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Chapter Text

Today nothing unusual was happening in the city of Ankh-Morpork, at least by its standards (by anywhere else's standards, pure madness was going on, of course, that went without saying, but in the home of the Unseen University nothing below flying livestock and creatures breaking in from other realities qualified as even diluted levels of madness anymore).

Crowds thronged around a newly erected stall in Short Street, their voices rising in a cacophony of wonder, confusion and, in some cases, preemptive complaint. People jostled and shoved, eager to get their hands on the what was advertised to be the latest sensation.

The signs hanging above the stall read:

"Genuine Klatchian Miracle! Witness the Lives You Might Have Lived! Limited Supply!"

The stall was manned by a mysterious merchant in a gaudy robe speaking with an accent that would have been impossible to place were it not for the aforementioned sign (Klatchian, obviously, that is what this accent is, it says so right here, why would you doubt it?), who extolled the virtues of the gleaming devices laid out before him: intricately framed mirrors that shimmered with a strange, hypnotic, perhaps even tautological?, light.

The Looking Glasse! read another sign, placed a few feet in front of the stall where C.M.O.T. Dibbler nearly tripped over it. He eyed it with no small amount of interest, then allowed his gaze to traverse the line of customers, which seemed to be made up of all Ankh-Morpork had to offer: humans, dwarfs, trolls, alive, undead and anything in between, plus one Nobby Nobbs who might have been neither or, just as likely, a curious mixture of all of the above.

If Dibbler could smell one thing (and after years of cooking up his pies his sense of smell had certainly taken damage to the point where he could possibly only smell one thing), it was a booming business. And, well, he could also see that it was. But something kept him from stepping closer this time.

*

Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, sat at his desk in the Palace, fingers steepled as he listened to Drumknott read the latest reports.

"... and there have been three brawls near the Guild of Seamstresses over possession of a Looking Glasse," Drumknott said primly. "The Alchemists' Guild has declared them highly unstable, though they cannot discern the precise magical properties. One Glasse is currently at the Unseen University where it is supposed to undergo examination."

Vetinari’s lips thinned. "A Klatchian miracle device, you say?"

"That is how it is being marketed, sir. However, our contacts in Klatch claim ignorance. Further investigation is needed."

Having expected nothing else, Vetinari nodded.

"And the people purchasing these devices are getting the desired use out of them?"

"Indeed, sir. Reports vary, but some certainly claim to have witnessed alternative versions of their lives -- that is, realities where different decisions were made or the city itself developed along unexpected lines."

Vetinari’s expression didn’t change, but he was aware that Drumknott knew him well enough to detect the faintest flicker of irritation. This was not what he had expected. He had thought this would be a scam. Well, perhaps it still was. He would have preferred a more straightforward case of false advertising (very common in Ankh-Morpork) to a possibly supernatural disaster that might end up breaking the fabric of reality (sadly, also not uncommon in Ankh-Morpork).

"And how much are these devices selling for?" he asked, shuffling the papers on his desk.

"Ah, 9.99 $AM, sir. Despite this, demand continues to grow."

Vetinari rose from his chair, moving to the window that overlooked the sprawl of Ankh-Morpork. It was a clear day; the Ankh gleamed greenish-brown in the  morning light and even from the distance, he could see the throngs of people bustling beneath him.

"Drumknott," he asked, tone mildly curious, "you wouldn't have used such a device yourself, would you?"

The young man shook his head, his cheeks showing only the faintest traces of pink. "No, sir, although we have acquired one for you, sir, as you wished." He took a step forward and placed a paper-wrapped bundle on Vetinari's desk.

"Perhaps the Watch should be dispatched to confiscate the remaining devices?" Drumknott suggested. He was not one to fidget and so he stood very, very still instead. It was, in its own way, his tell.

Vetinari strode away from the window and slid into his chair. He elected to not question his head clerk further, though the mild disturbance in his usually nondescript manner was not uninteresting. Drumknott would not lie to him, he was sure of that, but he might omit certain parts of the truth where it could skirt into the 'too personal' (which never happened since Drumknott had so little in terms of a personal life that even an average houseplant might have had more privacy to protect).

"I suppose that would be wise. Have we at least determined that this device is not in any way related to Holy Wood?"

"I believe so, sir. Should I send for the Archchancellor to confirm?"

"No, not yet. I'm certain we will hear from him soon enough." Vetinari tugged experimentally on the wrapping paper. Under Drumknott's watchful gaze he bared the device his clerk had delivered. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a common mirror, a rectangular frame, adorned with some gaudy baubles and overly 'mysterious etchings' (snakes, spiders, something that looked suspiciously like a banana), around a reflecting silver surface. Vetinari studied it, raising an eyebrow. His reflection gazed back at him, the same steely blue eyes, the same arched brow. To Vetinari's relief, it neither smiled nor winked, nor did it indulge in any other clichéd behavior that might suggest the involvement of otherworldly powers. What he saw was merely his own face.

