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It's a short, uncomplicated workout that day.

It is, for some reason, a little hard to concentrate, so Havelock comes back a little over half an hour later, damp from swimming (still a novelty for an Ankh-Morpork boy, even a privileged one) and still restless.

He knocks this time before he opens the door.

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"Power," Havelock sums up softly.

(It would be nice, perhaps, if Havelock could not understand the appeal.

Sadly, there is a reason the boy has politically mobile ambitions, and he can see it all too easily.)

"I see."

"Power."

Puck doesn't spit the word, quite.

But it's a very near thing. He looks very small, just now, and somehow faint.

"It is seldom anything else."

Havelock looks at him, feeling unaccountably guilty. There is nothing he can do. Not that he has thought of so far, at least, and the knowledge is a bitter one.

Evidently, then, he will just have to work harder.

"Yes," he agrees finally, then continues as close to hesitantly as he ever gets. "How much does he already have over you, if any?"

He really wishes he'd noticed something, whenever this first came about. He might already know these things - and knowing has always been most important to Havelock.

At that question, something in Puck's expression goes rigid. His fingers, curled over the pillow (as indeed all of him is more or less curled over the pillow), dig into it with the faint scriiiitch of ripping fabric.

"If by that," Puck mutters in a low, clipped, loathing tone, "you mean to ask whether some amount of his power may have curdled within me, I can assure you with relative certainty that if such were the case, and I were unaware of it, he or Mistress Rowlands should surely have made mention of the matter."

A pause.

"If, however, you mean to inquire as to blackmail ... you are more than passing clever, my own heart. You must know that the greatest power he has over me lies in you."

"Perhaps I am not," Havelock says shortly.

"Because I had rather hoped you would not say that."

Then he rubs his forehead with a tired sigh, and tries not to feel too defeated. It's just a little tricky at the moment.

Puck snorts.

"I am terribly sorry to disappoint you."

"Hmm," Havelock agrees from behind his hand.

"I do dislike being of no use at all. Being a positive problem may be worse."

He'll have to consider it.

"Really?"

Puck's expression is politely incredulous. Meanwhile, that pillow has most definitely seen better days.

"Well I suppose I could relieve you of that difficulty with little enough trouble."

Havelock rests his chin on his hand and raises an eyebrow back.

"Please do," he invites politely.

Puck glowers; it is an exceedingly ugly look.

"Primarily it involves killing you," he drawls coolly.

Havelock looks generally unruffled.

It may or may not be an accurate representation of what he thinks of this.

"It's direct, I'll give you that."

Puck rolls his eyes and picks a bit of stuffing from the recently eviscerated pillow.

Havelock watches for a moment, and when nothing immediate seems forthcoming, says,

"Is there anything I can do?"

Presumably apart from conveniently expiring.

"I scarcely know."

At another time he might sound flippant, or exasperated. Now there is a note creeping into his voice that he shouldn't like to identify and would be utterly loathe to admit to; it may be something like despair. He hasn't looked up.

"I ask nothing of you, Havelock Vetinari. Nothing in the world."

It's not a pleasant one to hear. Havelock doesn't hear it often and it seems very alien to Puck in particular.

"I know," he replies after a moment, leaning back and stretching. Optimism doesn't come easily to him, yet he feels the urge to try. "But since I don't appear to be dead yet, I shall keep thinking."

There has to be something. And if there is, he decides, he will find it.

Puck laughs at that, softly, some of the tension seeming to drain from him with the sound.

"I don't expect," he murmurs, "that even killing you should cure you of that habit."

A pause, and he crooks a finger in Havelock's direction-- less come hither and more hi?

Havelock takes a moment to regard the crooked finger with something that almost approaches a smile, but does eventually unfold himself casually out of the chair.

"If it turns out so," he says in a conversational tone as he approaches unhurriedly. "I shall complain."

Puck watches him, his smile now something wry and crooked and still a little--

Another soft laugh.

"You should have every right. It would be quite my own negligence."

Havelock has to tilt his head down quite a bit - one of the hazards of being a tall person - by the time he reaches the bed, still examining the uneven smile.

"To have caused me boredom?" he asks lightly, and sits down beside Puck to even out the height difference.

Obviously.

"Yes," Puck says, decisively, turning towards him a little once he so graciously opts to sit.

He appreciates it because he's so short.

Clearly.

"I can think of no worse fate, myself," he adds gravely.

The pause that follows that is an eloquent one, because Havelock's imagination is occasionally too creative. Then he has to concede, even inwardly, that utter boredom really would be quite unbearable. It's not something for which he has either the talent or desire.

"No," he says, gaze sliding sideways just slightly. "Actually, I can't either."

Edited 2009-10-22 22:50 (UTC)

Puck smiles at that, a bright flicker of triumph at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, he starts to uncurl himself from the gutted pillow-- a process that is both subtler and fluffier than it may sound.

He glances between it and Havelock, and has the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

Havelock, for his part, tries his best not to look too amused at the ravaged bedclothes.

He's not quite sure as to what it would be wise to say in this instance, so he opts for placing a gentle hand on the back of Puck's neck as he disentangles himself, and saying nothing for the moment.

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.

If Puck had something along those lines, perhaps Havelock would...

Well.

Ifs are always rather complicated. Better not to get into them, he thinks.

And raises his other hand to wrap gently around Puck's wrist and keep him close, stroking slowly down his back and back up again as he kisses him, eyes closing.