oneman_onevote | (no subject)

[OOC: After this conversation with Flagg.]

Havelock opens the door, and walks in slowly. The medallion is hidden safely away in a pocket, but he brushes a light hand over it to make sure it is still there nonetheless.

He sits quietly down on the bed, to think for a while.

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Puck appears inside the door and leans back against it, smiling at him.

"Hello."

Havelock glances up, regarding him thoughtfully for a moment.

"Hello," he says quietly.

He blinks. Havelock seems ... more pensive than usual.

Not that it's really easy to tell.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He shrugs.

"I think I have something of yours," Havelock says.

"Oh."

He frowns, puzzled.

"What is it?"

In answer, partially because he never was exactly sure what it is, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out the medallion.

"This. It is yours, yes?"

Puck's face, already fae-pale, drains of all color as he stares at it.

"Where--" But he knows where Havelock had to have gotten it.

"When?"

"Just before I came up here," he says evenly.

"Just now?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps?"

He only nods, back pressed against the door.

In a low voice: "What happened?"

(He leans forward, for nothing's impossible and there's more than a little of Havelock reflected in the improbably blue eyes.)

"I was downstairs. A man joined me. We spoke for a time, and he left this with me."

He looks up at Puck, voice still quiet and calm.

Puck can barely meet his gaze.

"He calls himself Randall Flagg."

(Call me the stupidest motherfucker that ever walked this green earth, but I swears I seen you around here sometime before. Any chance I know ya?)

Havelock nods, not looking away.

"Indeed?"

He may snarl a little-- not directed at Havelock, though perhaps triggered by his lack of reaction.

"What did he say to you?"

Havelock sighs faintly.

(He's pretty when he bleeds)

"Mostly attempts to provoke a reaction, I think."

He glances at the floor.

"I see."

Silently he extends the hand holding the medallion, cord looped around his fingers.

It's a request, as much as it is offering.

Slowly, Puck detaches himself from the door and steps towards him-- hesitant, almost cautious. He stretches a pale, slim hand to Havelock's, fingers brushing his as they unwind the cord.

Havelock lets Puck take the medallion, but catches his fingers before he can draw them back. He pulls the fae gently down to sit beside him.

"Are you all right?" he asks, calm and detached-sounding as ever.

He acquiesces to him, but does not lean against his side as he might normally. His fingers intertwine with Havelock's almost of their own volition.

"I might ask you the same," he says with a faint smile.

Puck shrugs with sharp shoulders, looking again at some spot on the floor.

Havelock shrugs, squeezing Puck's hand gently.

"You might."

(He'll never quite be rid of my touch, you know, as the touch of his master brands him. I've left my mark even if I don't care to own the creature.)

Puck probably can't see his eyes darken in remembered anger, though his hand tightens just a little further at the memory.

"And?"

He shrugs again, lightly, dismissive of how he might be. Chances are he doesn't really know.

(It's been centuries since I've had a half-decent fuck, and the faerie's close enough to one of my kind in a different place that it was close to satisfying. Tell him I say hello.)

Havelock's expression is stony.

(There is always a choice.)

Slowly, almost... hesitantly perhaps, he lifts the hands not entwined with Puck's and brushes is against his cheek.

Then he gives in, and gently pulls the fae closer, hands resting lightly on his shoulder.

Puck allows himself to be pulled, feeling the warmth of Havelock's body and the gentle weight of his hands. His lashes flutter, but he doesn't close his eyes.

Havelock shrugs without releasing his gentle hold.

"It is a strange thing," he says thoughtfully. "When asked to speak, it immediately becomes far more difficult."

A slight pause. "What would you have me say, my love?"

He snickers softly, gaze still averted-- now to Havelock's hands on his shoulders.

"Let's not start this again."

A shrug, slight, not intended to dislodge him.Then the fae brings his hand up, slowly tracing a fingertip over Havelock's lips, top and bottom.

"Say what you wish," he tells him, and he can't quite smile as he meets his eyes.

"I don't-"

Havelock frowns slightly as he stops, almost puzzled looking.

"I... I'm not used to feeling anger," he says quietly, half to himself. "It is unsettling."

His thumb gently runs back and forth across Puck's collarbone, thoughtful.

His hand drops, and when he speaks, it could almost be a question:

"Not ... towards me."

"No, not towards you," he says quietly.

His expression tightens thoughtfully for a moment, and there is a flash of memory of just how furious the encounter had left him. Then he glances away, possibly ashamed.

Despite Havelock's expression, Puck can't suppress a faint, surprised smile-- but he frowns again as he watches him. After a moment, he slides a finger under Havelock's chin and gently turns it towards him.

"Thank you," he says softly.

Havelock looks down a moment longer as Puck turns his head to face him before looking up.

"...For what?" he asks quietly, curious.

Puck opens his mouth, but the words forming on his lips ... aren't what he wants to say. He searches for a long moment, thinking irritably somewhere at the back of his mind that surely Havelock must know.

"For ..."

It is so rare that Robin Goodfellow should be at a loss for words.

Havelock watches him.

Then gently places his fingertips over the fae's mouth, the very faintest, oddly sober smile playing around his own.

"It doesn't matter. You are welcome."

[OOC: ...Dude. We can indeed.]

Puck smiles back.

Then he takes Havelock's hand in his own and gives it a light squeeze.

The assassin is very willing to surrender his hand.

He returns the gentle pressure, soft slight smile remaining.

He does lean against him now, head on Havelock's shoulder, and brushes his thumb over the back of his hand. He looks pensive still.

Havelock sighs slowly, shutting his eyes as he begins to push away the anger, fierce and somehow protective but useless, and the fear - for there had been fear, he would have been foolish not to recognise the danger. The arm not held onto by Puck goes around the fae's shoulders.

And you see, he doesn't want there to be a reason for it-- that fear. He doesn't want anyone to take care of him. But it's so good right here, warm body against his side and warm arm around him, that he can't find the voice to protest. With Havelock, he never can.

Havelock knows. He knows Puck doesn't want to be taken care of, and the assassin knows he isn't able to do so. In so many ways Puck is the stronger of the two - and even if he were not, Havelock is not sure he could make himself look after Puck if it was unwanted. If he were unwanted.

But he can hold him close.