oneman_onevote | 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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Havelock takes a moment to pause and worry. It's dangerous, he doesn't know what she plans, he doesn't know what either of them will do, and his self-control is still not perfect.

But it's better, since Milliways, since he tested himself, and he drank blood from the bar before leaving again, so at least there isn't that dreadful thirst...

"You may," he says softly.

Puck smiles, hooking a hand behind Havelock's neck and rising up on his toes (not too far, but he is on the short side), and slowly, slowly closes those crucial inches between them into no space at all.

Needless to say, this kiss is meant for Havelock's lips and not his hand.

Havelock loops an arm around Puck's waist to hold him up, as if a fairy that can fly unaided actually needs it.

But then the contact, and the warmth of his body held close certainly helps Havelock himself enough to justify the effort.

Puck sighs soft and contented when Havelock's arm comes around him, keeping the press of his lips soft but not-- quite-- able to prevent his own free arm from sliding around Havelock's shoulder and gripping just behind his shoulder blade.

It's not that it's a rough grip-- it's just that there is danger here, or at least it pays to be careful, and if he lets himself cling to Havelock as if he never intends to let go then it will be too easy to stay, stay, stay--

He lets the kiss break and drops his head to Havelock's chest, keeping his neck as out of the picture as he can without squirming.

It would be easy indeed to stay; hold Puck a little closer and listen to the beat of his heart, tempting and incredible.

It's probably as well that the fae breaks off first, and Havelock leans forward to press his lips to the top of Puck's head through tangled hair.

(It would have been this room, he thinks. Memory is hazy, but of course he was drawn here.)

He doesn't let go.

Nor does Puck, though after a moment his grip on Havelock's neck and back relax slightly; as if now that he's been assured he shan't be stopped, he doesn't have to cling so tight.

He can feel himself relax and sink against him, Havelock's lips in his hair. Though he hasn't any idea if this means Havelock shall be willing to have him near from here on out, or whether this bit of experimentation will only frighten him later and do more harm than good-- for now he delights in his embrace, and is quite willing to halt all questions together.

(Puck used to listen to both their heartbeats when they held each other close like this. Now he listens to his own.)

Havelock's reluctance is tangible when he steps back, head lifting to watch the shadows, even as familiar caution crosses his face.

"I think--" he says softly, and releases Puck with stern self-control.

(Something is shifting in the shadows.)

Puck follows his gaze, stepping back abruptly-- though not very far.

He's getting sort of a creepy feeling.

Margolotta coalesces out of thin air and steps out of the shadows, brushing herself off with supreme lack of ceremony.

"I apologise for keeping you vaiting, gentlemen," she says pleasantly, looking at them with an entirely too bland expression.

... Well that was wholly unnecessary.

"Not at all," Puck says, with barely identifiable frostiness beneath a bland expression of his own.

Havelock folds his arms, watching her warily.

...Yes, that appears to be it.

Margolotta directs a smile at Puck that suggests she knows everything she cares to, and finds it most entertaining.

How much of that is a lie remains to be seen.

"Vell, the night is still young," she says brightly. "Should ve continue our duel, Havelock? If our guest does not mind observing, of course."

The question may have been posed to Havelock, but is very much directed at Puck.

"Oh, whatever you like," he replies with utter mildness, holding up his hands in such a manner as to imply that there is nothing up his sleeve.

(It's all in his pockets.)

"If you've a care to't, Havelock, I shouldn't think to interrupt."

~~Again.~~

Havelock still doesn't say a word, but walks over to pick a sword again.

After a moment he draws two, one in each hand.

(He has to be better than he is right now.)

He turns, and silently extends the hilt of one to Margolotta.

She reaches for it, smile tight and pleased.

"Watch your steps, this time. Your feet must be as fast as your hands."

Puck draws back, arms folded over his chest, and though he wishes Havelock could manage to defeat her this time 'round (if for nothing but to wipe that smile from her face), he feels relatively certain it shan't happen.

Though he is glancing between them both, the majority of his attention is on Margolotta. He does not, of course, possess Havelock's concentration or training, but he plans to mark her as best he can-- speed, strength, patterns of attack-- all with the understanding that whatever he sees now is probably precisely what she means to convey.

No more, and certainly no less.

Havelock raises his blade, not risking a glance over at Puck. That's a good way to lose the battle for first blood.

Feet and hands each as fast as the other.

It's easier said than done; but he paces lightly sideways, weight on the balls of his feet, and tries to find the balance before she strikes.

Margolotta watches him regally, only part of her attention on his possible strategy - the rest goes into watching how he makes use of new speed, altered reflexes, different strength.

He is adapting, but still holding back. Because of the boy-creature on the other side of the room? It's a thought, but she can't decide what his reason might be.

She lunges without warning to begin the fight, testing his agility by changing her direction of attack at random.

There is no change in Puck's posture or expression as he watches them attack and counter, though he notes well that despite Havelock's increased speed-- and the skills he has always (so long as he has known him) possessed-- Margolotta has the obvious advantage.

That's what he always feared about Havelock's mortality, isn't it? That someday somebody should have the advantage of him?

(To be quite honest, secretly Puck had never really imagined that anybody could. Inconvenience, perhaps, but not bring to an end.

The fae are not known for their foresight.)

Edited Date: 2010-02-18 08:39 pm (UTC)

It is frustrating to see what you need to be doing so clearly in front of you - the way Margolotta flows from moment to moment with economy and grace - and be unable to follow. Years of training means that he overshoots the mark too often and too instinctively to correct himself.

He grits his teeth, and has to force himself to relax again. Controlling his emotions is harder too - for someone who had always found it easier to be withdrawn, it is very strange.

He ducks a second too late, and feel the whisper of steel brushing his cheek.

(A thin line of dark red blooms, then stops and stays on the surface of his skin.)

Margolotta tuts lightly at him, but only presses harder, watching as his blade speeds to match hers without thought.

Yes. Too much thought, too little instinct. That training will serve him well once he knows himself and his capabilities again, but for now...

He steps too slowly and she slashes downwards quickly-- lightly across one thigh, then deeper across the chest, tearing open his shirt so she can see the blood slowly well.

Havelock hisses in pain, then falls silent as he looks down in time to see the skin heal smoothly before his eyes.

Puck supposes he should find it miraculous.

Instead, it's just another reminder. (His eyes may narrow slightly.)

For whose benefit is this? Havelock's, to be taught a student's humility? His own, to be shown who's-- supposedly-- in charge?

His fingernails may dig a little more deeply into his palms, but he doesn't move.

Havelock.

Havelock is still staring down at his own skin, unnecessary breathing a little too fast.

His blood is entirely the wrong colour, he thinks vaguely.

Are vampires even susceptible to shock? Purely psychologically speaking, perhaps.

He lowers his sword slowly.

Margolotta taps the point of hers on the ground to catch his attention.

"Just vun of the many reasons you must learn to trust instinct again, boy. Permanent damage is hard to inflict upon us. Overthink, and you lose the advantage of your reflexes."

She waves an irritable hand in the general direction of his torn and bloodstained clothing.

"Enough, perhaps. Go and find a new shirt, you look disgraceful."