oneman_onevote | Extremely melodramatic AU: The revenge!

Extremely melodramatic AU: The revenge!

The castle is chill, in the hallways, and dark apart from pools of light created by torches placed at wide intervals on the walls.

Havelock is moving, if possible, even more silently than usual. He'd be twitchy if that wasn't a surefire way to mess up your stealth. The shadows are blending obligingly around him, more strongly here than they had in the bar.

Puck can take care of himself, he knows that, but also holds out no hope that any of this is going to be particularly pleasant.

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Puck turns, and permits his expression to brighten because Margolotta can't see his face from where she is.

(Yeah, yeah, he knows he's not fooling her. Sometimes it's about the principle of the thing.)

"--Oh," he says.

"Hullo."

"There you are, Havelock," says Margolotta, turning around and raking him with a critical eye.

Apparently he passes muster, as she continues briskly on.

"It seems your friend may be staying for a time. Find him somewhere?"

Havelock distrusts this deeply.

For the record.

"Certainly," he says, however, and inclines his head at the door, eyes going to Puck.

Puck pushes off lightly from the chair and goes to him, throwing Margolotta a backward glance and a beatific smile.

"Ought I to be worried?" he says under his breath, smile unmoving.

She just raises her eyebrows back at him as if in innocent incomprehension.

"Call for Igor to settle him in when you find somevhere," she tells Havelock. "Then come back here for an hour and we vill run through an exercise or two."

Havelock nods to her silently, and holds the door open for Puck.

Puck sighs, and rolls his eyes, and drifts through the door with an absent sort of grace.

Havelock gets a realer smile.

Havelock doesn't smile back yet, but some tension visibly goes when he closes the door behind them.

(The fact that he can't smell any blood on Puck also helps. He had worried, against reason, but persistently about that.)

"Do you want to stay?"

Because if now, now would really be the time to make an exit.

Puck makes a bit of a face at the prospect, though the face is mostly anxious enquiry.

"Do you want me to stay? I shall be happier where you are, but she implied I should be more hindrance than help."

"She would," Havelock replies stonily, heading up a flight of stairs.

"...I honestly feel you would be safer elsewhere," he says. "I doubt she plans to murder you in your sleep, but she does like to make use of people where she can."

This doesn't actually address the question of what Havelock wants, but perhaps that's too much to ask for.

"How lucky, then," Puck says lightly, "that if I must, I either need not sleep, or may do so in a discreet cobweb."

A tilt of his head.

"Do you think she shall make better use of me than you will?"

"That's true," says Havelock thoughtfully, then glances over.

"She does have more practice," he points out.

"Perhaps," Puck agrees.

He smiles faintly.

"But you have all my will, and she has none of it."

Havelock smiles a little too, at that.

"I won't tell you to leave," he says. Mostly because he doesn't want him to, and it's a personal weakness of which he is very aware.

"Advise you that it might be wise, yes."

His expression, at this juncture, is as relieved as it is pleased-- which is to say, not too much of either, but both are noticeable.

He leans in on tiptoe to press a kiss to Havelock's cheek.

"I regret to report, though by now you must be well aware, that 'wisdom' has never been a particular attribute of mine."

Havelock touches his hand lightly, though he doesn't linger too long.

"Then I'll be sure to let you know when it becomes urgent," he says.

"Oh, do."

Puck trips along beside him to the top of the stairs, reflecting that it is rather a long staircase-- he still hasn't any notion how large this place is.

He glances up and down the hall in curiosity, then back to Havelock.

It really is - one of the hazards of traditional Uberwald architecture.

Havelock keeps walking along the next landing without paying much attention, having apparently mentally mapped out this area.

(It isn't a coincidence that it's far away from the rooms with coffins in.)

Puck may not know exactly where they are in relation to the coffins ... but he might suspect a thing or two.

"Where are you going to hide me away, darling?" he asks pleasantly.

"I presume you've free rein in the matter."

"Somewhere along here," Havelock says, glancing at doors as he walks past them.

"Hmm."

He pushes one door open thoughtfully.

It's very...

Traditional.

Puck sticks his head around the door, and quickly puts a hand to his mouth to stifle a storm of snickering.

"Oh my."

He looks to Havelock with a grin.

"Only if you promise to steal inside of a night or noon whilst I feign sleep. Do you suppose the lady has about the place any particularly insubstantial nightshirts?"

Havelock sticks his head around as well, just above Puck's, and scans the room.

"There is a wardrobe in the corner," he points out. "Who knows?"

"--Ooh."

Puck disappears, reappears in said (shadowy) corner, pries open the wardrobe door, and rifles around inside.

After a few moments, there is a muffled "A-ha!" and he emerges triumphantly clutching something ...

Ah.

Well. It's definitely nightshirt-shaped. And ... potentially made of some manner of cotton.

Very ... gauzy ... sheerish ... cotton.

"What do you think?" he says with a grin, holding it to his chest.

(If the answer isn't ridiculous, Puck will begin to suspect that the fusty castle air has touched Havelock's wits.)

...

Well, Havelock doesn't say ridiculous?

But needness to say, the lack of expression on his face is expressive in itself.

"...Very pretty," he says finally, dry as a desert.

Puck laughs, folding it up into a little cloth bundle small enough to hold in his hands.

That may say something somewhat damning for the general actual-fabric content of this particular piece of sleepwear.

"I think I must. I shall never forgive myself otherwise."

His lower lip gives a faint quiver. "So long as it shan't drive you away?"

Outside, there is a low rumble of thunder.

... Apparently, the weather in Uberwald doesn't particularly care to stir itself by way of narrative aid for stray fairies.

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