oneman_onevote | (no subject)

Thunk.

Thud.

An apple, knife embedded neatly through the middle, hits the carpet with a dull thump. Havelock looks vaguely affronted, and moves it discreetly into the correct target, a small wooden bowl.

How embarrassing.

Thunk.

Hmm. Better.

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With equal discretion, a discreet brown mouse wriggles out from a hole near the baseboard and discreetly makes its way across the floor, whereupon-- with considerably less discretion, it must be said-- it appears inside the bowl, daintily nibbling at the apple.

Havelock thoughtfully misses the bowl with his next apple - intentionally, this time.

No point in useless cruelty, after all.

The mouse appreciates this! It pokes its head over the edge of the bowl and regards Havelock with adoring beady eyes.

Havelock nods politely to the mouse.

Well, you never know.

Thunk.

And he's out of knives, and gets up to retrieve them from the apples. In the process, a chunk is carved from one and offered. On the knifepoint.

The mouse reaches out with tiny paws to take it-- then, because tiny paws really aren't very strong, it opts instead to munch at the piece of apple and not bother about removing it from the knifepoint.

Munch munch munch.

Aaaand there goes any doubt in Havelock's mind about who the mouse is.

"Good afternoon."

The mouse flashes an unmistakable grin.

And then, perched on the edge of the bed, one leg swinging idly, is Puck.

"And to you, dearest."

A mouse grinning is something of a disturbing sight.

"Are you well?" the assassin asks, sitting back against the bed, and stretching out his legs.

The toenails on his bare feet, it bears mentioning, are painted black.

...Guess who's been slightly at a loose end?

Puck may or may not find the black toenails utterly delightful.

He has a good poker face!

"Pining for you," he says mournfully.

And smiles. "But otherwise, quite well. And how do matters go with you?"

Havelock half-smiles at the idea of Puck pining for anything.

"Much as ever," he says, predictably. "I keep busy."

With knives. ~~Anna swored.~~

His lashes flutter.

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Of course."

Thunk.

Another apple dies an untimely but merciful death.

Puck sighs, put out.

"I suppose it should be too much to hope that you might aspire to something interesting today?"

Havelock raises his eyebrows innocently.

"Such as?"

"Oh, I've no idea," Puck huffs. "Even my imagination is somewhat less than limitless."

Of course, if Havelock goes around saying this, Puck will have to kill him.

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing his toenails.

"The paint is a start."

Havelock lifts one leg to examine his toes.

"Do you think the fingers should match, then?"

Puck goes :D!

"I think," he says, solemnly, "that that should be most excellent good sense."

Somehow, Havelock thought so.

Leaning over, he fishes in a nearby drawer for the bottle.

"Do you want any?"

Puck considers.

"I am feeling rather peckish."

Havelock eyes the polish bottle doubtfully.

"Lunch, then?"

"Oh, it should hardly make a lunch, I think," he says, also eyeing it. "A mouthful at best."

"Indeed..."

He offers the bottle, in any case.

Puck takes it, unscrews it, sniffs ...

And makes a face.

Maybe if it were the cherry-flavored kind.

He slides off the bed and next to Havelock, grabbing for one of his hands.

The hand is graciously surrendered.

"I am sure something more sustaining can be arranged," he says.

"I do hope so," Puck says, sighing mournfully.

And decides that what Havelock really needs is an Authentically Piratical Black Spot.

:D?

Havelock is vaguely confused. He's unsure what the point is, but accepts is with a good grace.

It goes with his outfit.

"I can guarantee it."

Puck glances up at him through his lashes, a look of fragile hope on his face.

"Can you really?" he murmurs. "I should be forever in your debt."

Meanwhile, the nails of his other hand grow progressively blacker.

Two Black Spots would be overkill.

Oh, clearly.

"Well yes, unless downstairs has spontaneously vanished."

He likes to cover all bases.

Puck appears somewhat troubled by this possibility.

(Also, he takes a tentative lick of the nail polish, and determines that it's not exactly on his Top Ten list of favorite foods ever.)

"In which case," he decides, "I suppose it might be best to ensure that it has not met such a fate."

Havelock smiles slightly at the tasting, and blows gently on his newly painted nails.

"Shall we investigate, then?"

"I think so," Puck says brightly.

And gives Havelock a gentle smack on the wrist.

"Do try not to smudge it."

Havelock raises an eyebrow.

The eyebrow is wounded.

"I shall take utmost care."

Puck beams, satisfied.

And, as luck would have it, the stairs do appear to lead to ... the downstairs, as opposed to an empty crater or dark void of nothingness.

Puck is pleased.

Havelock follows Puck down the conveniently non-voidlike stairs.

He appears to have forgotten his shoes, but doesn't really mind.

Puck bounces into the bar, looking over his shoulder at Havelock.

"I'm rather in a mood for figgy pudding."

"How very seasonal," Havelock remarks agreeably.

He's never actually tried it. But at Hogswatch it is very popular, apparently.

Puck beams.

"I wonder if they serve it on fire ..."

And he's off, wandering towards the Bar.

Havelock is privately sure that can be arranged.

And as he follows, at his own unobtrusive pace, it seems that he is correct. Apparently it's all in the amount of brandy you use before applying flame.

Puck is happy!

He has lunch!

It is ON FIRE.

"Care for a taste?" he says magnanimously, waving the blazing confection under Havelock's nose (though not close enough to melt off anything crucial).

"...I shall try a little?" says Havelock, looking rather as if about to test a new substance for possibly poisons.

"Oh, excellent," Puck says, smiling brilliantly.

And holds out the pudding.

Expectantly.

It is still on fire.

Havelock bites his lip briefly, then delicately blows out the flame on a small piece before snagging it delicately between his teeth.

...

Swallow.

"...Interesting."