping on at us, I just want to say that, in our defense, you were not due back until tomorrow, and that you just happened to come back at a bit of an awkward moment."
"Too bloody right I did! I came back early to check you were over your illness. Seems you were over that alright and jumped straight under him!"
He moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table only three feet away from the couch and crossed his legs and arms. "So, when did this little development happen, huh?" he barked, waving his hand around camply.
I looked down at our entwined hands and started to speak, but Tudor beat me to it. "Officially yesterday, but you could say it has been building for several weeks."
My bestie started waggling one finger like he would if he were on Ricki Lake. "Weeks? All I have seen is her upset or pining after you. You’ve been leading her on then f**king her off most of the time. You made her like you – a lot, I might add – and then you would drop her like a sack of last week’s potatoes! Is that what you call ‘building’? Fuck knows what foreplay would be to you then!" he shrieked.
Tudor tensed up, bowing his head. I had to intervene. "Tink, Tudor’s apologised and I’ve forgiven him, he's explained what happened and you have to let it go. Please, I want my best friend to support me in this," I reached forward and took his hand. He snatched it back, wiping it on his shirt as though it were infected. Mature as ever.
"Just because he apologised doesn't mean he won't screw you over. For God’s sake, Wil, he says he’s sorry and you open your Wendy-wide legs and let him shag you – hell, not shag, bloody roast you! He had you pinned between the wall and his red-hot poker like you were impaled on a frigging spit; you’re only missing the butter and seasoning and you’d legitimately be barbeque! And you did it against my walnut-whip designer paint of all things! $500 a pot, Wil, $500 – it’s f**king imported!"