Sgriobhadaireachd: A writer's business.
There was a strange Midgardian legend that Helblindi had heard, something that went like this: "If given infinite time and resources, a team of monkeys with typewriters would eventually recreate the entire works of Shakespeare."
Granted, it was Midgard, and it was a legend that was odd even by Helblindi's standards, and he'd been the recipient of many a wild tale (including the time Loki was about 300 years old and had told him that the Ice Queen in the North had stolen his favourite jacket; Helblindi actually had it on good authority that the Ice Queen in the North was a very decent lady).
But Henry was most certainly not a monkey, and would have taken great offence at that. And he wasn't quite plebeian/hipster/old-fashioned enough to use a typewriter, he would be using a MacBook Air, thank you very much. Darcy was currently infatuated with the way Henry was jumping around, his little wings fluttering as he leapt from key to key and pecked at the caps with his tiny beak.
He cheeped angrily at Helblindi once Helblindi attempted to remove him from the device, and Darcy had laid a protective hand on his feathered head and told Helblindi very sternly that he could make himself of use and go out and buy them coffees, couldn't they see they were doing some serious writing here, and what writer wrote without coffee? Helblindi sighed and left for the nearest Starbucks.
He came back, venti lattes in hand, to find Henry tapping out very furiously what looked like a horrendously explicit and scandalous narrative and Darcy sleeping on the couch.
He set the venti latte down on the coffee table by Darcy and decided that perhaps he and Darcy ought to establish some parental controls on the laptop.