oneman_onevote | MONTHLY INSTALLATION OF THIRD-PARTY DOOM

Havelock doesn't stop in the bar on his way in from outside, only glances around to see who is there before he vanishes silently up the stairs.

The journey through the corridors seems longer than usual, although it's possibly running over the encounter with Vlad Tepesh in his mind that makes it seem so. His memory doesn't seem affected like Nita's had been, but rethinking it-- some of his behaviour was certainly very odd.

He feels like someone is staring at the back of his neck. The feeling is not unusual, but particularly acute just now.

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Puck has, predictably, found absolutely nothing in the woods, save some demon bunnies and a cave or three. Terribly dispirited, he had returned to Havelock's room and attempted to take solace in the garlic and crosses.

Though perhaps he ought to look for him ...?

Who knows how long he might spend tromping about in the snow.

Havelock unlocks his room, deep in thought. Unfortunately, garlic and crosses don't seem to be as safe as had previously been assumed. It's new information, at least, if not comforting.

His hand freezes on the handle momentarily when he sees the light from inside, before he pushes the door open deliberately.

Puck glances up.

And frowns.

Look, the fact of the matter is that Havelock is nearly always a complete blank. But after one has spent a certain number of years in the company of such blankness, one becomes more than passing attuned to subtleties.

(He left him alone in the woods.)

"Havelock?"

Havelock glances behind him, checking the corridor before he shuts the door.

It is true that his customary blankness carries the occasional overtone, and what it's mostly expressing at the moment is intense wariness.

"Yes?"

Hesitantly, Puck gets up off the bed and approaches him.

"Are you quite well?"

"Fine."

Havelock's eyes go to the window -- it's closed; and then to the crosses on the walls. They might as well be rid of those, at some point.

"You? I couldn't find you earlier."

"I went for a walk," Puck murmurs, still watching him.

He halts, like an animal unsure whether its reward will be a bite to eat or an irritable waving-off. And stretches a hand to Havelock's cheek.

It might just be nerves.

Possibly just nerves.

Then again, Havelock freezes at the touch, so perhaps not. But his eyes stay steady on the wall, and when he looks at Puck a moment later, he's in control again.

"Ah. Well, I seem to have caught up eventually."

And that--

That's something Havelock Does Not Do. Ever, that Puck can recall. He pulls his hand back as if he's touched something sharp.

"Only because I allowed you to," he says, lightly, and tries out a grin.

Havelock allows this with a shrug -- because that's obvious. It may have been intended to be slightly apologetic.

But that's hard to say.

(He doesn't smile back, because he's fairly sure it would look all too fake.)

"I appreciate that."

Puck's smile fades, very slightly, into something that may be intended apologetically itself.

He disappears and reappears lying on the bed, on his stomach. His legs kick fitfully.

And he watches Havelock with a very mild smile.

Havelock watches his relocation with sharp eyes, then sides into an armchair, deliberately casual.

The space might help, he thinks, then inwardly rolls his eyes at the lack of logic involved there and closes his eyes, leaning his head back and ignoring the fact that this exposes his throat.

It's all about control.

Puck's expression does not change.

In his head, he rummages through and discards a number of conversational topics-- the children, Lilly, what he was doing in the woods, Satan, his dance with the lady who calls herself a princess, the latest from Blodwen, jumping over bonfires--

Well. Perhaps the dance. He'd been meaning to say something. But right now it seems terribly irrelevant.

If there's one thing Havelock is not entirely qualified to discuss, it is indeed ballet.

(Other forms of dance, however...)

He opens his eyes slowly, and is greeted again by the impressive display of crosses spread across the wall.

"Those..." he says, indicating with one hand. "I don't think they really work."

Puck frowns, eyes flickering to each cross in turn as if a specific one might be to blame.

"Do you not?"

"No," Havelock says shortly, hand brushing the singed fabric on his hip.

Well, unless the one he took was a dud.

A... superconductive dud?

Puck follows the movement of his hand, but cannot quite make out what its purpose may be, if any.

(With Havelock there is usually a purpose.)

"Is there aught in particular, aside from a lack of faith, that leads you to such a dreary conclusion?"

"Hmmm."

He taps a fingertip against the arm of the chair, then carefully stills it; and doesn't look over.

"I met the vampire. He did not seem troubled."

Puck stares.

"... Now that is simply cheating."

He looks Havelock over again, this time critically and with lingering attention to his neck.

"You-- are you all right? Did he--"

The phrase lay a single filthy finger on you is implicit in this question.

"The thought crossed my mind."

You know, before thinking became a little tricky.

In answer to Puck's unspoken question, he pulls his collar down, baring a completely blood-free neck.

He spoils the effect of the bravado slightly by rubbing one side absently.

Edited Date: 2010-01-21 01:07 am (UTC)

Puck flickers out of view anxiously, reappearing on the ground next to Havelock's chair and then at the arm.

"You've apparently the wits left to recall it."

It is unclear whether he feels this is a good thing.

"What happened?"

"So I have."

Just not the wits to do a thing at the time, apparently.

He pauses a little longer than necessary, assembling his thoughts so that when he speaks, his tone is calm and casual as if discussing the weather.

"I was heading back to the bar just before dark, and I could not find the way back. I was following my own footsteps, which struck me as unusual."

Very, since Havelock can usually find his way around the shallower areas of the forest blindfolded.

"He followed me, or perhaps was already waiting there, I'm not sure. we spoke a little, he disappeared."

Puck suppresses a growl.

But Havelock, if he cares to look, can probably see his knuckles whiten as his fingers dig into the arm of the chair, and the back.

"What did you speak of?"

His voice is quite calm-- as you speak to somebody whom you don't wish to startle. The fact of it is that Puck is rather miserable just now, without all the pieces.

He's particularly alert to the little things at the moment, and can see it out of the corner of his eye.

"He asked where I was going. I asked where he came from."

He smiles slowly and without amusement.

"The uncivilized nature of violence."

"He speaks a great deal of 'civilized,'" Puck murmurs, irritably.

"Was that all?"

He supposes he can understand Havelock's reactions in such a light-- particularly if something they both thought was a protection has proven to be unreliable.