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Vetinari has a pair of black gloves.
He cannot figure out the pattern - sometimes the Patrician wears them, and then his slender hands are bare and visible again. Vimes circulated through several theories at this point and none of them manage to entirely explain when Vetinari chooses to wear his gloves.
Vimes knows that if he can figure out the When, he’ll be able to deduce the Why.
It isn’t temperature. Vetinari regularly wears his gloves inside the Oblong Office, and he prowled over Ankh-Morpork’s roofs without them as well, melting out of the shadows beside Vimes on an early, cool spring morning.
“Commander,” he’d greeted Vimes that day, hands neatly folded in front of him. “It’s a refreshingly cold rain today, isn’t it?” Pale skin, black- no, dark green fabric, and the voice of someone who knows you know that he has watched you for a while already.
Right now, his hands are bare again. They’re facing off in the Oblong Office, and the fire is crackling. “Sir.” says Vimes, absently keeping tabs on their conversation while he puzzles over the stupid gloves again.
It isn’t any particular activity Vetinari needs them for. Sometimes he will write with them, and sometimes he won’t. They’re carefully folded over each other next to the pen laying on Vetinari’s desk. Vimes takes the time to study them closer.
The black leather looks soft and well-worn. It’s fabricated nicely, stitches neat. Otherwise, the gloves are unremarkable.
Vimes teaches his men (and women, werewolves, dwarves, golems-) to look at people’s shoes. A good copper can tell a lot about someone just based on their shoes.
Gloves aren’t quite that useful. Vimes knows that they don’t inhibit movement much because the leather is worn to Vetinari’s hands. He knows they are good quality. He knows that Vetinari doesn’t have scars on his hands that would cause him to wear the gloves as to reduce sensation or friction.
Vetinari reaches for the gloves and slips them on as he dismisses Vimes. Why? He will stay in his office to talk to Lord Downey after this, Vimes knows that. What changed?
It used to be an afterthought, but Vimes can’t stand mysteries. So he’s been brooding over the godsdamned gloves for almost a month now and he doesn’t feel any closer to finding out the pattern.
For once, the passive tension coiled around the table isn’t directed at Vimes, so he leans back to watch the theatrics unfold.
There aren’t a lot of places to look – the rats on the walls are awful, the guild leaders might take offense if he stares at them, and Vetinari is out of the question. He sits at the opposite end though, so Vimes’ gaze naturally shifts towards the Patrician.
He opts for studying Vetinari’s glass, tall and filled with a gently sizzling liquid. Something in his brain rattles, a thought trying to climb up to the upstairs department handling Vimes’ actions.
Downey is yelling as loud as he dares while in the same room as the Patrician. Vimes keeps staring at the glass.
The thought falls down the stairs and breaks its leg as Vetinari says: “That would quite do it for today. Thank you for your attendance – Lord Downey, your insight today was especially appreciated.” The words are said in a tone that promises problems if the appreciated behaviour continues.
Vetinari straightens. Vimes shoves his chair back and rests a hand on the back as he allows the guild leaders to file out.
He turns to Vetinari. It’s nothing new that Vimes stays for a while, and the Patrician regards him with a content expression as he raises from his seat. He grabs the glass of fizzling-
The thought leaps up the mental stairs and invades Vimes with a ferocity that pushes him forward without thinking further.
He shoves Vetinari’s hand down, the glass shattering on the floor and the liquid inside foaming. Vimes doesn’t think, he just grabs Vetinari’s face to check-
Vetinari’s eyes fall closed and he sways into Vimes with such force that the Commander takes half a step back to account for the weight. “What-?”
He lets go of the Patrician in startled surprise, releasing his face; Vetinari makes a noise Vimes never wanted to hear again. It’s the sound he made that day his leg got fucked by the gonne, the sound he made in that moment he tried to walk and his eyes suddenly filled with agony that Vimes, to this day, had never witnessed from Vetinari again.
Vetinari makes that noise now, and it chills Vimes so violently that he instinctively goes for the other man again, grabbing his wrist, one arm around his slender waist. “Vetinari!” he barks, worry swallowing him.
Vetinari melts into the support and breathes harshly – Vimes isn’t sure he’s ever heard the Patrician breathe audibly before. He must have ingested the poison in that glass, somehow, at some point-
“Don’t let go.”
