Chapter Text
"So, Captain Vimes, what is it really? Do you care for her? Don't worry too much about love, that's a dicey word for the over-forties. Or are you just afraid of becoming some old man dying in the groove of his life and buried out of pity by a bunch of youngsters who never knew you as anything other than some old fart who always seemed to be around the place and got sent out to bring back the coffee and hot figgins and was laughed at behind his back...?"
- Men at Arms
ooOoo
“I understand congratulations are in order, Captain.”
Sam Vimes stared past the Patrician’s ear and replayed the sentence in his head several times before responding, because if he had learned anything from his regular appointments with Vetinari it was that there was rarely just one meaning behind anything the man said. This one seemed, on the surface, to be safe enough, but just in case he decided to remain circumspect.
“In what regard, sir?”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “On your forthcoming nuptials, Captain.” Seeing Vimes’ blank look, he recalibrated and continued. “Your marriage. To Lady Sybil.”
“Oh. Yessir.” He hesitated. “You, er. Got the invite, then?”
“Indeed.” Vetinari paused, and watched him closely. “Regrettably, I will not be able to attend.”
Ah.
“Sybil will be disappointed, sir.” Vimes kicked himself as soon as the words left his mouth. It was probably too much to hope that the man wouldn’t pick up on the subtext, but maybe he wouldn’t mention it…? Then Vetinari smiled like a rat trap, lightning fast and deadly, and his heart sank.
“Just Lady Sybil, Captain?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Well. I dare say not many people would want their boss at their wedding, sir.”
“Ah. And is that the only reason, Vimes?”
What the bloody hell did he mean by that? Vimes dragged his gaze away from the wall and forced himself to look at the Patrician. “Sir?”
Vetinari sat back in his chair and waved a hand. “It is probably not important, Captain. Just some…personal musings. In any event, please give my apologies to your wife-to-be.”
Vimes frowned. “Busy that day, are you, sir?”
Vetinari stared at him for a long second and then said, “No.”
Vimes’ frown became a scowl. “You bloody…!” With an incredible effort of will he stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He shook his head, gritted his teeth and set his gaze back at the man’s ear again. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me why you won’t be there. But you and Sybil go way back, so what do you want me to tell her?”
Vetinari tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully. “Don’t concern yourself with that, Vimes. I will write to her.”
“Right. Fine.”
Vetinari was watching him again; Vimes could feel it on his skin. It was the kind of look that made him feel strange inside; twisty and hot. “Was there anything else, sir?”
Vetinari sighed, then stood and walked over to the window, his back to Vimes. “I understand you have remained a bachelor for most of your life, Captain.”
Vimes scowled. “Not sure what that’s got to do with anything, sir. But I’m not exactly a blushing bloody virgin.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m aware.”
Are you? he thought. And then; why?
The Patrician had continued. “It may be worth considering that sometimes, when a man has failed to find a wife or, indeed, any kind of long-term companionship of the female persuasion by our age, there may be…underlying reasons.”
Vimes narrowed his eyes. “Really,” he said, flatly. “Well, in my case I suspect the reason was because I was too busy being a bloody drunkard, sir. Obviously, I can’t speak to what went wrong for you in that respect.”
He could only see Vetinari’s profile, but it looked like the man was smiling when he replied. “Ah, Captain. I would encourage you to think on that, perhaps. And as to myself, I know very well what went wrong, as you put it.” He turned back to face Vimes, crossed his arms and leaned back against the ledge of the window.
Vimes waited to see if he would continue, but Vetinari just looked at him, expectantly. Do I want to ask? he thought. He would admit to being slightly curious; there was plenty of speculation about the private life of the man, and tonight he seemed to feeling talkative.
Screw it.
“Tragic story about the one that got away, was it, sir?”
Vetinari raised his eyebrows, and there was a beat before he replied. “Ah. We will find out very shortly, I suspect, Captain.”
Vimes gave him the blank look again.
Vetinari sighed. “Good evening, Vimes. Do think about what I’ve said. Lady Sybil is a good woman; I would hate for her to get hurt.” He turned back to the window, and Vimes considered himself dismissed.
He thought about it all the way home, but couldn’t figure out what the hell had just gone on.
ooOoo
Two nights later, Vimes awoke with a start at 3am and thought, oh…
Shit.
ooOoo
Vetinari stared at him, darkly.
“Retire, Captain..?”
“Yessir.” Vimes was practically vibrating at attention.
“May I ask why?”
