Havelock Vetinari (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oneman_onevote) wrote2010-01-20 06:52 pm
oneman_onevote) wrote2010-01-20 06:52 pm
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.
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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If he'd only thought, just a little bit more than he did, he might have worked him into his bargain with the vampire. He might have kept him from harm.
(I don't believe he would trade your love for all the safety he could ever find)
"I know how it must seem," he says gently, and gentleness is not his wont but he manages it anyway, like something carried between his teeth.
Another kiss, this one light on a fingertip.
"They deal in impossibilities, those of his sort, and it is impossible to know how one may escape them without a great deal of trial and grief, first."
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"Let's avoid all that if possible, then."
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It's still rueful.
"Do let's."
He sighs, straightening and coming 'round the back of the chair enough to slip his arms around Havelock's shoulders, pressing his nose into his hair.
"I wish I could aid you in this," he murmurs.
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His hands are no longer freezing by now, but the warmth feels good-- and real, not something fogging his thoughts from outside.
"I know," he says.
Tell your friend that I am not -- without mercy, Tepesh had said, and Havelock still isn't sure whether that is a warning or simple truth.
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The chair may be intervening somewhat in this endeavor.
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If the chair is a problem, there are ways of fixing that.
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Then he gently plucks his wrists free, the better to come around the front of the chair and insinuate himself onto Havelock's lap.
On the one hand: sitting on him.
On the other: Puck is very light, and rather warm, and his arms can wind about Havelock's neck and shoulders with much greater freedom from his new position.
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His own arms fit comfortably around Puck's waist, and he leans his head forward to rest it against the crook of his neck.
He closes his eyes.
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And he's quiet, for the moment, breathing deep and slow.
He is frustrated, and angry, and his thoughts of Havelock and how to protect him go skittering off as they each run up against Vlad Tepesh himself, and his promise not to oppose.
But surely there must be something.
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Havelock does not like the necessity, but has to concede that another meeting could only go poorly.
He sighs softly against the side of Puck's neck.
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But he knows him, by now, better than he knows any other.
Fairies are not particularly known for their comforting abilities, but he'll be thrice-damned if he doesn't at least try.
It is a long moment of soft breath and gentle fingers in Havelock's hair before Puck speaks again.
"Do you know," he says softly, "what you ought to do."
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"But that has rarely stopped me before."
It hasn't. And if it hasn't always gone well, in Milliways, at least... There's a first time for everything.
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"You ought," he says, with an affection that is still tinged with frustration, "to seek out a fellow named Andrew Wells. He is, I am given to understand, the one who has charge of the cells. We're friends."
Puck doesn't think of them as friends.
Havelock might pick up on this and he might not.
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But he nods, in any case.
"Perhaps I will," he says thoughtfully.
It's sensible to become acquainted with those who are involved with organising the bar in various ways in any case.
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For conversation.
Innocent, sociable conversation.
Totally.
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(Havelock understands Puck quite well.)
"I have at least met Lord Ostium, I believe," he says. "I am not averse to meeting him again. But I shall seek out Master Wells."
La la la.
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"I imagine it shall be quite the thing for you."
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After all, his latest acquaintances have not gone so well, all things considered.
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Because, you know.
People like Puck so much.
In the meantime, however, it seems that all he really wants is to stroke up and down Havelock's back, and through his hair, and lean his cheek against the top of his head as he murmurs something absent and melodious.
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Havelock, meanwhile, is just fine with that if the way he closes his eyes is any indication, leaning in closer and holding on just a little tighter than he might usually.
He probably isn't falling asleep, despite the proven effect of fae voices on mortals - just listening.
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(And of course Raspberry had a good few months where she refused to sleep at all without a lullaby. Puck is glad that stage in her development is done with.)
This is not a lullaby, though Havelock may recognize that it has been used as one in the past, and Puck is continuing to hum it more or less into his hair-- perhaps hum isn't quite the word, though it's a tuneful sort of thing.
He had begun a bit tenuously, perhaps unsure as to whether Havelock shouldn't prefer it to be quiet; but when he seems to take it well enough the tune gains a little by way of shape and volume.
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He listened in, even then. At first just to hone his concentration against the the soporific effects, admittedly, but then because the sound was beautiful, and different enough to fascinate him each time.
And then because it was Puck, and it made him smile in any case.
He stays still, only his hands moving, absently stroking where they rest on Puck's back. It's a mark of... something, that he doesn't even consider that if the sound was weaving a spell about him right now, he would not be resisting it.
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At any rate, all he craves is to soothe him, distract him with a bit of pretty and pleasant nothing.
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Bt it's nothing like the vampire used, isn't pushing him in any way, so Havelock can simply-- appreciate. Music and magic are both art of a kind, after all. Why not mix the two, when it's so much a part of what you are?
Havelock's eyes have opened again, but are calm again, expression softened.
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Not when he's the one with said intent, anyway.
"All right?" he asks very softly. It's a silly and fretful sort of question by construction, but hopefully Havelock will take something of his meaning anyhow.
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