"That will be all for now, Drumknott," he said absentmindedly as he traced the frame. The average citizen of Ankh-Morpork had an unrivaled propensity for getting involved with supernatural powers far beyond their understanding. Havelock Vetinari was not the average citizen, but for once he was taking the kind of risk he himself would have advised against. He was a man of few (if any) vices, but if he had one it was a desire to know. Information was power, one simply could not have too much.

"Show me another reality," he tried, not certain if a verbal prompt was what the mirror required. It had not come with an instruction manual. The wizards had once shown him their so-called Omniscope which was supposed to enable the user to see anything at any time. They had, of course, made a big fuss about how difficult it was to use and how it was never to be put in the hands of someone unqualified (i.e. any non-wizards).

If this truly was a powerful magical object, the Archchancellor would already be here, Vetinari thought, Ridcully would never stand idly by while such a thing was shilled to the unwashed masses.

Therefore, he felt somewhat safe experimenting with it. However, he was still waiting for his words to take effect.

"I said," he repeated testily, finger tapping the carving of a snake's head, "show m--"

There was a burst of light from the device, white hot and blinding. Reflexively, he squeezed his eyes shut. The temperature in the room dropped and Vetinari felt as though he was hauled bodily into the air. His hands jerked towards the drawer that contained his emergency dagger, but they found nothing and when he opened his eyes, he found himself in a completely different location.

He was on a rooftop, snow drifting lazily from a star-spattered night sky, breath fogging in front of his face.

What?

Vetinari wanted to look around, but found that he had no control over his body - if it was indeed his body.

Of their own accord, his gloved fingers found purchase between shingles as he crouched. He was on the edge of the roof and bent over to peer at a balcony beneath him.

Stop this! Send me back! Abort whatever this is!

He couldn't speak and his frantic thoughts had no effect. He was merely a passenger, trapped in a strange scene.

No, not strange, he realized as he swung gracefully down and landed on the balcony. He recognized his surroundings. And when he turned and saw his reflection in the dark pane of glass opposite him, he also recognized this moment in time. Here he was, Havelock Vetinari, aged twenty-five, just returned from his Grand Sneer, freezing cold and hungry, and with nowhere to go.

Not that this was as dire a situation as one might have thought. He'd easily infiltrated the city and the young man gazing at him from beyond the decades was not desperate, merely inconvenienced.

This is a memory, Vetinari thought as he studied his appearance in the glass. He wore the greenish-grey cloak, now white with snow and poor camouflage considering the weather. His hair - black like a raven's, not one little thread of silver in his mane yet - hung limply into his pale, unlined face. So young, so arrogant. If he'd had any control over the body he was occupying, he might have shaken his head at himself. Foolish boy. You are not ready for this city yet.

But he knew what was about to happen. He didn't need any magical device to show him. This was a waste of time and he hated wastes of time.

The young man raised his hand and knocked, three quick raps against the glass. Then he waited for the flickering light of a candle. There it was. It was the same. This was deeply vexing.

"Who's there?" came a whisper from inside.

He didn't speak, just knocked one more time. There was shuffling, then a familiar, large shadow.

She'll have a crossbow, you had better take a step to the left, he thought at his younger self, which presumably occupied this body. 

The glass door swung open and there was Lady Sybil, twenty-one years old, dressed in a blue robe over a frilly nightgown. The robe had a bunny embroidered on its pocket. She was brandishing a loaded crossbow.

"Aha!" she cried, "Hands where I can--"

His younger self had already ducked and sidestepped, then he came up and grabbed the crossbow from below, twisting it out of her grip. Sybil gasped in shock and outrage and Vetinari had just enough time to brace himself for the pain he knew to be coming when she managed to kick him in the shin. He leapt backwards, snatched the bolt out of the crossbow and pocketed it.

Sybil, being her father's daughter and a Ramkin to the bone, was still coming after him, making up what she lacked in training and experience with sheer stubbornness and fury.

He managed to slip out of reach and catch her by the arm to keep her from falling over the balustrade in her relentless pursuit.

"It's me," he hissed, "Havelock Vetinari."

Sybil came to a stop, huffing and puffing, cheeks pink. An elderly swamp dragon shuffled out of the room behind her, wheezing.

He released her and peeled back the hood of his cloak.

"Gods, Havelock, it is you!" she bellowed, eyes wide. "I say, what are you doing here? How did you even get into the city?!"

"Shh, I need a place to stay, my lady," his younger self whispered, ignoring her questions. "I was hoping you could provide me with food and shelter for a few nights. I shall repay you, once I regain access to my inheritance. I'm afraid it's all rather complicated at present."

"Oh, certainly! You know you're always welcome here!" She waved one hand airily while her little dragon clamped his jaws experimentally around Vetinari's ankle. "And never you mind about repayment, what nonsense! Do come in."

After dislodging the mostly toothless dragon, he followed her into her candlelit bedroom where a truly terrifying portrait of Lord Ramkin glowered at him.