Because I'm not sure I can come here and do this every day; not now. Not knowing what I... well, not know, exactly, because you were just bloody vague enough to be able to deny it, weren’t you? But what I suspect, anyway.
He had managed to avoid Vetinari for almost a week after his early morning revelation, but finally he had run out of excuses and the Patrician had run out of patience, so here he was, feeling like he wanted to crawl away and bury himself in a hole.
The worst part was that he’d made the same excuses to avoid Sybil, and he didn’t dare think too hard about why.
But the other man was waiting for an answer, so he gave one. “Seems the right thing to do, sir. Since I’m about to marry the richest woman in the city, and all. Can’t see her wanting to be married to a copper. That’s a miserable life for any woman.”
Vetinari tapped a finger on his chin. “Hmm. And this wouldn’t have anything to do with our recent conversation?”
Vimes employed his ‘innocently ignorant’ look. “Sir?”
The pause was longer this time.
“Very well, Captain.” Vetinari picked up the letter Vimes had carefully scrawled by candlelight the previous night, and put it into a drawer in his desk.
There was silence.
“That will be all, Vimes.”
Vimes frowned slightly. “I. Er. Thought we might discuss my replacement. Sir.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “No. I think not. I will make a decision and communicate it to the men. And woman, of course.”
Right. Okay. That was…fine.
Vimes stared firmly ahead and snapped a salute. “Yessir.”
The Patrician acknowledged it with an inclination of his head. “You are dismissed, Captain.”
Vimes turned and walked out. As the door closed behind him, he stared at the wall, where dents of various depths recorded in abstract the previous conversations he’d had with his lordship. He considered adding to them, but his heart wasn’t in it.
He had a week until he got married; he needed to get a bloody grip.
ooOoo
And then Vetinari had been shot at his wedding. The wedding he shouldn’t have been at.
Vimes had seen it all, as he’d ran towards him; he’d watched as the lead pellet had gone into the man’s leg and he’d dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He’d watched him bleeding on the floor and then he’d thrown him over his shoulder and carried him into the Great Hall.
And then he’d ran off and caught Cruces, and Carrot had killed him, and after that he’d gone back to the Great Hall to get married and…
…hadn’t.
There had been enough chaos that postponing had seemed a sensible idea all round. Angua was dead, as far as anyone had known, and so was Cuddy, although admittedly one of these had stuck and the other hadn’t. In the background, Detritus was doing the troll equivalent of mourning which seemed heavy on anger and not much else, but gave an altogether grim edge to the festivities. And Vetinari…Vetinari had at some point passed out and was being stitched up by a hastily summoned Igor, although in which order those two things had happened was a bit uncertain, because gods knew the sight of an Igor walking towards you with a needle and thread would be enough to make most people lightheaded.
It was fair to say, therefore, that Vimes was already having lots of complicated feelings about the day, and couldn’t quite shake the notion that it would be bad luck to get married whilst he was still trying to scrub the last of Vetinari's blood out from under his fingernails.
So he had asked Sybil if she’d mind if they held off for a bit, and she’d said no, of course not, because she was kind and thoughtful like that. And he’d felt like a complete heel, because she’d looked a bit sad underneath all that in-bred upper-class resilience and all he’d felt was…well. Relief.
And that wasn’t right, was it? Vimes had limited experience with relationships, but he knew that cancelling a wedding should make you feel some kind of way.
He’d still been retired, though. And that put him in another awkward spot, because he knew he should probably move out of the watch house, but it didn’t feel right to move into Sybil’s house, either. So he’d stayed put and just kept his head down and when Carrot had delivered the letter signed - if not written - by Vetinari, giving him a sodding knighthood…well. What could he say to it? It didn’t sound like no was an option.
He was, however, fairly sure real knights shouldn’t live in a room ten feet square and share a privy with twenty other men. And it should at least exempt him from the bloody tea rota, shouldn’t it…?
Unable to avoid it any longer, he was currently standing outside the Oblong Office, feeling like he might throw up and wishing he’d never quit the booze, because a stiff drink would do him wonders right now.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
ooOoo
Twenty minutes. Twenty bloody minutes Vetinari had been talking about the plans for the new watch houses.
Vimes had barely gotten a word out before the Patrician had started talking, and had since been trying to hang onto the conversation like a man clinging determinedly to a bobbing piece of driftwood on the edge of a waterfall.
He watched as Vetinari flipped to page thirty-six in the document Carrot had drawn up. “And I see the captain has requested a number of other items, although this list does appear to have some later additions in a different handwriting; one that Drumknott suggests bears a striking resemblance to that of Corporal Nobbs…”
The words washed over him, and inside Vimes’ head the driftwood finally snapped free from whatever tenuous vines had been anchoring it, sending him plummeting over the edge and into the churning basin below.
