milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Puck is sprawled full-length on a couch downstairs, and he is exhausted.

Well all right, that isn't quite so. The fae are slow to tire, and Puck especially. It's also true that Ankh-Morpork's truly suicidal traffic patterns, and his occupation as a footman-and-or-spy, both do wonders to keep him entertained.

But the coup is so slow, and what he overhears typically of such little consequence, that at times he scarcely knows what to do with himself. Had it been up to him, this whole thing would've been over in a month.

Then again, that's probably why he hasn't personally deposed anybody in awhile.

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After a little while, Havelock leans on the back of the couch and peers quietly down at him.

He's only just in from Ankh-Morpork, and not entirely intentionally - he had been taking notes in a meeting all day, and hence is still inkstained and wearing his reading glasses before doors started all leading to Milliways in a slightly pointed manner - but he has taken the hint and come in.

He know Puck is finding their slow progress tiring, and does feel slightly bad that there is so little action. Still, it is the way it is.

Puck blinks up at him.

Those glasses cannot help but strike him as somewhat preposterous; Havelock is probably accustomed by now to the sight of Puck failing to smother a giggle.

"Hullo."

Hey, when you want to encourage people to think of you as studious, easily-manipulated and generally harmless in spite of your training at a well-known school for career killers,* you do what you must.

He half-smiles back, blithely impervious to mockery.

"Hello."

* That's 'people who kill as a career', not an elite order dedicated to ruining the professional lives of others. Although that is a side-effect of assassinating someone - they don't tend to get up for work in the morning afterwards.**

** With a few statistically negligible exceptions.

Well right, of course, yes, and Puck knows Havelock is a master of subtlety as well as manipulating expectations and perceptions, which is to say he is so very good at going unnoti--

Puck's lip twitch.

"Have you aught to take note of?"

"Here? Very little."

It's restful!

He folds his arms comfortably of the back of the couch, resting on his elbows.

"You?"

"Nothing," Puck assures him solemnly.

And turns his head towards the couch cushions to snicker.

Havelock reaches down when he turns his face away to tweak the back of his neck gently.

"Clearly," he says.

Puck yips, sitting up with an abruptness so fast it blurs.

He turns an exasperated look on Havelock.

Havelock looks blank.

'Innocent' has never come naturally to him.

His eyes narrow.

But he can't stay mad at those glasses.

He starts to laugh, in earnest this time, falling onto his back on the couch.

Havelock rolls his eyes and gives up, removing the things and tucking them into a jacket pocket.

"You're terribly cruel," he deadpans.

VICTORY.

Puck sits up, wiping tears from the corner of one eye, and braces his arms on the back of the couch to draw himself to more or a level with Havelock.

He does his best to smile adorably.

Havelock eyes Puck's adorable smile with utmost suspicion.

"Yes?"

Puck leans in to kiss him.

(Look, he CAN'T REALLY DO THIS on the Disc.

Not in public!)

...Oh all right.

Much though he is frequently loath to take a break, Havelock can admit that he appreciates Milliways when he ends up here a whole lot.

After a moment Puck pulls away.

"The air here has grown chill again," he notes.

His eyes roam over Havelock's clothes, skeptically assessing for adequate warmth. Unfortunately, as fairies tend neither to chill easily nor catch cold, he's not one hundred percent sure what he's looking for.

"It's late in the year," Havelock says, with a shrug.

He glances downwards, in case Puck has noticed... something amiss.

It can't be inkstains, since his clothes are entirely black in any case.

"Yes," Puck agrees, scintillatingly.

(He can smell the inkstains.)

"Soon 'twill be winter, and it is my hope the door shall not come to either of us in that detestable season."

Of course, at the precise moment he is saying this, he is also reflecting on that legends-and-nightmares fellow, with the good wine and the dangerous game.

He is only a mortal, after all.

"It will get cold in the city too, eventually," he says.

There's no escape!

Yes, but at least Blodwen "Cariad" Rowlands has never-- to Puck's knowledge-- been there.

"What has become of the scarf you knitted me?"

Maybe this is not how those questions are supposed to be formulated.

Also maybe Puck ate it.

This is awkward.

There is that.

"I'm sure a search of the wardrobe will turn it up."

They might have to ask around a bit, assuming it's still a portal to Dublin in the back.

Puck sniffs.

"I hope that I did not lend it to Master Swift."

Given that the flow of clothing tends to be from Jonathan Swift to Puck rather than the other way around, this seems unlikely.

"If you did, I am quite sure it is past time he returned it," Havelock says.

Should he come along as menaces?

Puck looks at him woefully.

He is still rather close to Havelock's face.

"Indeed. It is of such sentimental value."

It's a very effective woeful look.

Well done, Puck.

"I am touched you think of it so."

He smiles pitifully.

"'Twas made by your own two hands, my dearest one. How else shall I think of it?"

Potentially: as a mid-afternoon snack from sometime in 2009.

"A functional item of clothing?"

Havelock has no romance in his soul.

...He would have the world believe.

Puck makes a grab for one of his hands, bring Havelock's ink-stained fingers up to touch his cheek.

He fears no smudging.

Havelock politely lets him have it.

The path of least resistance is always best.

(And often nicer, in any case.)

Puck leans into his hand pleasantly.

"Mmm," he says.

"Well. You have never claimed to speak poetry."

"Certainly not."

Write it, very occasionally.

And Puck was involved that time.

(He has always been something of a special case.)

He turns his head to nip at his fingers.

"In the meantime, do try not to catch a chill."

The Fool ambles by, his paper crown on top of his hat. He smiles at Puck and gives him a sweeping bow, managing to tip his hat and not lose the crown.

"Good... time of day," he says, uncertain as to what time a day it is.

Puck blinks.

"If you do not know what time of day it is," he says, curious, "how may you be assured it is a good one?"

"The time of day for me may be different than for you. So, whatever time of day it is for you, it should be a good one," he explains. "It'd be silly for me to wish you a good evening, if it was morning for you, would it not?"

"Nay, that should it," Puck protests.

"For by eventide, I may yet have use for one."

"Perhaps," he allows. "But if I say good time of day, it covers all of it, does it not? Both the nights and the days?

I could say may whatever time you need to be good, be good... but that is a bit of a mouthful."

Puck stretches absently.

"I had rather the mouthful. I am oftener in want of repast than a pastime."

"Nothing wrong with having a repast as a pastime."

He laughs, patting his stomach.

"And better still to have a pasty."

"I have not had a good pasty in ages and a half. They don't make them like they used to do."

He spins around dramatically and then stumbles as he did that on his bad leg.

Puck yawns.

"Do they not?"

Disappointing!

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