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They mount the stairs in such grim silence that someone might be forgiven for thinking there was some kind of unspoken tension in the air.

Chances are good.

Havelock counts the door numbers with the care of one used to Milliways' fluid approach to internal architecture, fingers linked absently with Puck's, then comes to a halt in front of number sixty-three. It's been a while since he last visited Nita - chronic introversion does have unfortunate side-effects in that respect - but this is at least the right place.

He glances down at Puck once more, then knocks firmly.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Hmm.

"Hopefully we can assume there were no bystanders that whatever this was could also affect, then."

Multiple mind-wipings at one time is just cheating.

Or something.

Edited 2009-12-28 03:09 (UTC)

"Not that I noticed." She shrugs, helplessly. "It's a room in Milliways. There could've been a brass band around a non-Euclidean corner and I never would have known, you know?"

"Ah, yes," Puck agrees with a sympathetic grimace.

"One of our establishment's many charms."

Havelock quirks the eyebrow of the inveterate lurker in the shadows.

Still. The thing about those who watch from the numerous dingy corners of Milliways is that they tend to stay there and not volunteer helpful information.

More's the pity. It's one of the few places in the multiverse that could have provided an accurate portrayal of a day in the life of a real fly on the wall.

Anyway.

"So." Another shrug.

". . . Not that I don't like talking this stuff out again, and not that I don't like seeing you guys, but -- is that why you came by?"

A house call seems like a lot for just a chance to rehash how much she doesn't remember.

Puck laughs.

"Oh, Nita Callahan, you wound me. Though I suppose we might have brought you a Christmas gift. 'Tis my negligence."

"Why else?" asks Havelock blandly, glancing sideways as he pulls out a small notepad and pencil, and tests the lead by scribbling in one corner.

Then he starts writing, not really trying to pretend he's doing anything else.

"It's just" -- she starts ticking things off on her fingers -- "it's winter in Milliways, people are being attacked by a mysterious person who can mess with your head, I can't remember you guys ever just dropping by my room before . . ."

She gives Puck a look. "And frankly, all three of us and most of the people we know are really really good at getting in trouble."

Puck glances ceilingward, aloofly.

"Well, they do say out with the old and in with the new. I thought it high time we began a new tradition."

Havelock accepts the trouble-attracting tendancy of the room at large with a shrug and casually passes Nita the notebook.

A few lines on the front page read:

Something is wrong with Puck. He knows I know, but cannot or will not say so out loud. I do not think he has been bitten, but he may be being followed.

"Quite," he says.

She takes it.

And blinks.

"Yeah," slowly, "I keep making New Year's resolutions to have a totally boring year, but I always break them."

Puck is watching the two of them curiously.

Not beseechingly, or in alarm--

Just curiously.

(But his fingertips are drumming in fitful bursts against the arm of Nita's chair.)

"Well," he says lightly.

"Perhaps this year we shall all resolve together."

Havelock raises his eyebrows in exaggerated consideration.

"Perhaps that would be wise," he says.

Nita rubs a thumb over one of her scars, frowning at Havelock.

"Y'know what else I keep meaning to do." She raises her eyebrows right back at Havelock. "Doing more knife-fighting lessons with you, if you'd be up for it."

"I have no opinion about that one way or the other," Puck says absently.

Tap, tap, taptaptaptap go his fingers.

"I think that would be a very good idea," Havelock says smoothly.

"You never know, after all."

"Yeah. And, y'know, considering . . ." She glances down at her wrist; the puncture wounds are still faintly visible. "Couldn't hurt. When are you free?"

"Whenever you are," the assassin replies after an infinitesimal pause.

Puck is unusually quiet. Being noncommital is usually Havelock's job.

"I do wish you two luck of it," Puck says, in a very indulgent and bored tone.

He smiles.

"But perhaps, if you are to be discussing such matters for very much longer, I ought to take my leave."

With an exaggerated yawn, the chair is abruptly empty, and a small white rat scampers across the floor and squeezes its way under Nita's door.

"See you," Nita calls after the rat -- then turns to Havelock, frowning.

"Okay, what's going on?"

"I wish I knew," Havelock says, sitting back with a sigh.

"But considering that our room is now bedecked with a garlic and wooden cross motif, I suspect a similar perpetrator to your own run-in."

"Shit." She runs a hand through her hair. "Do you think he's bespelled? How's he acting?"

"Evasive. He seemed more as if he feared being overheard than anything, although he said... he would tell me what it is. If it were in his power."

Which rather suggests that is currently is not.

"Otherwise he seems more or less himself."

Small mercies.

"No new--? No, that wouldn't make sense, if he were friends with a vampire he wouldn't have put up protective stuff."

She glances up at him. "And that's all he said? He'd tell you if it was in his power? Is that exactly how he phrased it?"

"Yes."

Havelock frowns faintly at the floor.

"He swore it, and he does not tend to do that lightly."

Unwisely, yes, but not lightly.