“You said you weren’t coming. To the wedding.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow at the interruption, but pirouetted skilfully. “Yes.”
“And then you did.”
“Yes.”
Vimes made an exasperated gesture. “Well? Why?!”
Vetinari looked at him cooly. “The advantage to being a tyrant, Vimes, is that one so rarely has to explain oneself.”
Vimes heard the tone, and saw red. “I held you while you bled, you bastard.”
Vetinari glanced down at Vimes’ clenched fists, which were now resting on the expensive oak desk. Vimes looked down too, and quickly removed them, which instead freed a hand up to point angrily at the man before him. “Why were you there? You shouldn’t have bloody been there.”
Vetinari sighed. “Cap…Commander. Sit down, please.”
“No!”
The Patrician frowned. “Very well.” He stood, instead, and Vimes was reminded that the man was a good few inches taller than him and a trained assassin. Self-preservation kicked in and he dropped the pointing finger, then took a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.
Vetinari was watching him closely. “You seem particularly irate about this, Commander. I simply had a change of heart. As you reminded me; Lady Sybil and I have known each other for many years. It seemed…churlish of me, to decline the invite.”
“So why did you.”
The Patrician stared at him, expressionless, then finally said, “I believe you know why, Vimes.”
It turned out the errant piece of driftwood had cascaded down the waterfall behind him, and now it smacked Vimes unceremoniously over the head. He sat down heavily in the chair that was, thankfully, behind him.
Vetinari watched him warily for a moment, then sat down as well.
They stared at one another.
“The one that was getting away. That was…” Vimes couldn’t say the word.
Me. He meant me.
Vetinari filled in the blank and answered anyway. “Yes.”
No. “No.”
The eyebrow went up again. “I’m sorry, Commander?”
Vimes stared at him. “No. I don’t believe it. You don’t…you can’t. It’s some kind of trick.”
Vetinari sighed. “Why can’t I, Vimes?”
Vimes tried to formulate thoughts. The first one that leapt into his mind was; because you’re Havelock Vetinari. You’re notorious for not having a single damned vice - you barely eat, hardly drink and don’t even bloody sleep, allegedly. Nobby’s got a book open on whether you’ve ever even touched a woman, though how he intends to settle that I don’t know. There’s even a rumour that you’re a sodding vampire because you’re so damned…bloodless.
Except… I’ve seen you bleed, haven’t I?
The second, and equally significant though somewhat more miserable thought, was; and because I’m me. I’m the wrong side of forty, never what anyone would call handsome, and the kind of stubborn, self-sabotaging bastard who still has to fight to say no to a drink when its offered.
He wondered again what had possibly convinced Sybil to tie herself to him, but decided not to tug on that particular thread.
And then he realised he and Vetinari had been staring at each other in silence for almost a minute, and chose the easiest response.
He grunted. “Because you’re…you.”
Vetinari tapped a finger on his desk, and looked at him curiously. “Where was I born, Commander?”
Vimes blinked. “What? I don’t bloody know. Here, I assumed?” He found it hard to picture Vetinari anywhere but the palace, truth be told, as if he had sprung, fully formed, from somewhere underneath the desk.
The other man tilted his head. “Ah. And how old was I when my parents passed?”
Vimes opened his mouth, and closed it again. “I…hmm. I don’t know? Not even sure I knew they were dead.”
The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. I presume you know I attended school at the Assassin’s? That, at least, is common knowledge.”
“Well, yes…”
Vetinari narrowed his eyes, and his tone sharpened. “And do you know when I graduated, and who I had to inhume to do so? Do you know where I travelled to, afterwards, and what I learned, on those travels? What I did, Commander, to get myself to this position? Do you know, Vimes, what I sacrificed, for this city?”
Vimes stared at him in the sudden quiet. “No, sir.”
The other man paused for a second. “Then in that case, Commander, I suggest that you do not know me. Or what I don’t, or indeed, can’t.” He appeared to be considering saying more, but stopped himself. He waved a hand towards the door. “You are dismissed, Commander.”
Vimes blinked. “What? Hang on. We’re talking. You can’t just drop something like that on a man and then tell him to bloody leave.”
Vetinari picked up a file and opened it without looking up. “You are incorrect, Sir Samuel. I will sign the captain’s documents and have them sent over. But we are done here.”