Vetinari’s eyes flutter open and he pins Vimes with roaring blue fire in his gaze. “Don’t let go, Vimes.” His voice breaks over the repetition.
Vimes tightens his grip, pulls Vetinari with him to the horribly green sofa in the Rats Chamber and sits down with him.
Then he registers the Patrician trembling. Vimes gathers his yelling thoughts and shouts them down until they have the decency to queue by urgency. First, find the problem.
“How much did you drink?” Vimes growls, his palms briefly patting his torso down. No blood. He grabs hold of his jaw, completely disregarding the usual silent agreement between them to keep a distance.
Vetinari sighs, leans his face into Vimes’ touch. Vimes curses, presses his thumb into the hinge of his jaw to make him open his mouth just enough to check for blood, foam, or anything else. “Vetinari. Vetinari!”
“None.” His tone is off. Vimes cannot find the problem. Where is the problem?
“What is wrong?”
This registers, in a way. Vetinari flinches.
Then, slowly, agonisingly slowly, he pulls himself back and schools his face into the familiar mask of clean neutrality. “Excuse me, Your Grace. I-”
Vimes isn’t doing this. He isn’t. So he shakes his head and wields that stubbornness like a weapon to interrupt the Patrician with: “No, shut up, sir. Something is wrong and I- would you leave those damn gloves off, now!”
Vetinari stills, halfway through slipping on those cursed black gloves. “You’re very commanding right now, Commander. I’m curious why you think that this tone is appropriate with me?”
They’re still sitting close. Vetinari’s voice is warning, but Vimes long learnt how to disregard threats in favour of Finding Out. So he doesn’t respond straight away, but instead scans Vetinari.
The man holds himself as if he was standing in one of these bloody iron maids, or something. Surrounded by sharp metal bits, that is. His posture is so tense that he can’t hide the tremor still running through his hands. His expression is icy nothingness, and his breath is completely even.
But the anguish in his voice as Vimes touche- as Vimes let go; the plea and now this-
Vimes reaches out, takes the gloves from defenceless hands to put them aside, and then envelopes the bare palms with his own.
Vetinari breaks.
His long, pale fingers close tightly over Vimes’ own, and the mask slips as his chin dips down and a deep, shivering sigh is forced from his entire body.
“How long…when…” Vimes reconsiders. “Who touched you last?”
Vetinari’s voice is quiet, a shattered, tired thing. “You.”
“That was when you were poisoned. That was almost a year ago.”
“Almost, yes.” Vetinari’s tone suspiciously sounds like he could recite the exact time down to the hour, if asked. Vimes doesn’t. Instead he listens to the next thought in line and says: “We’re gonna go somewhere private, now. I won’t explain this to Drumknott and I know damn well you’d rather stab yourself than let anyone see you right now.” Anyone but me, he thinks fiercely.
Vetinari seems like he’s inclined to argue, but then his fingers tighten, once, twice. And he nods.
It’s fascinating to see the tyrant of Ankh-Morpork like this. Vetinari cannot hide the exhaustion in his lines, the resigned desperation to be touched. And Vimes slowly realises that anyone but him might not have gotten to see this at all.
Anyone but him might have gotten a cold blade the moment they touched Vetinari.
With great reluctance shimmering through his movements, Vetinari lets go and raises up, reaching for his cane. Vimes follows him to one particularly ugly spot of wallpaper and doesn’t pretend to be surprised as the Patrician reveals a secret passage into narrow corridors.
Winding, dark hallways lead them into a chamber that looks awfully lived-in. It has one tall window, and judging by the light falling through the heavy curtain it must be facing out the east side of the Palace.
Vimes doesn’t investigate past that, because he still has priorities to attend to. He doesn’t really wait for a questioning silence to settle, just gathers the slender, tall shape of the Patrician close and pulls him into a full-bodied hug.
Vetinari shudders, immediately dropping the cane – it sounds hollow as it meets the wood floor, Vimes’ inner Watchman notes – and wrapping his arms around Vimes’ shoulders. Vetinari presses his face into the side of his neck and lets all of his weight fall into the hug.
It’s incredibly out of character. To Vimes, it makes sense.