I remember this, Vetinari thought darkly as the other him cleared his throat. Lady Sybil's clothes were haphazardly strewn all over the place. She quickly snatched what looked like two sacks on lacy garters off an armchair and stuffed it into her wardrobe.

"Errr... obviously you can't sleep in here because that would be highly improper. And also, please return my crossbow!" She held out her hands.

His younger self was trying to gently but firmly nudge the swamp dragon, which had followed him doggedly, away with his foot.

"Do you know how to use it, my lady?"

"Why, there's no need for that tone! I'm sure I do!"

"Weapons can be dangerous in the hands of amateurs, especially ones as spirited as yourself," Vetinari heard himself drawl.

"It's my crossbow, Havelock!" She put her hands on her hips and glowered, but the blush ruined the effect she hoped to achieve. She was such a girl still, even at twenty-one, and Vetinari felt the comparisons to Lady Margolotta flow through his younger self's mind.

"Fine, but in exchange for your hospitality, I will make sure you won't need it," he said and returned the weapon.

"Well, I should feel much safer then, knowing I am guarded by a trained assassin," she replied with enough irony to remind him of the woman she would become. "I suppose if you had come to inhume me, you would have done so by now."

"Yes," he said flatly.

"That's a relief then." She clutched her robe more tightly around herself, placed the crossbow on the armchair and picked up a candlestick. "You said you wanted food. Let's go to the kitchen. Cook has retired for the night, but I can make you something. If you trust a spirited amateur with a frying pan, that is."

*

So he was to be trapped then? Forced to relive a trite memory while his actual body-- what? Sat motionless in the Oblong Office? Vetinari contemplated as this distant version of him tracked melting snow all over the Ramkin carpets.

"Who else is in the house?" he asked.

"Oh, only Forsythe, Cook and old Mrs Willikins, the housekeeper.They're in the other wing, though. And poor old Forsythe's been losing his hearing. Father says it's been going since that awful brute punched him in the head back before Lord Winder was assassinated - not that Forsythe would admit it, mind you."

"Lord Ramkin is leading a regiment into Pseudoplis, I heard."

"Yes," Sybil said, a faint tremor in her voice. "I begged him not to go, you know. He's sixty! Surely he has fought in enough wars by now! But it only made him cross with me and he stomped off in a great big huff. A Ramkin doesn't shy away from battle! The day he doesn't take up his sword when he is called upon to fight for kin and countrymen and honour and meat pie and whatever Snapcase has them fighting for is the day he is to be buried! So he said."

"Ah."

"I take it you're dodging the draft?"

"Obviously."

"Good," she said grimly, "I always knew you were smarter than any of the other boys."

"I would certainly hope so."

She snorted at his dry response as she placed her candle stick on the wooden kitchen table.

"Take a seat."

Having no choice in the matter, Vetinari sat and watched Sybil dip into the pantry for ingredients. He tried to remember what she had made that night, but found that he couldn't. Had she even cooked? He had vague recollections of having been holed up in her attic in Scoone Avenue, various old and dribbly swamp dragons creeping into his makeshift bed whenever they thought he didn't notice. He hadn't minded. It had been almost cozy.

What a strange point in his life he was forced to relive.

Sybil had retrieved a pan, started up a fire and was cracking eggs and slicing bacon. His younger self watched the sway of her behind as she cooked and Vetinari was somewhat appalled at himself. Yes, he had done this, yes, it came back to him: he had entertained thoughts.

Why?

Because of her.

Margolotta was to blame for not saying anything but Ah, so you must go, I understand. when he'd told her he had to leave. What had he expected? That a vampire a hundred years his elder would beg him to stay? Tell him she loved him? That she could not go on without him there? Laughable.

He would never have admitted it, but it had hurt his ego - perhaps even his feelings, such as they existed. And yes, that night, with young Lady Sybil Ramkin he had thought, what if?

Sybil was humming to herself as she flipped strips of bacon, fat sizzling. The old swamp dragon was tugging on Vetinari's trouser leg, gnawing as well as he could with what was left of his teeth.

"Oh, just push him off if he's a bother," Sybil told him without turning around. "He means no harm. Only, they can get a bit funny in their old age, much like humans, too."

"How have you been?" he heard himself ask.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one who's been on a great adventure. I've just been here."

There was frustration in her voice and he remembered this as well. While he was home, old Lord Ramkin had not let the apple of his eye, his last surviving child, out of his sight. After her years at boarding school he had all but locked her up in his mansion. It wasn't a bad thing, necessarily, not while someone as unpredictable as Snapcase was in power. Knowing what he knew now, Vetinari was certain Lord Ramkin had done what was best for his daughter even though it might not seem that way to her.

His younger self didn't reply.

Sybil rummaged around in a cabinet, found him a plate and cutlery and, with an unnecessary flourish, served him a plate of eggs and bacon, then she sat down opposite him, put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. He avoided her probing gaze and started eating.

The bacon went crunch in his mouth. It wasn't a great meal - there were too many burnt bits and the eggs were somewhat gummy - but he was so hungry it felt like a feast.