Vimes watched as Vetinari appeared to mentally erase him from the world, then he stood up and slunk uncomfortably back to the Yard, where it was Sir Samuel’s turn to refill the sugar caddy.
ooOoo
Vimes had what he considered to be a longstanding and deeply intimate relationship with the hour before dawn, in the sense that he saw it often, it habitually made him miserable, and the more regularly he encountered it, the less often he came away from it feeling fucked.
Right now it was 4am, and he was sheltering from the pounding rain under an archway and trying to light a damp dogend. He was also trying very hard not to think about anything beyond the next three minutes; a task which used to be much easier when he had the distraction of a near-permanent hangover, he recalled.
Eventually the thin roll-up caught, and he took a long puff. He’d started smoking more since he’d knocked the booze on the head, and he knew Sybil wasn’t exactly keen on it, but he figured a man had to have a vice and this was certainly the lesser evil.
Speaking of vices… Vimes’ inner voice piped up.
Nope, he replied.
Yes. We can’t avoid the topic forever.
Why bloody not?
Because we’re meant to be getting married soon.
And? Why does this change anything?
I don’t know, but it has, hasn’t it? That’s why we need to think about it.
At this point, a keen observer would be fascinated by the range of expressions crossing the man’s face as the internal debate raged. Nobody could argue with himself like Sam Vimes.
He drummed the fingers of his empty hand against the hilt of his sword.
It doesn’t mean anything.
The most powerful man in the city just told you he’s interested in you. How can you ignore that?
Because. It doesn’t matter. We don’t swing that way.
At this point the other voice gave him the mental equivalent of a long, cool stare.
Right. Do we want to unpick that statement?
Vimes felt affronted with himself. What does that bloody mean?
It means, have we forgotten about Eustace Trotter…?
Vimes stared off into the distance for a while. To be honest, he almost had forgotten about Trotter. The boy had been in Vimes’ gang, back in the day, and one drunken evening when they were both sixteen Trotter had kicked the shit out of him after Vimes had gotten the wrong end of the stick and made a clumsy pass at him.
That was just hormones. Teenage boys are randy bastards.
Ha. How many tried it on with you then, over the years?
He scowled at himself. Fine. Still doesn’t matter. We’re not interested in Vetinari.
Have we also forgotten how we felt when he was bleeding in our arms?
…don’t know what you’re on about.
He gave himself another long, cool stare. This time he stared back, and the two inner voices remained in an awkward standoff until a very damp man sidled up alongside him with a tray around his neck.
Vimes glared at the unseen voice a final time and then dragged his attention back to the outer world.
“Evening, Throat.”
“Evening, Mister Vimes. Bloody miserable night, isn’t it?”
Vimes grunted, and eyeballed the tray, which was several inches deep with rainwater.
“One of your…” he hesitated briefly, “…sausages…is swimming away there, Throat.”
Throat scowled and smacked the offending item with his tongs, and they watched as it sank, stunned, to the bottom of the tray.
“Thank you, Mister Vimes. Couldn’t tempt you with one, could I? Been hard to shift these, for some reason.”
Maybe because it’s four am and you’re trying to flog sausage meat with fins, Throat, Vimes thought.
He politely declined, and excused himself. On the walk back to the yard the internal voice attempted to pipe up again, but he squashed it back down, stuck his metaphorical fingers in his ears, and hummed.
ooOoo
It was a week later, and Sybil was watching him carefully from the overstuffed armchair on the opposite side of the parlour.
She was, Vimes thought, holding the delicate cup and saucer between them like a shield. He stared at it, and replayed the conversation in his head.
He frowned. “No, sorry. I don’t understand.”
She sighed, and placed the cup down next to her. “I’m saying, Sam, that I’m not sure marriage is a good idea. It’s become pretty evident that your heart’s not in it.”
He blinked. He had come to visit expecting to set a new date; maybe in a month or so, to give them time to reorganise everything again. And now she was saying no…?
“But…it is...?” he said weakly.
Sybil gave him a look of exasperation. “Good heavens, man. A blind idiot could see it’s not. It’s the first time I’ve heard from you in a week! We were meant to be married almost a month ago and you’ve not once mentioned it. I’ve barely seen you and when I have you’ve been miserable.”
“Well, yes – I mean, people died on our wedding day.” he said. “That can put a dampener on things.”
Now she scowled. “Don’t give me that, Sam. We both know that’s not it and I will not be lied to.”
He felt shame wash over him, and looked away.
After a minute, and far more softly, she said, “Please, just tell me what’s going on, Sam.”