He murmurs: “How about we lie down?” He knows Vetinari will know how he means that. He knows he doesn’t need to explain, not to the man who is so starved for human contact that a hug alone has him shivering.
Vetinari is silent. He just takes a step back – and Vimes notices how the Patrician has been the first to break contact since he asked Vimes not to let him go, because there is no world in which Vimes would let go first, now.
Unsteady fingers still slip fluidly over the neat row of buttons until the black overcoat pools like liquid tar at their feet. Vimes removes his boots, the leather holster and everything else that does not belong in a bed.
Then he sits on the mattress, watching Vetinari put away two- th- four, no- sev- nine knives. Vimes snorts quietly.
Vetinari smiles at him, drily amused. It heals something in Vimes to see the usual spirit shine through the broken glass.
Then, Vetinari carefully lowers himself onto the mattress and Vimes wastes no time, just grabs his waist and draws him in.
Vetinari allows him to manoeuvre them into a comfortable position, sliding his bare hands under the loose, white linen shirt Vimes is wearing and lets out another bone-deep sigh.
“Thank you…Sam.” says Vetinari into the dim, candle-lit darkness. Vimes buries one hand into the strands of hair that always stands up in the Patrician’s nape and rasps: “Yeah. Uh- of course.”
He tugs gently at the hair and keeps up a steady rhythm as Vetinari’s hands hesitantly flatten over his skin. It’s like the man is drinking all that contact up, every spot their bodies are touching feeling like a live wire.
Vetinari seems disinclined to say anything else. When Vimes angles his head down, he can just about make out dark lashes drawing shadows over a tired, tired face. Vetinari looks heartbreakingly human like this and something in Vimes swears to never allow the man to make that- that terrible noise again, the one when Vimes let go.
The Watchman watches. He watches the candles flicker, the scuffs along the floor, the lonely cane in the middle. He trails gentle strokes from Vetinari’s neck, down between his shoulder blades, his spine, until he can feel his ribs slowly expand under each breath.
It’s a hazy sort of stillness enveloping Vetinari. He’s fully melted into Vimes’ arms, fitting their bodies together and Vimes likes how it feels like they were shaped for this.
Shaped for his arms around Vetinari’s waist, for his face to rest in the crook of Vimes’ shoulder, breath fanning over the linen collar.
Lost in all the sensations, both foreign and achingly familiar, Vimes doesn’t notice how the Patrician’s breathing shifts until his body on Vimes somehow becomes heavier.
Vetinari is asleep.
“Alright.” Vimes murmurs to himself, and moves his leg so it won’t fall asleep as well. “Let’s give you twenty minutes.” Anything more would unsettle Vetinari and his schedule too much, anything less is below Vimes’ standards as self-appointed…
-what?
Personal guard? Carer? Surely not his capacity as Commander of the City Watch, Vimes can tell that much to himself without pulling a face. But what he’s doing feels…significant.
Another thought lines up with a suggestion. Vimes looks at it and then pushes it into a dark alley.
Vetinari stirs, moving like syrup, after roughly fifteen minutes, saving Vimes from more existential contemplation. “Hello, Sir. Welcome back.”
“S- Sam.” says Vetinari quietly.
“Makes me nervous when you call me that,” Vimes grumbles. “’s strange.” He can sense the eyebrow rising up before Vetinari answers. “That is where you draw the line, Vimes? Not any other unusual circumstances?”
“Nothing I’d ever object to.” Vimes carefully says.
Vetinari falls silent for a moment. “You never fail to surprise me, Sir Samuel.” is what he settles on after a while. “I take it you would be…amenable to repeating this, then?”
Vimes rolls his eyes, thankful for being out of the Patrician’s field of vision – the man would certainly hear his eyeroll, but Vimes could plausibly deny it this way. “Yes.”
“Good.” Vetinari says, tone suddenly almost relieved. He presses his forehead against Vimes’ shoulder for the fraction of a second, before resolutely disentangling from their embrace.
Their eyes meet. Vimes knows Vetinari would understand what he was thinking as they look at each other, the realisation filling him with ease.
Vetinari studies him for another moment and then straightens. Vimes collects the cane from the floor and absently passes it to the Patrician still sitting on the bed.
They go back through the labyrinth of passages in companionable silence, Vetinari’s fingers briefly brushing over the back of Vimes’ hand just before they part.