Chapter Text
It was undeniable. Havelock could no longer lie to himself, which meant he had to make the decision to lie to the Vimes’s or…
Or to come clean, as it were.
Some symptoms were easy to wave away, his work-life balance being practically nonexistent did have consequences occasionally, but some- well. There's no better teacher than experience.
At least he wasn't showing yet. He had time. Time to make a decision.
Which brought him here. Scaling walls to reach the roofs of the Assassins Guild, slotting himself into a familiar crevice between old beams and carved stone.
Havelock wrapped his arms around himself, sighing. He felt dreadfully nauseous.
“You're certainly trouble, aren't you?” He murmured. His hands clutched his own arms, an imitation of comfort. “I won't say who you get that from.”
The wind picked up, and he shivered, pulling the thin overcoat tighter as he stood, looking across the rooftops of the city. Looking down didn't help with the nausea.
“Your sister didn't give me any of this. I would have failed my classes.” Havelock frowned at his own petulant tone, beginning to carefully climb down to the street level. He remained rather smug about the whole thing, really, because outstripping the other boys at climbing while pregnant was something he thought he deserved to be smug about.
No one could know, and, now, no one did. He remained smug in private.
If he had suffered with this ‘morning’ sickness¹ at the time, he doubted he would have made it to graduation.
(¹A better term would be “any and potentially all times of the day or night sickness”. Vetinari was considering passing a law about it.)
As he found his way back into the palace he left a note on Drumknotts desk to arrange a visit with Sybil - and Vimes.
The Patrician hesitated for a moment before letting the paper rest. This would change things, potentially everything, not only between the three of them but for the city.
The hallways between the Oblong Office and his bedroom were long and cold and dark, so he took the secret passages.
Havelock slid into bed and used one hand to reach for the base of one hollow bedpost and withdraw a small sheep teddy, old and well loved but in good condition, and pull it to his chest. It was cute in an ugly sort of way, the sort of thing a wealthy parent would keep far away from their little heir, with lovingly embroidered blue swirls of movement on the legs.
His thumb traced over the back left leg². The embroidery here was different, the swirl of motion becoming something with purpose.
(²The same leg that carried the scar from the gonne wound. Havelock often felt a kinship with the old toy, and when he had been nearly delirious with pain and pain medication he had been completely unable to explain to the doctor why he found the idea of a permanent scar on that leg so funny.)
Guinevere.
It was stitched in green thread, complimenting the blue, the two colours carefully picked to match each other as well as the soft deep brown of the sheep itself.
The hurt was more than twenty years old, and older than she ever got to be.
The hand not holding the sheep settled at his abdomen. Slowly, he relaxed enough to close his eyes and sleep.
-
The next evening, rain battered the windows and Vimes paced.
“Sam, he’s not going to execute you.”
Vimes scowled but didn’t stop pacing. Vetinari had been avoiding both of them since they returned from that disastrous attempt at diplomacy, and Vimes was worried.
”I don’t think he’s going to have me killed, Sybil, but-“ He heard Willikins open the front door. Vimes rushed through his thoughts, not wanting Sybil to misunderstand. “Look, he made sure that I was- okay with it. I’m worried he… wasn’t. You know how hard he is to read.”
Sybil softened, and stood up to take his hand. ”We both know you can read him quite well.”
The sitting rooms door opened and Willikins showed a drenched Vetinari in. There was something off about his clothes, but Vimes couldn’t put his finger on it.
”Goodness, Havelock, did you walk?” Sybil gasped. She turned to Willikins and saw a towel already in his hands. “Thank you, Willikins, Sam and I can take it from here.”
“Of course, my lady.” The butler bowed lightly, passed her the towel, and left.
Vetinari looked hilariously confused as Sybil practically swaddled him in the towel, Vimes thought. He felt himself smiling and stamped down on it.
The Patrician, managing to escape Sybil’s attentions, waved a hand dismissively. “I only walked from the carriage to your front door, I’m afraid.”