He scrubbed his face tiredly with his hand, feeling the scratch of several days’ stubble, then dragged his eyes back to look at the woman he’d thought he would be spending the rest of his life with.
He sighed. “Honestly? I have no bloody idea. I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “I think…you’re probably right, though.”
He watched as Sybil’s jaw tightened and then he looked away again, because he couldn’t bear to watch her try not to cry – not over him, of all things.
He cleared his throat. “It’s not…”
“Samuel Vimes, if you dare say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, I will throw you out of that bloody window.” Her cheeks flushed an angry red. She watched him for a while, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say that wouldn’t also run the risk of defenestration, so it was an uncomfortable silence. Sybil chewed her lip, then sighed heavily.
“Very well. If you can come up with some sort of an explanation, you know where I am, and I would very much like to hear it. But I think it’s best you leave now.”
Vimes nodded and stood, feeling slightly like he was watching the whole thing from somewhere outside his body. And then his body was walking itself towards the door, and away from a life that he’d only just begun to believe might be his.
“Sam,” she called as he reached for the handle.
“Yes, de…Sybil?” he replied automatically.
She hesitated. “You won’t do anything silly, now, will you…?”
“Of course not, dear,” he lied, and let himself out.
ooOoo
He hadn’t gone straight to the nearest bar, because whilst nowhere in Ankh-Morpork was more than thirty seconds away from one, the establishments that encircled Scoone Avenue weren’t places Sam Vimes had ever felt comfortable in and were, most certainly now, ones he couldn’t afford.
Part of him – a small, shameful part, but a part nevertheless - was aware he’d been waiting for a good excuse to somersault off the wagon, and now his engagement had just ended and his future was, frankly, up the swanny, who could blame him for having a quick snifter? And he was still having that odd out-of-body sensation, so it wasn’t even really his fault, he thought numbly, whilst watching himself buy a large whisky in the anonymous dive he finally slunk into.
He bought a packet of nuts, too, because he hadn’t eaten a proper meal for days and a vague sense of self-preservation suggested the amount of alcohol he was planning to ingest might sit more comfortably if it wasn’t the only thing in his belly.
See? Sensible, he thought, downing the glass and raising a finger across the bar for a refill.
Several hours later, as he staggered out into the darkness, the unopened packet was picked up out of a small puddle of booze by the barman and hung back on its hook, with many disgruntled mutterings from the other patrons who had for some hours been appreciating the newly revealed assets of the sketch behind them.
Vimes wobbled slightly as the fresh air hit him. What had seemed like a pleasant buzz inside the bar was magnified in the moonlight, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. Happily, however, this briefly took his mind off the many other things he was feeling, and since there was nothing left in him to throw up, after some unproductive retching he straightened up and set off through the streets.
The trouble with alcohol, Vimes would concede when sober, was that it took a virtual cosh to certain parts of the brain; in particular, the parts that usually maintained some semblance of reason and inhibition. Unfortunately, many of the underlying thought processes were left ticking away, and this then led to the current problem, which was that the thin veneer of rationality that usually reigned in the worst of Vimes’ ideas was effectively being pinned down by three drunk thoughts in an alley and given a good kicking.
Sam Vimes had walked the route to the palace so many times he could do it blindfolded from any point in the city, and being so drunk he couldn’t feel his extremities wasn’t going to stop him doing so again tonight.
ooOoo
Word had travelled quickly, and by the time he reached the anteroom of the Oblong Office the clerks had done their whispering and Drumknott was blocking his path.
Vimes was always vaguely wary of anyone who could remain employed in close proximity to Vetinari for any length of time without going slightly mad. How could they cope with all the obfuscation and doublespeak?*, he wondered. Or was it the case that the damned man saved that for people like him; people, Vimes thought bitterly, that he wanted to confuse and manipulate…?
He scowled hazily at the little secretary, who was doing an impressive job of looking unfazed by an angry Vimes. Of course, unflappability was probably a wossname. Pre-requisite of the post. And a consequence of having no bloody imagination, he thought, slightly uncharitably.
Two of the palace guards had also now turned up and were looking at him uncertainly, which made his little heart sing.
Not so bloody keen to lay hands on me now I’m a sodding knight, are you, ya bastards? he thought with satisfaction.
He folded his arms, which probably would have been more intimidating if he wasn’t still swaying gently on his feet. “I want to see him.”
Drumknott raised an eyebrow. “He is busy, Commander. And you are…” he hesitated, and cast a glance at the guards. “…tired, sir.”
Vimes was opening his mouth to continue to argue when the door to the office opened. Drumknott looked around, startled, as Vetinari surveyed the scene before him. “It’s fine, Drumknott. Let him in.”
