oneman_onevote | (no subject)

(no subject)

All things considered, he could have accidentally swapped bodies with worse than Trowa Barton.

Havelock will admit, however, that having the process reversed is a definite relief. All the nagging wrongness of height and weight and movement is washing away swiftly, and the lingering peculiarity is a small price to pay for that. He does, however, have a feeling that Puck may have been somewhat put out by the situation, and does not want that to continue any longer than necessary.

Although fixing that would be easier if he could find him.

The Bar and their room are both ominously empty, and he heads out into the mid-afternoon light with a slight frown.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And, even at a distance, there are certain gaits, ways of holding oneself, that one may also come to learn quite well.

Puck is not certain whether to believe it.

It is probably prudent to wait and see, so he simply turns on his branch, letting his legs swing, and peers down at the approaching Havelock-shaped person.

Havelock peers upwards, sun slanting just a little into his eyes, as he draws close enough to speak without raising his voice.

"Good afternoon," he says, dangerously close to breezy in spite of the calm blankness of the rest of his demeanor.

... His voice.

(Not to mention that Mr. Barton is more in the habit of saying hey, and that only if he has no other option.)

Puck blinks.

Well, there's no sense beating around the bush:

"... Have you been set right, by any chance?"

"So far as I can tell," Havelock says, still gazing upward, calm but apparently optimistic.

"I won't pretend to understand the method employed."

... Sorry, Havelock, Puck may not have been listening for that last part.

He is altogether too busy vanishing from the tree branch and reappearing on the grass below, to throw his arms around Havelock and hug him with great insistence.

Havelock mentally revises his half-formulated attempt to explain... well, explain Princess Tutu, in favour of balancing himself with a half-step back and catching Puck with the slightest of smiles that he can't be bothered to repress.

He rests one hand against the back of the fae's neck with familiar fondness and - a little - relief. It had been worrying, for all that the transference wasn't exactly a danger.

Puck laughs a little against his chest, his grip not slackening in any noticeable way but the tension going, going--

He draws back, with an effort, and looks up at him, fingertips brushing along one cheekbone.

He's smiling.

"Well," he murmurs.

"Hullo."

"Hello," Havelock echoes, amused -- but pleased, too. He releases his hold as Puck moves back, but leaves a hand resting lightly on one slim shoulder.

"Have you been doing all right?"

He snorts.

"Oh, perfectly."

He's still near enough to be leaning lightly against him, but in the interests of not going cross-eyed he has pulled back a bit from the waist up.

Then he seems to change his mind and hugs him again.

"What did you say about methods, darling?" he says, half-muffled against his chest.

That's perfectly all right - not many people have hugging privileges, but Puck has earned his.

"Oh," he says. "Just that I have no idea how it was achieved. It was peculiar, but I cannot fault the results."

He does feel a little odd still, but that can pretty safely put down to a week out of his own skin.

Puck has now gone rather still, and Havelock will likely recognize the posture of curiosity, even transposed so near as it is now.

He laughs. "I know you and I have rather long familiarity with this place, Havelock-- but was not this entire affair peculiar and preposterous both?"

"Very," Havelock has to agree.

"The cure was stranger than the cause, but far more welcome."

"What manner of cure was it?" asks the limpet-fairy.

Not because he cares, really, as Havelock is quite evidently wholly himself again and that's more or less all that matters.

But if Havelock's so hung up about it, it's probably interesting!

"Red and and glowing," Havelock sums up succinctly.

"There were living vines involved."

Hmm, Puck's limpet impression is really quite uncanny.

"... Living vines?"

Now the limpeting has taken on a decidedly shifty quality.

"How, er. Peculiar."

"Yes, I've never run into that kind of thing before," Havelock says, very dryly.

"Still. Having an out-of-body experience induced by a young lady in a feathery ensemble while several yards off the floor is one of those learning moments in life."

All told, he doesn't seem too bothered.

Puck's apologetic snicker is cut short by some profound blinking.

"... A feathery young lady?"

"Indeed. Trowa appeared to know her well enough to think it worth a try."

He pauses, eyeing Puck.

"She did seem vaguely familiar. Acquaintance of yours?"

Puck has pulled away far enough to eye him right back.

"Did you get a name of her?"

Havelock sighs lightly, as if it is much to be regretted.

"Princess Tutu, apparently."

Puck goes :O!

And smiles, incandescently.

(He'd thought so. Though the vines are rather a surprising development.)

"Oh, she is lovely." This is only mildly reproachful.

"I have no doubt," Havelock says, with a reassuring pat to Puck's shoulder.

"Her assistance was very kind indeed."

Her honour is unquestioned!

~~Just her title.~~

Puck's hands have come up to Havelock's face again, fingers light against his cheeks and temples.

He has to look a little ways up.

"'Twas she who put me first into a dancing humor," he admits with a secretive smile.

"I see I am doubly in her debt."

"I see," Havelock says, amused.

"Well, her dress was indeed of a balletic nature. I regret that is not my particular area of expertise."

He has been to the ballet many a time - but never really to perform himself.

"Nor mine," Puck admits with a faint snort.

His smile turns a little sweeter.

"Skilled though she is in her art, I must confess ... I had rather a dance with you."