"Only, your aunt wrote to me about this ill-advised romantic pursuit you were in," Sybil said, apropos of nothing, "her words, mind you, not mine."

Ah, thought the older Vetinari, I shall not be spared this indignity then.

Perhaps he ought to be grateful that the mirror had deposited him here and not - what was it? - a week earlier when he - if he remembered correctly, which he no doubt did - would have been in Genua where his aunt had currently set up base, where she confronted him with her knowledge about what he had been up to in Überwald "and with whom". A vampire, Havelock? And she is how old exactly? Oh, don't look at me like that, little nephew, you are not the only one who knows how to stay informed. May I remind you who taught you in the first place?

Sybil sighed, a disturbingly dreamy look on her kind, round face. "I think it sounds very dramatic, but in a good way, you see? And you of all people, Havelock!"

"It is done, my lady, and there is nothing left to say about it," said young Vetinari, in a voice cold enough to freeze the puddle that had formed beneath his boots.

Sybil’s expression faltered for just a moment before she rallied, her natural Ramkin stubbornness reasserting itself. "Oh, come now, don’t be like that. I’m only teasing. Well, mostly. You must admit, it is rather romantic--"

"Romantic?" His younger self’s voice was sharp enough to make the swamp dragon pause mid-chew. "It was a dalliance. A foolish one. And it is over."

Sybil’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. "Well, if you say so. But I’ve never known you to be foolish before, so I rather think there must have been something to it."

Vetinari - the older Vetinari, trapped in this memory - felt a flicker of irritation. Enough of this. He had no desire to relive this conversation, nor the uncomfortable swirl of emotions that had accompanied it in his youth. He had been angry then, though he had hidden it well. Angry at Margolotta, at himself, at the entire wretched business of emotions complicating what should have been a straightforward arrangement.

Angry at John Keel for dying all those years ago when he could have accomplished so much more.

There was no justice in the world, only survival at whatever cost was necessary.

Head lowered, young Vetinari shoveled eggs and bacon into his mouth.

"I'm sorry you were hurt," Sybil said softly after a few minutes, "and I'm sorry for being so insensitive about it."

Vetinari felt the flare of resistance in this body he occupied; the boy wanted to argue, tell her he wasn't hurt, he wasn't some silly little girl, it was altogether ridiculous. He didn't. He changed the topic instead.

"Madam objected to my coming here. She wanted me to stay in Genua with her, at least for the duration of the war."

But he'd been filled with resentment and he'd ached for his city, so he'd come and now he was to haunt Sybil's attic for a few weeks before realizing that his aunt had had a point. It was too early. Snapcase still had support. He hadn't lost his mind in the obvious ways yet. Starting pointless wars that would end up killing hundreds was acceptable, it was only when he put on a ball gown and appointed his horse to councilor that people began to doubt him.

"She's not wrong, you know. All the young men are being drafted and those who refuse to join the regiments are thrown into the dungeons where they're beaten and starved. It's awful." Sybil sighed. "Of course, one is able to get out of the whole thing by making a generous donation to the war effort."

"I see. And you've been writing to my aunt about all this?"

"What? Oh no, we just gossip! About balls and gowns and who has been seen with whom and such! We're just a bunch of silly gels, you know!" Sybil laughed, her eyes sparkling.

"It could be dangerous. Madam isn't exactly unknown to our Lord Patrician. They have a history. Her correspondence--"

Sybil rolled her eyes at him. "Do you think me such a fool, Havelock? I'm not entirely stupid! I'm simply a bored young lady, sending lots of letters to all my friends all over the Disc. Just last week I sent two to Lady - Baroness, I should say now - Serafine in Überwald, congratulating her on her wedding. Why, I must send fifty letters a month, to all kinds of people, pages upon pages. There is so much to report, what with the dragon breeding and the society events! I should feel quite sorry for any poor soul who has to read it all, looking for conspiracies. And why would anyone? Everyone knows my father is deeply loyal to Lord Snapcase."

"My lady, what exactly are you doing?" Had he asked this question back then or had he been too involved in his own plans at the time?

"I'm not doing anything." And this was where it ended, wasn't it? They'd talk about the weather now, then the dragons, then young Vetinari would go upstairs. Except that there was a glint in Sybil's eye now. "But I can't say the same for the Silent Sisters of Perpetual Embarrassment of Quirm."

Young Vetinari narrowed his eyes. "The what?"

"The Silent Sisters of Perpetual Embarrassment of Quirm. They're a religious order."

"And what, pray tell, have they been up to?"

"Oh, this and that. Feeding the poor, caring for the sick, sending their prayers up into the sky via pigeon, bribing palace guards to keep prisoners from starving, that sort of thing. The sort of things devout little women do."

"Ah." He stared at her. Sybil gazed back at him placidly. Then, out of the blue, her face hardened.

"I have so much time, Havelock, and so much money! Do you even know how much money I have?" she hissed.

"None, it's your father's," the lad shot back and Vetinari caught himself thinking that it was her husband's now and all their peers had gossiped about how she was so pathetic and desperate that she had handed all her riches off to the first man who hadn't run from her screaming.