“Sir! He’s…”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Tired. Yes. I’m aware. It will be fine. You can finish up for the night.” He frowned at the palace guards. “And I’m sure you gentlemen have an empty room to secure, somewhere that is not here.” He stepped back into the office, holding the door open, and Vimes gave them all another scowl as they moved aside to let him past. Vetinari closed the door behind him, and then walked around to sit back behind his desk. The room was lit by a few flickering candles, but the heavy drapes were still open, allowing the night to infiltrate the room.
Vimes suddenly found he had no idea what to say. He had spent the entire walk over preparing to see the man again, but now he was faced with him, none of the words seemed right.
“How can I help you, Commander?” Vetinari said, when it became apparent Vimes wasn’t going to speak first.
To avoid having to look at him, Vimes walked unsteadily to the window that overlooked the city and stared out into the darkness. He cleared his throat. “Sybil left me. Or maybe I left her. I’m not sure which.” Saying the words made an odd chasm open up in his chest, but that was ok; he knew how to fill it. He pulled a small bottle of Bearhugger’s out of his pocket and took a long swig, relishing the burn of it.
“Ah.”
Vimes felt heat rise in his belly, and turned to face him. “Is that all you have to bloody say?! ‘Ah’?!” He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head angrily. “I was supposed to be getting married. To a woman I loved.”
Vetinari raised an eyebrow calmly. “Then why aren’t you, Commander?”
“I don’t fucking know,” he snarled. “Maybe you could tell me?”
The Patrician gave him a cool stare. “I’m sure I have no idea, Vimes.”
“Oh, really? Because you seem to have a bloody good idea about everything else.” He gestured with the temporarily forgotten bottle, sending droplets of whisky sloshing to the floor; Vetinari watched them impassively, but Vimes hadn’t finished. “All your little spies. All your little…manipulations. You’re a fucking spider, weaving a bloody web to sit in the middle of. Aren’t you?” Without seeming to register it Vimes had walked over and was standing in front of Vetinari now, finger waving erratically in the man’s face as he spoke.
Vetinari stared at it, eyes narrowing.
“Be careful, Commander.”
Careful, Vimes thought through the haze of alcohol; nope. We’re well past that. “Or what? Sir?” With an effort of will he steadied the accusatory finger.
Vetinari reached up a hand, took hold of Vimes’ wrist in a surprisingly iron grip, then moved it aside, standing as he did. Vimes fought the urge to step backwards as the other man crowded his space and looked down at him; instead, he stared up directly into those dark eyes and tried to ignore the feel of skin on skin.
“You have had rather a lot to drink, Commander,” Vetinari said tightly. “So I strongly suggest you go back to the yard and get some sleep, after which I’m sure you will feel better, and I will do you the kindness of forgetting this conversation ever happened.”
Vimes wrenched his wrist free from the grip, but didn’t move away. “No. I want to talk about it. You owe me that, you bastard.”
Vetinari stared up at the ceiling. That’s frustration, isn’t it? Vimes thought. I’ve put a crack in the uncrackable bloody veneer. He felt a small thrill at the thought, while deep inside him the inner Vimes watched with horror.
Finally, though, the Patrician sighed heavily. “Very well, Commander. If you needed to get so drunk you can hardly stand in order to have an actual conversation, then I suppose for the sake of your future sobriety we should get this over with. So, by all means. Talk.”
Vimes eyeballed him. “Right…fine,” he said, then another wave of nausea washed over him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, swaying slightly as he did. Vetinari tilted his head, then stepped aside and grasped Vimes’ shoulder, directing him firmly into the chair he had just relinquished.
“But first, sit down, Commander. Because if you fall down in here, I’ll have the palace guards come and pick you up, and I strongly suspect you would regret that later.” He removed the bottle from Vimes’ hand and glanced at it distastefully, then set it on the desk, out of reach.
“Ha!” Vimes surveyed the room from Vetinari’s chair as his spinning head settled somewhat, and watched as the Patrician took his place at the window, favouring his injured leg slightly. He frowned, then shifted distractedly. “Why is your chair so damned uncomfortable?”
Vetinari didn’t turn, but responded absently, “If you had to listen to endless petty-minded petitions from the many and varied citizen groups of this city, Vimes, you would need to find a way to stay awake, too.”
Vimes thought about this for a while. “You don’t sleep.”
“Of course I do. You have some…interesting ideas about me, Commander.” Vimes knew that if he could see Vetinari’s face there would be one carefully raised eyebrow.
