oneman_onevote | (no subject)

So, some idiot told Havelock about Machiavelli.

Or possibly he discovered the works for himself; either way, he has a stack of very interesting-looking books on political philosophy, is nice and clean from showering after the day's training - novel invention, but most functional - and is dressed about as casually as he gets, which means he's probably only concealing one or two knives about his person.

There are no babies currently in his possession, which means that room 37 is a great deal quieter than normal. Who knows how long it will remain that way?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Not for very much longer, fortunately!

The narration would say unfortunately, except that the cessation of abnormal quiet is due-- in this case-- to the arrival of Puck. And how can that ever be anything short of auspicious?

That's what we thought.

Puck ambulates carefully through the doorway, grimacing down at the baby bump.

"Hullo, darling."

Puck? Joy!

This side of the narration, we can assure you, is dancing dorkily in her seat.

Havelock, meanwhile, watches the ambulatory proceedings with his characteristic quiet interest. "Hello, Puck," he says.

Puck gives him a dirty look. Exactly what for is unclear-- possibly just for watching.

"How does the day find you?"

"Very well," Havelock says, and pauses.

All forms and variations of motherhood and fatherhood may come to pass, and still there is an awkward silence at some questions. At least on some level, he can see how Puck is - still with... whatever will ensue. On the other, it's just impolite not to ask.

"How are you this evening?"

"Burgeoning," Puck replies cheerfully.

"As one will, now and again."

"Apparently so."

He shifts up on the floor, ad leans back against the side of the bed. "Tell me, who is this Machiavelli?" he asks.

A question that may echo through the ages, as the already ruthlessly pragmatic finds philoshophical support.

Slowly, Puck grins.

"Machiavelli? He was a mortal statesman ... though more of an advisor to statesmen, if I recall aright. His was a lovely time to be in Italy."

He comes a little closer, head tilting slightly to the side to check out the titles in Vetinari's book pillar.

"Have any of his works come into your hands?"

"Indeed," Havelock says, indicating the small pile to one side. "What little I have read so far is very interesting."

Insert thunder crash and formulaic 'muahahahaha!' here.

In actual events, he simply leans his head thoughtfully back against the mattress. "Italy... where Sariel was living?"

It was a very... clean place.

Yes, that was the most part of his impression.

"Thereabouts," Puck agrees, gingerly lowering himself to sit on the bed. It is a lengthy and painstaking process.

"Though I cannot quite remember where it was exactly that she called home-- Venice?"

Havelock conspicuously doesn't offer a hand, although he waits ready to provide one if need be. But Puck seems to be managing, and there's no need to treat him like cut class, as he is vaguely aware that pregnant women are meant to be. Surely it is an exaggeration, and particularly when it comes to someone who could break him one-handed if he wanted.

Not to mention: He.

"Yes," he says. "Possibly later than Master Machiavelli, howver."

"I believe he was from Florence," Puck muses. "Or at least spent a great deal of time in that city."

Success! He is now sitting. Puck tries not to feel miserable about how much work was required by flashing Havelock a toothy grin.

"I imagine his writings shall come as a great boon to you, being in the line of work that you are."

Havelock echoes the smile slightly in return.

"I hope so," he says. "His idas seem to fit in general terms with my own - so far, at least. Some actual thought on the matter is most welcome."

Rather than: I rule. Nothing else matters.

So simplistic. No wonder Patricians keep getting assassinated. ~~By him.~~

Puck sighs, not strictly in contentment.

"Actual thought is so very rare, in this age. As indeed it is in all ages."

"Hmm," Havelock says thoughtfully. "As this possibly is all ages, I am alarmed it took me so long to find some."

His alarmed face is very much like his usual face.

Just in case you were wondering.

Havelock's range of expression fills the narration with awe and wonder.

... Yeah.

"Had you been searching in much earnest?" Puck inquires.

There is, he has heard tell, a library tucked away around here.

"With great diligence," Havelock assures him.