Thunder rolled, pointedly. The rain continued to batter the windows.
The three of them stood, awkwardly, until Sybil realised Vetinari wasn’t going to get to the point and took charge. As she ushered Vetinari into a plush armchair, cane balanced gently against the wall, and Sam to the settee she talked about nothing in particular, clearly aiming to give Vetinari time to collect himself. She passed out cups of tea, and Vimes watched Vetinari's hands stop trembling as the warmth from the cup spread, though he didn’t drink from it.
As Sybil sat on the settee beside him, Vimes figured out what was bothering him about Vetinari's clothes. They were normal, and the towel wrapped around his shoulders only emphasised it. No robe in sight and, notably, wet where they shouldn’t be because-
”You didn’t wear a coat?! In this weather?!”
”Ah.” Vetinari blinked, and then smiled wryly. He glanced down at his own clothes with amusement. “I knew there was something wrong. Interrupted sleep will do that, I suppose."
Vimes and Sybil shared a concerned look. ”What’s wrong enough that you forgot your coat? That’s not like you at all, sir.”
The two of them watched Vetinari visibly tense, steeling himself for something… And then deflate, sprawling in the armchair with an air of resignation.
“I’m pregnant. As a result of the incident last month.” Vimes shattered his teacup. Sybil’s cup fell to the floor and rolled along the carpet. Vetinari winced, but continued. “I felt I should… consult you, about what should happen.”
Sam let the cup's pieces fall to the floor. He felt sick.
”What… What do you mean, consult us? Havelock, this isn’t up to us. This…” Sybil swallowed, voice tight.
”Considering it is your husbands, I assumed you would have a strong opinion on the matter.” Vetinari snapped, one arm wrapping around his own abdomen and the other placing the teacup to the side with a sharp clatter. “Most people prefer not to have evidence of their spouses' dalliances running around.”
Something fell into place in Sam’s brain.
”You want to keep it. You don’t want to get rid of it.” Sam said, disbelieving. “You- you think we’d make you get rid of it?”
Vetinari’s face did something complicated.
”…” His arm tightened defensively over his stomach. “I don’t believe you would be cruel about it, Vimes, but it wasn’t something you wanted in the first place. It would be cruel to keep what you weren’t willing to give.”
“You-!” Sam stood up sharply and stomped towards Vetinari’s chair. “You don’t-! Listen to me, alright? I’m not deciding if you keep it or not, the only decision I want to make is the decision to be involved and- and I’d want to be there. I want-“
I want you.
Running out of steam, he couldn’t get the words out
He turned to Sybil for help and she took pity on him. ”Sam and I would like for you to stay for dinner, Havelock. I think this needs a proper discussion.”
Havelock looked at both of them like they were insane.
”You really expected-?” Sybil asked, cutting herself off. “We care about you. I’ll be quite frank that if you had told me you wanted to grow your family I would have recommended Sam for the job.”
Sam flushed, but nodded. Seeing Havelocks wonder as Sybil spoke, his mind went back to the stilted confusion after he’d gone down on the other man and once again thought: Bastards. It makes sense he’d have terrible taste in men.
Havelock burst into tears.
”What did we say?” Sam panicked, one hand going to Havelocks arm. “What’s wrong?”
”To- To grow my family?” Havelock sobbed, grasping Sam’s wrist. Havelock cried almost silently, every noise choked down into the quietest it could be, but when he spoke he couldn’t quiet himself.
”You have us, Havelock, and Young Sam. Any additions would be growth, by my count.”
Sam winced when Havelock's grip tightened on his wrist, but didn’t pull away. He met the other man's searching look and nodded again.
They spent half an hour sitting with him while he tried to stop crying.
Havelock agreed to stay for dinner, warning them that he might not eat much. As the three of them sat together Sam kept a keen eye on what Havelock ate and slipped more onto his plate whenever he wasn’t looking. Havelock gave him a look.