He grunted. “Alright, then. You want people to think you don’t sleep.”
Vetinari sounded vaguely irritated. “Is this really what you want to talk about, Vimes? Or are you, perhaps, avoiding the issue at hand?”
Vimes paused, and tried to corral his wandering thoughts into some sort of order. Unfortunately, this required him to remember what it was he’d come here to say, and what had precipitated his current state.
He stared out across the chasm. “I cared for her, you know.”
Now Vetinari turned back to face him. “I’m aware, Commander.” He paused. “And I am sorry.”
“Are you?” Vimes tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, unsuccessfully. “I mean. What kind of thing is that to tell a man right before his wedding?”
Vetinari inclined his head. “Forgive me, Commander. But I’m not sure why it matters. I haven’t asked anything of you. There are no expectations on my side. You could have married Lady Sybil and life would have proceeded exactly as planned, for you.” He paused. “My feelings are my own to deal with.”
Vimes stared at him. “You keep talking about it so…so damned casually. How can you be so bloody relaxed about it? Or is this just…just normal, for you?” He hesitated. “How many other people have you…?” He trailed off and waved a hand vaguely instead, unable to finish the sentence.
The Patrician raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant, Vimes. Does it matter if it’s the first time or the hundredth? You’ve made it clear you have an issue with it, and I’m not in the business of harassing my employees. We won’t say any more about it.”
“Won’t say any more about it?” Vimes closed his eyes and put his head in his hands; the world spun and he quickly opened them again, rubbing his face. “Gods. You think it’s that bloody easy?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No!”
Vetinari narrowed his eyes. “Very well. I apologise if I’ve made things uncomfortable for you.”
“Ha! You ruin my life and apologise for the discomfort. That’s you all over, isn’t it.” He paused. “Just…why?”
“Why what, Commander?”
“Why did you say anything?”
Something complicated flashed across Vetinari’s face; Vimes couldn’t interpret it, and then it was gone and he wondered if he’d even seen it at all. If he focussed, however, he could perhaps make out a slight tension in the man’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
Vetinari seemed to be considering how to answer. “I have found, Vimes, that secrets have a way of…surfacing, eventually. I should have thought more carefully about the timing, and the delivery, perhaps, but…those dark places inside us strive for the light. You may find it helpful to remember that.”
Vimes tried to think of a response, but his eyes had closed again. Maybe he was right, he thought, feeling the world tilt sideways. I should have gone home and slept this off. With a herculean effort he gave himself a shake and looked up.
The Patrician was watching him carefully. “How much exactly did you drink tonight, Commander?”
Vimes waved the hand again. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I think perhaps it does. I’m sure you’re aware that alcohol is a toxin. And you do not look well, Vimes.”
“Do I look like I’m bleeding to death on the floor, sir?”
There was a long silence, but Vimes broke first. “Do you know what that was like…?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Bleeding to death on the floor…? Yes, Commander. I am intimately acquainted with the experience,” Vetinari replied mildly.
“No. Watching it happen to…to someone.”
The Patrician narrowed his eyes. “I am acquainted with that also, Commander.”
Vimes frowned, then realised what he was referring to. “I don’t mean people you’re responsible for putting on the bloody floor, man.” Good gods. He hated assassins. “I meant…shit. I don’t know.” He shook his head, giving up. “Ignore me.”
Vetinari sighed. “Very well. I am going to summon a carriage for you, Commander, and then you are going to go home to bed, and we will continue this conversation – or not – when you have recovered.”
The sudden horror at the prospect of anyone from the yard seeing him in this state cut through the alcohol fog like a hot knife through butter. “No! I’m not going back there tonight. How’s that going to look? Their new commander pissed as a fart and throwing up in the wastebin?” The pair of them glanced at Vetinari’s bin, and Vimes shuddered.
“Very well. Is there somewhere else you can stay?”
Vimes thought hard, or as hard as he was currently able given his brain felt like someone was holding it underwater. He shrugged. “There’s an alley in the fabric district. They chuck the offcuts out there; always made a good place to sleep off a bender in the old days.”
He ignored the long look Vetinari gave him and closed his eyes again.
Finally, the other man said, “No, Sir Samuel. I think not. You can sleep here. It’s a palace; we have spare rooms.”
Vimes grunted, suddenly too tired to argue. “Fine.” He pried his eyes open again, and went to stand up. Halfway through the manoeuvre he realised he wasn’t going to make it as the room spun again and his legs went from under him. He landed heavily back in Vetinari’s chair.