He found the library!

...It's just that 'M' is pretty far along in the alphabet.

"Of you, nearest and dearest," Puck says, with great satisfaction, "I should expect nothing less. Though I suppose that does make the apparent dearth of thought all the more alarming."

Havelock's tone is mildly disapproving. "Quite worrying. Still, I suppose this is primarily a drinking establishment."

See? He can make allowances. But he judges inside.

He laughs.

"Disgracefully enough. Though perhaps we might make an appeal to Mike."

"I fear he might try to combine the two, in the name of efficiency."

Havelock has never actually met Mike.

Ours only to guess if this is a wild, educated, or informed guess.

"Drinking and thought all at once, do you mean?"

Puck snorts.

"I feel the one rather precludes the other."

"Precludes doing so to any great effect, certainly," Havelock agrees dryly.

He pauses, looking slightly dark. "Mind you, I have read one or two treatises that seem to be the product of just such a technique."

Poor scholarship = death.

Puck laughs.

"I must admit I've a fondness for such unsteady pens. Too long an exposure to genuine thought, I find, has a rather soporific effect."

This may or may not be true. Meanwhile, Puck grabs about for a few pillows; it's more trouble than it's worth to sit up without back support for very long.

"On some, perhaps," Havelock allows grudgingly.

Books are srs bsns.

In any case, he reaches helpfully behind him to tug down his pillows and passes them over.

"Many thanks," Puck says with a twist of a smile.

He glances down to his stomach, then to Havelock, and sighs.

Nothing to do but get comfy.

"I trust Signor Machiavelli shall be a fit companion for you, if you have not already found him to be so," he adds. "Indeed, the two of you seem quite ideally suited."

Nothing to do indeed.

"I hope to find his arguments stimulating, at the very least," Havelock says breezily. He does so like an argument where the opponent at least makes sense.

"At the very least," Puck echoes, serene, and attempts not to snicker.

It is a valiant effort, really.

It's not Puck's fault he's immature.

Goodness, no. After all, he's still only a few millenia old. Or something.

"Hmm," Havelock says blithely. Or... blankly. "And how have you been diverting yourself of late?"

Puck sighs.

"Not very well, I am afraid. It has become quite the struggle to transport myself from place to place in recent weeks."

He makes a face of deep disgust down at the bump.

"Not to mention that I can scarcely blend, no matter how fervently I may wish it."

Havelock's expression may, deep down, convey sympathy.

"I see how that might be a problem," he says seriously. "Still, I don't imagine that it will be for much longer."

Havelock's idea of being comforting is different from other people's.

"It cannot end quickly enough," Puck sighs. Most of his ire seems to be spent, at this point.

"But I imagine you've the right of it. If I grow any larger, I shall burst of my own accord."

"That would be very messy," Havelock says disdainfully. "We shall just have to be sure it does not come to that."

...

Translation: It will never come to that if I have to see to it personally.

Puck smiles, slight.

"So we shall, I suppose."

He'll try very hard to be as noncombustible as possible!

It's the effort that counts!

Except for the part where results do, too.

Havelock reaches up to brush his fingers lightly through Puck's hair, since otherwise the gesture would involve pulling through tangle or two - although it seems a little better-groomed than usual - and smiles, very faintly.

That's what would be an It'll be all right from someone who was a little more vocal.

Puck looks a little surprised, but on the whole quite pleased. He knew his prodigious grooming efforts would be rewarded!

(For "prodigious grooming efforts," see "picking out the twigs, for a change.")

He doesn't lean into the touch so much as happen to be a little nearer all of a sudden, and shoots Havelock a wry sidelong glance. This is accompanied by a certain sticking-out of his-- perfectly normal-- tongue.

It is probably just as well that it'll be all right remains unsaid. Puck is not, particularly, in the habit of believing people.

Havelock just raises his eyebrows, and leans his head back against the mattress again.

The effort re: twig removal is much, if silently, appreciated.