"Well, he's gone, isn't he?" She drew a shaky breath, darkness creeping into her hazel eyes.

"He will be back."

No, Vetinari thought at the same time that Sybil herself spoke the word.

"No, he won't, not this time."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do and he knew it too and he went anyway because he is a Ramkin and that means that given the choice between dishonor and death he must choose death. But at least he had a choice because most people out there, Havelock, don't get that much. They have dishonor heaped upon them in spades and then they get death on top of it. The other day I went out with Forsythe and we saw people who'd slaughtered a little swamp dragon and were trying to eat it! Can you believe that? Who in their right mind would do such a thing? It made me sick to my heart and stomach!" She'd balled her hands into fists and pressed them, white-knuckled, into the oaken tabletop. "Such nonsense. You can't even eat them," she muttered under her breath, "They're all gasses and acids. Everyone should know that much."

As if on cue, the dragon under the table burped. Sybil rose to get the pan and heaped a second helping onto Vetinari's plate.

"What you're doing is very dangerous," he told her, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"Oh, tosh, no one would ever suspect me. I'm simply old Lord Ramkin's fat daughter. Kind and a little slow, but well-meaning, such a nice girl! I'm invisible." She said it without bitterness and it was true.

"Perhaps you should have gone to the Assassins', my lady," his younger self suggested wryly.

But she shook her head and didn't acknowledge the joke further.

They'd never had this conversation. Vetinari would have remembered. Which meant that this was an alternate reality now; he was witnessing something that hadn't happened in his world. Which was all well and good, if only he knew how to stop.

His younger self was impressed. He ducked his head, ate his second portion and only glanced up at Lady Sybil every once in a while, almost furtively. Each time he did, he thought that she was quite-- well, different. Stronger, smarter and more useful than he had thought.

Vetinari didn't like where this was going. Few people knew him - but he did know himself and he could sense the direction his thoughts were heading. During this period his aunt had occasionally made certain remarks about young Lady Sybil and what a good wife she might make someday. As usual, Madam had been right. Lady Sybil was an exceptional wife, perhaps the best he'd ever known. To Samuel Vimes, that was.

But those were not the thoughts the arrogant lad was harboring. His gaze slid down to her cleavage. Nothing like Margolotta's, he thought. Much bigger for one thing, definitely warmer and softer.

Trapped in his body, Vetinari couldn't slap himself, no matter how much he would have liked to. He was not the kind of man who indulged in things like this. He had a plan. Even Margolotta had been a distraction, a mistake, when it came down to it. Although not a regrettable one since he had learned certain useful things.

But Sybil Ramkin had nothing to teach him; she was an innocent young woman, very inexperienced and vulnerable.

"What?" she asked suddenly.

"Hm?"

"You're looking at me strangely."

"I just thought that you've changed a lot since I last saw you," said young Vetinari smoothly.

"Well, I say! It would be quite pathetic if I hadn't, you've been gone for years!"

"I never thought you'd be here, working quietly behind the scenes to topple the patrician." He gave her a sly smile that made Vetinari want to punch himself.

"It isn't that. We're mostly doing charity work."

"Hm. What do people say? Oh yes, pull the other one, my lady, it's got bells on."

Sybil blushed rather prettily.

"My aunt doesn't involve herself in pure charity work," he continued. "Either way you ought to be careful."

"And here I thought you were going to protect me, Lord Vetinari," muttered Sybil, unable to muster a tone befitting the rather flirtatious nature of her statement.

To his disdain, Vetinari felt certain parts of his twenty-five-year-old body react. He pushed the empty plate aside, rose from his chair and cleared his throat. "A place to sleep and food for a week and I'm all yours, my lady."

He walked over and took her hand in his. It was warm, very soft and a little damp. Sybil gaped at him in something like shock. 

"Show me to my room, please? Somewhere where the servants won't suspect?"

"Er... um... certainly." Her cheeks were red as she picked up the candlestick and led him up to the attic.

*

Minutes later, she had arranged a cozy makeshift bed for him up in a corner of the attic behind a large chaise longue hidden under a sheet. The entire space was haunted by the ghosts of expensive furniture as well Sybil's school and art projects. 

"Nobody ever comes up here," she told him as she hung up his cloak. "Except for the dragons if they find a way to sneak in."

Vetinari's ears strained. He thought he could hear the whisper of falling snow.

"Good. Thank you."

She nodded once, briskly, resolve restored now that he had released her hand. "Well, I'll leave you to it. If you need anything--"

"You could stay." He reached for her again, more boldly than was wise. His hand closed loosely around her wrist. Her eyes went large and round with surprise.

"You can't mean that," she breathed.

"Why can't I?" he asked as if he was a clueless schoolboy. He noticed that she didn't pull away. 

"Because I'm... well... me..." Her voice was small, her face flushed, eyes shining.

