Puck's lashes flutter shut for a moment, and he exhales again. His neck is still tense, but less so now.

Then he opens his eyes, and looks up into Havelock's face-- still a little embarrassed, perhaps, or at least rueful.

I'm sorry I consistently get into such cosmic amounts of trouble, he could say.

Or I'm sorry Lilly and the kids are on the run.

I'm sorry I can't think of anything to do.



Instead, he lifts a hand to Havelock's face-- the fingers delicate, the skin smooth despite the old featherlight scars that crisscross it-- and touches his cheek, guiding him down as he leans in and up, for a kiss.