”I’m quite capable of feeding myself, Vimes.” Havelock side-eyed him, but despite the (thin) veneer of scolding Vimes could tell he was pleased with the attention.
Sybil laughed slightly, “Ah, but you’re eating for two, Havelock.”
Havelock paused, looking down at his plate, before the corner of his mouth curled upwards.
”Yes,” He smiled properly at Sybil, face going soft. “I suppose so.”
Is this what a heart attack feels like? Sam thought, holding his cutlery tight as he watched Sybil and Havelock smile at each other and then look away, feeling delirious.
They’d had to work fast, ignoring whatever potentially romantic feelings Havelock may or may not return, to convince him that they didn’t care what he did about the baby as long as it was what he wanted. Dinner was practically comfortable after that.
“It’s a good thing Sam wore himself out before you arrived.” Sybil said, taking a small sip of her drink. “I can’t imagine we would have managed that conversation with him toddling around.”
The three of them paused.
“Ah.” “Oh dear.” “Fuck.”
”What are we going to tell Sam?” Havelock covered his face with one hand. “It wouldn’t be kind to spring it on him suddenly, but he can’t keep a secret; he’s a toddler.”
Sam found Havelocks other hand on their side of the table in the same moment that Sybil reached over to rest a hand on his arm.
”We’ll figure it out.”
He saw Sybil squeeze their Patricians arm as she agreed, “We will. And Sam will be so happy to have you here more often, Havelock.”
He huffed a little, noticing she didn’t specify which Sam would be happy to see Havelock more often, but squeezed his hand as well.
”He’ll be happy to have a sibling, too.”
”A sister.” Havelock said quietly. His thumb traced something on Sam’s hand while his eyes seemed to unfocus. “I… it feels like a girl.”
Sam closed his eyes, trying to follow what Havelock was tracing. It was too consistent to be random patterns, and too varied to be a simple soothing technique.
That’s an E… He frowned, relaxing his hand to give Havelock more surface. He’s back at the beginning, G… u, i, n, e-
Havelock stopped, inhaling sharply and pulling his hand away, shifting his arm to move Sybil’s hand as well. Sam repeated the letters in his mind, determined to remember.
“The pregnancy will be difficult, physically. The birth, worse.” Havelock said eventually. “I'm older than you were with Young Sam, and- my body has been through quite a bit. I'm hardly built for this.”
“We’ll get a good doctor and I can be with you when she's born, if you'd like.” Sybil offered. She had told him, once, that it was difficult for her to decide if she wanted him in the room, she had wanted his support but at the same time…
It was somewhat lucky she'd decided he didn't need to be there, obviously. The storm, Carcer, Keel-
Havelock hummed noncommittally. Sam could tell he was pulling away, ready to make his excuses and escape.
“I…” Havelock trailed off, looking conflicted. “We will have more to discuss, I'm sure, but I should…”
Sybil sighed. “If you’ve finished eating, I suppose we can't keep you forever. The rain may have stopped, but take a coat, won't you? Just in case?”
Havelock let her wrap a dark cloak that she had grown out of as a teenager around his shoulders as they saw him out. Despite his reluctance, Sam saw him curl his fingers in the soft fur lining.
He also saw as Sybil paused, her eyes trailing over Havelock. Her expression took on a thoughtful quality, adjusting the cloaks fastening as she considered… something.
“We’ll have to get you some new clothes. I know how you are about fabrics, when your current clothes stop fitting properly I'll take your measurements and have some made.”
Havelock waved a hand, distracted by adjusting the grip on his cane to avoid catching the fabric. Exhaustion had settled around him almost as physically as the cloak. “That's not necessary, I’ve barely changed shape since I was fifteen; the ones I had made then will still fit.”
He slipped out of the house with a polite farewell, disappearing into the dark Ankh-Morpork streets while they stared after him. Sam could still hear him, dampened by the fog, as he paused on the cobbles and cursed quietly.
Then there was nothing to hear.
He turned to Sybil, and she did the same. Their eyes met.
More to discuss, indeed.