His younger self stepped closer and cupped her cheek. Internally, Vetinari squirmed. He felt it all, the softness and warmth of her skin, her breath ghosting against his lips as he leaned in. He kissed her, only briefly before she pulled away to stare at him.

"What is this, Havelock? Is this... some kind of joke?"

He blinked. "A joke?"

"Are you playing with me? Is... is it because of the lady in Überwald... or... or is it because of the money?" She looked so helpless and, yes, ashamed, her cheeks a startling pink, eyes limpid. Her shadow twitched across the white sheets in the candlelight. 

"No. It isn't that. I like you, Sybil, and I thought there might be a future for us."

"What?"

"I was gone and yet you were here, taking care of my city. You're brave and smart and I suppose I am worried about what might happen if your father doesn't return. You shouldn't be alone and I want to stay. If you let me, that is."

"Are you...? Is this...?"

"It could work if we do it like this. It's not what I planned. It is a shortcut, but perhaps things are more urgent than I thought. If I stayed, if we were to marry, if you paid for me to get out of military service, it would not be suspicious. It would be a common story, barely worth mentioning."

"Marriage? Havelock, you're serious?"

Much to Vetinari's surprise, he nodded. Yes, this had occurred to him once, but he had dismissed the idea as lazy, unsubstantial. He had wanted to get into the Oblong Office on his own, not by way of Lord Ramkin's money. This version of himself seemed to have come to different conclusions. 

"You mean it?" she probed, "Really?"

He leaned in again, slowly, projecting his intention clearly. She remained and closed her eyes when their lips met. He kissed her tentatively at first, running his hands through her short hair.

You should not be doing this, Vetinari thought, if only to distract himself from the sensations, which were sweet and achingly precious, this is a mistake. It is the wrong way. 

He could hear blood rushing in his ears, rhythmically and ominous like the call of some otherworldly power. If he had been allowed to witness this from the outside like he had expected, he would have averted his gaze. As it was, he couldn't escape, could only curse this wanton young man who ran his tongue greedily against the seam of Sybil's lips until she allowed him access. 

She must like the taste of bacon grease, he thought uncharitably, even as his head swam. It might explain her love for Vimes, too. Grease and stale cigar smoke and back alley soot. He tugged on her robe as they kissed, encouraging her to let it slip off her shoulders onto the floor. Beneath it, her nightgown went down to her ankles where it ended in a frilly hem. Already, his younger self was only thinking about lifting it up to see her. 

Twenty-five and dismissed by his cold, immortal lady, here he was in the arms of another and she was burning like a furnace and beneath her apparent sturdiness as breakable as glass. Because she was alive, young and untouched. 

But very eager to do something about that last part, it seemed, he thought as she pressed herself into him and whispered, "You haven't answered my question" against his lips.

"I mean it," Vetinari heard himself say over the pounding of his own heart.

He pulled her down onto the makeshift bed, a thin mattress on the hardwood floor, blankets, a pillow. Sybil lay on her side and gazed at him for a moment. He stroked her hair. Then she turned and blew out the candles. The dark fell over them and with it a hush. It was clear to Vetinari now that this was happening and he would experience it, there was nothing he could do about it. Beneath a grim acceptance of the situation simmered something else he would rather not acknowledge.

He had not had relations with anyone in years. He had not been twenty-five in almost thirty years - he wasn't now, but this body was. It was a foolish age to be, to think oneself an adult and be an arrogant, half-formed thing. How had Margolotta been able to stand him at nineteen? 

At least Sybil was kind and charming and, he found himself thinking, quite lovely. 

But it was dark and this young strange version of himself wanted to explore her by touch. He reached out, found the contours of her body, the nape of her neck that could be caressed while he kissed her. Unlike Margolotta, she was soft everywhere. There was so much of her, he could just get his arms around her and feel her bosom press against his chest. This caused all the blood in him to rush one way, as single-minded as a flock of seagulls.

He hated this part of sex, the part where the animal took over, where decisions could no longer be rational, where a little voice in his mind seemed to growl inside now. Take, have, claim, now, now, now.

Being twenty-five and stupid made it worse. The urgency burned inside him.

Her hands were pulling on his clothes as well. He barely had awareness or memory of them. A shirt that was unbuttoned, her fingers clumsy and faltering and falling away before they reached his trousers. He pushed against her and she gasped when she felt his hardness against her thigh. 

Breathlessly, "Havelock, I have never--"

"I know." He didn't make promises to go slow or be gentle and Vetinari resented himself for this as well. "Do you want me to stop? You need to tell me if you do."

"No, I don't. Even if you don't want to marry me after or even see me again, I want this." She said it with conviction and he believed her. How sensible of her to acknowledge the possibility that he would change his mind. Sybil was pragmatic. As a dragon breeder she was used to planning for worst-case-scenarios. And she would forgive him if he left, he knew that. She would simply blame herself. 

You don't know your worth yet, he thought.

How anxiously she'd waited for Vimes on the day of her wedding. At some point she'd held his hand and even bleeding out, weakened, half-delirious he had thought himself better off than she was. Poor old Sybil, who would ever love her? Vimes did, Vetinari was almost certain now.

