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 laughs softly, and kisses his forehead.

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.

Let's face it; Havelock would have mentioned it a long time ago if Puck sitting on him was a problem.

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.

Puck's fingers float up to stroke his hair, free arm holding Havelock close.

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.

Sadly, until the terms of his agreement - whatever those are, exactly - are complete, avoidance may be the only option.

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.

Puck is slight, and his arms are slight, and he is not certain whether one can transmit care and warmth through sheer effort of will--

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."

"Not exactly," Havelock admits, very quiet but cool and resolved.

"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.

He laughs, quietly, and presses another kiss to the top of his head.

"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.

Whether Havelock does or does not is a question for the ages.

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.

"Others there may be, as well," Puck continues, "who are, at the very least, diverting in matters of conversation. Mistress Jane Austen, Tom Riddle who is known also as Lord Ostium. Though really, I imagine Master Wells shall be the one you want."

For conversation.

Innocent, sociable conversation.

Totally.

Oh, indeed.

(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.

"Marvelous," Puck says pleasantly.

"I imagine it shall be quite the thing for you."

"Oh, good," Havelock remarks mildly.

After all, his latest acquaintances have not gone so well, all things considered.

All Puck wants is to make sure that Havelock has friends!

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.

Naturally!

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.

Well, the effects produced can be manifold! It just so happens that the most convenient route in the life of one Robin Goodfellow is-- usually-- the more soporific applications. Aria especially seems to appreciate it, come bedtime.

(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.

The twins being so musical as they are, it is indeed the time Havelock has heard Puck sing the most.

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.

Perhaps Puck ought to be taking more care-- to weave a spell of any kind is not his intent, especially not now; but for fairies, where these things are concerned, that is not necessarily any safeguard.

At any rate, all he craves is to soothe him, distract him with a bit of pretty and pleasant nothing.

It's working, whatever it is.

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.

It's lucky, in this case: Puck has undoubtedly made progress where such things are concerned, but even now he does not have the universe's firmest grasp of the concept that a thing may be done with good intent and still not be a good idea.

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.

Havelock looks up again-- it's a strange angle, but that's no matter for concern.

"All right," he says quietly, and it sounds like he's agreeing.

Puck has been here so many times. Whether as a cat or a fox or a warm flutter of light between Havelock's fingers or even, upon occasion, as himself-- at least, as close to it as he is like to come-- the position is so familiar he could almost forget they're here.

He can sense from the growing calm in Havelock's body that he is, if not actually all right, then at least better, and Puck's niggling, needling frustrations that at bottom he can fix nothing and restore amends to nothing-- needling only because he has never had much to do with such feeble things before-- ease a little.

It's only slightly, and in a way he should admit to no one.

But it is something.