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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?

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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.