He kissed her deeply and the pleasure the young man was taking in it coursed through his entire body. In the dark, he saw the whiteness of her nightgown. He trailed a hand along the smooth cotton, then grabbed it over her behind, squeezing a fistful of her flesh with it. Sybil gasped and rocked against him him. He pulled on the fabric until she understood and helped him take it off her, but when it was over her head and her arms were freed and she had shoved the pile of white aside, her hands came up to cover her breasts. 

Vetinari heard himself tsk. "Don't." It was already much darker than he would have preferred. He wanted to see her, all of her, to compare her to the only other lover he had. The difference aroused him. This wasn't her. This was new, this would be his.

A selfish, childish thought. 

But an honest one from the young man who wanted to make an impact in her life. If he took her virginity, he would mean something to her forever. He wouldn't just be another man seduced by the lady vampire in her castle, a human whose lifespan was as short and insignificant to her as a fly's was to him. 

You're beautiful," he murmured, though he could barely see her. His fingers traced the generous curves of her body, mapping the swell of her hips, the velvety softness of her stomach, the heat between her thighs. Sybil shivered under his touch, her breath coming in short, nervous gasps. 

He shimmied out of his trousers, kicked them aside.

"You can touch me," he said.

"Are you sure?" she whispered.

He smiled a little to himself. "Quite."

She caressed his chest hesitantly.

"You're so slender, Havelock," she said, sounding awed as if this was some great miracle.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands roaming freely now. She was warm, so warm, and her skin was smooth beneath his fingertips. Her body had all those peaks and valleys, it was its own mysterious landscape. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as if she were afraid he might pull away and leave after all. 

Vetinari--the older Vetinari, trapped in this memory--wanted to look away. He didn’t want to witness this. It was too intimate, too raw. But he had no choice. He was along for the ride, forced to experience every sensation, every breath, every whispered word. This had never happened, except it had, in a different reality to a different Havelock Vetinari. It was not meant for him; he did not choose this. 

His younger self shifted, pressing her back into the mattress, his body settling between her legs, her thighs plush and pillowy beneath his hands. Sybil tensed, her fingers digging into his arms.

"It's all right," he murmured against her neck. "Don't be nervous."

She nodded, swallowing hard. "I trust you."

Those words sent a pang through Vetinari--both the younger and the older. Trust. He was the last person on the Disc one should trust - her husband would have told her that. But she did, didn't she? Even the Sybil in his reality. She trusted him to do the right thing, always. And she had a strong sense of morality - not like Margolotta at all, who was comfortable in the ethical twilight as well as its darkest pitch of night. Sybil wouldn't ever even do anything that could be considered unkind.

She wasn't stupid, however, and she knew that young Vetinari had not said he loved her, she hadn't expected it from him. 

He guided himself into her, slowly and carefully, resisting the urge to push, to take what he craved. She gasped, her body stiffening, and he stilled, giving her time to adjust. The silence was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing. Sybil's thighs were quivering. 

"Are you--?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, though her voice was tight. "Just... keep going."

He did, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside her. She let out a shaky breath, her fingers flexing against his back.

"You’re all right?" he asked again.

She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut. "Yes. It’s just strange. To be so close to you."

It was strange. She was his friend. In his own way, he, it occurred to him, did love her. His chest was tight with feeling. The heat of her - so different from Margolotta who was always slightly cool to the touch and could feel far away and unattainable even during the most intimate acts. 

He pushed the thought aside and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. "It’ll get better."

And then he moved.

Sybil made a small noise, part surprise, part pleasure. His younger self took that as encouragement, setting a slow, steady rhythm. She clung to him, her breath hitching with each thrust.

Vetinari--the older one--felt it all. The heat of her body, the way she gradually relaxed beneath him, the way her fingers trailed down his spine. He hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated how easily his younger self was allowing himself to be pried open by this. The movement of the thing like a needle working itself into a lock.

He was already being changed, emotions clouding his judgment.

Sybil’s breaths grew quicker, her hips lifting tentatively to meet his. A soft moan escaped her lips, and his younger self groaned in response, his movements becoming less controlled, more urgent.

Vetinari felt himself being drawn into this. It was impossible to stay detached when she engulfed him with all there was of her, when it all was so good.  

Then Sybil arched beneath him, a gasp catching in her throat. Her body tightened around him, and his younger self lost whatever fragile restraint he’d had. With a low growl, he buried his face in her neck and followed her over the edge.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their ragged breathing.

Then, slowly, his younger self rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. Sybil curled against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.

"That was..." she began, then trailed off, her face burning hot beneath his palm.

"Hm." He kissed the top of her head. "Yes."

She laughed softly, nestling closer. "So... will you really stay?"

His younger self hesitated. Just for a second. But Vetinari--the real Vetinari--felt it. The doubt. The calculation. He knew what path had led him into the Oblong Office, but he had only learned by walking it. This version of him had to do the same. 

What would it have been like to not walk alone?