“Bugger.”
After a minute he felt Vetinari appear at his side, and then thin fingers were wrapping themselves around his upper arm. Vimes resisted the urge to pull free, since the alternative seemed to be sitting in the damned chair all night until he sobered up.
He thought he caught Vetinari muttering fabric district under his breath as he steadied him upright. On their way out past the desk, he swiped back the bottle of Bearhugger’s and heard the Patrician sigh.
Vimes threw all of his available energy into not leaning against the other man as he was led through the corridors of the palace, but didn’t need to worry; Vetinari maintained a careful space between them whenever Vimes staggered, but throughout, the steadying hand gripped firmly. Most of the corridors were only dimly lit, and there was noone else to be seen as they wove through them; he found himself wondering how Vetinari had arranged that, then remembered it was after midnight and sensible, non-drunk people were probably in bed.
He was beginning to feel like they were walking in circles when finally they reached a small suite comprising a bedroom and bathroom. The Patrician deposited Vimes on the edge of the bed, and set about lighting the lamps.
Vimes watched him moving soundlessly around the room and took another swig from the bottle. Vetinari noticed, raised an eyebrow, and then stepped over and took it from his hand. Vimes frowned vaguely at the man’s back as he moved away, and then he heard the rest of the liquid being poured down the sink.
When the Patrician came back in, Vimes had managed to stand unaided and was fumbling distractedly with the buckles on his breastplate. After watching him struggle for a minute, Vetinari said, “Would you like some assistance, Commander?”
He abandoned his efforts and scrubbed his face tiredly. “Why not.” He watched as the other man moved to stand slightly to one side of him, and started working on the buckle at his shoulder.
Vimes’ eyes drifted closed. From this position he could catch the delicate scent of the man’s soap, and instinctively he breathed in deeply.
Vetinari’s fingers hesitated, and then slowly pulled the stiff leather free from the buckle. He moved to the other shoulder.
That scent. Clean, crisp, sharp; the embodiment of the man himself. Vimes remembered smelling it before. Carrying him into the Great Hall. Base notes of sandalwood and cedar; top notes of blood and fear.
Vetinari’s fear? Or his?
Vimes suddenly felt very, very sober.
He kept his eyes closed and focussed on the myriad of sensations instead of allowing himself to think. The feel of the fingers working, struggling with the tight strap of the new armour. The heat from the back of a hand as it brushed briefly against the underside of his jaw. The sound of Vetinari breathing softly.
The careful distance between them.
The events of the last month crowded his head and abruptly he ached, viscerally, to be touched.
He cleared his throat. “When did you realise…?” Even hesitant, his voice felt far too loud in the quiet of the room.
The hands paused. “I believe…when I was holding the invitation to your wedding.”
Ah.
The buckle came loose, and he felt the weight on him lighten as the breastplate was pulled away and discarded. Vetinari went to step back, but Vimes’ hand moved of its own accord and caught the robe at the man’s waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric.
He opened his eyes; Vetinari was watching him warily.
“Commander…”
“Don’t. Don’t…say anything. Alright…?”
Vetinari frowned. “I…”
Vimes shut him up by what seemed to be the most expedient method; pulling him in and kissing him.
It was clumsy, and, to start with, entirely one-sided, since Vetinari appeared to have frozen. But Vimes was stubborn, once he’d set his mind to something, so he simply stepped in closer, moved a hand to slide his fingers up to cup the back of Vetinari’s neck, and ran a thumb along his jaw.
For a shocking minute, it seemed to work. The Patrician made a small noise and the tension in him started to fall away; Vimes took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, feeling heady as Vetinari responded.
Gods. The smell, the touch, the taste of him...
And then Vimes swayed slightly on his feet, and instantly the other man stiffened and pulled away. His face went carefully blank, and he moved backwards, putting himself out of Vimes' reach.
Vimes frowned and tried to follow - to chase the lost sensation - but Vetinari held up a hand. “Ah. No, Commander.”
Vimes stopped. “What? Why?”
There was irritation in Vetinari’s voice. “I’m not prepared to be part of your drunken mistake, here, Vimes.”
Vimes scowled. “That’s not…?” He didn’t know how to end the sentence so blinked, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hells.” He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
“Quite.” Vetinari watched him for a moment, eyebrow raised, then said, “Goodnight, Commander.”
Vimes looked up, hoping to find the right words to bring the man back, but the door was already closing behind him.
*Sam Vimes would not, of course, have used those exact terms, but it was almost certainly what he meant by the phrase, ‘talking absolute bollocks’.