"...Yes," the younger man said at last.

There was a flash of white, so sudden and bright it felt like an avalanche crashing down on him. When he opened his eyes, the warmth of Sybil's body was gone, so was the mattress, the attic.

He was sitting bolt-upright in his chair in the Oblong Office, himself again, his fingers still resting on the cursed device. He pushed it away. 

"Drumknott!"

Only a few seconds passed before his secretary rushed into the room, looking alarmed.

"My lord?"

"What time is it?" he asked. The light from the windows hadn't changed, and there were no signs that anyone had come looking for him while he had been... occupied.

"Half past nine, sir, I only just left the office before you called me back in."

"I see." Less than a minute in this reality when he had been certain it must have been more than an hour in the other one. Well, at least that meant he hadn't lost any time. Vetinari pressed his fingertips together and fixed the device with a narrow-eyed glare.

"Was there something you wanted me to do, my lord?"

"No..." He reconsidered, young Sybil's lovely face flashing through his mind. Perhaps, for once, a small indulgence? "That is, see to it that the palace makes a donation of a thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars to the Sunshine Sanctuary for dragons, will you? They have done quite a lot of good work these past few months. I daresay without their efforts the city would be drowning in abandoned swamp dragons. And send a card expressing our gratitude with some chocolates and a bouquet of flowers, addressed to Lady Ra-" he cleared his throat, "Vimes. That will be all for now. Do inform me as soon as the Archchancellor gets here."

"Of course, my lord." Drumknott left without making a sound and Vetinari remained, the same way he had been just a few minutes earlier. Only a bit warmer perhaps. But, soon enough, his temperature would return back to normal and the memory of her touch would fade.

Chapter Text

The device had trapped him, made him live through an alternate version of his past and then had spit him right back into his body. Vetinari was staring at it, wondering. It was half past nine and there was paperwork on his desk. Presumably, the commander was out in the streets trying to separate the population of Ankh-Morpork from its latest disastrous obsession, the Archchancellor should be on his way - at least by Vetinari's usually accurate calculations - and here he was, the Patrician, the man with the vote, and he was tempted.

By an inanimate object of unknown origins, definitely magical in nature, quite possibly dangerous. 

It had already forced him to endure--

Well.

But it hadn't stolen much of his time and it had shown him... something. It might have been a dream or an illusion. He couldn't know that it was truly a different reality, that, somewhere in the multiverse, he had proposed to Lady Sybil Ramkin, although if the wizards of Unseen University were to be believed, everything did happen somewhere, which would mean that such a reality simply had to exist.

Whether or not it actually did should not matter to him.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers steepled in front of his lips. The mirror lay innocently on his desk, its gaudy frame glinting in the light from the high windows. When he leaned over it, his reflection stared back at him, composed and unchanged.

What if he tried again? 

The thought popped into his mind, unbidden. It would be foolish. He would be taking a risk he couldn't even begin to calculate. He did not yet know what this thing was or where exactly it had come from. But it had released him and it had been quick - at least in the dimension that mattered. 

Would it allow him to live through the next part of that other Vetinari's life? Would he be able to experience how his approach progressed, see how he came to power or failed to do so? Could Vetinari learn something of value?

No, of course not. 

It would be a pointless indulgence and pointlessly indulging in... what? A romance with Lady Sybil? That was most definitely not on his agenda.

But would there be any harm in it? Could he, by any chance, learn more about the nature of the mirror, its capabilities, if he tested it just one more time?

Drumknott had spoken of people who had described their experiences; he had not mentioned any casualties. There were no cases of citizens who had failed to return to their bodies after using the mirrors - at least none they were aware of. 

Already Vetinari's fingers were creeping across the smooth, wooden surface, reaching for it.  

Very well, he thought to himself, one more glimpse.

"Show me more," he commanded when his fingertips came to rest on the snake's head carved into the frame. This time the white flash came instantly and Vetinari didn't flinch.

When his eyes opened, he was looking down at his desk, at a piece of paperwork, to be precise, and he didn't feel any different from before. The mirror was not in his field of vision and like last time, he was not in control of his body. This version of himself felt more familiar than the last had. There were thoughts of talking to the Guild of Historians about new ways to commemorate the 25th of May. Out of the corner of his eye, Vetinari saw the lilac pinned to his robes. He was tense, waiting for something, and suddenly it occurred to him that he hadn't seen John Keel die and that the corpse he had later examined at the morgue hadn't looked at all like the man he'd seen in the street. And Vimes... Vimes had been missing for a short while, vanished in a flash of magical lighting at the Unseen University... Could it be?

Of course, Vetinari thought to himself, feeling something like pity for his counterpart, the realization did come as something of a shock to me as well.

It was surprising to him that he was apparently in the much more recent past this time.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Drumknott entered. His face was paler than usual, hands clasped in front of him as if to keep them from shaking. 

Vetinari had half-risen by the time his clerk managed to say, "My Lord, Lady Vimes has died in childbirth."

It hit him - the other him - with more force than he had thought possible. For a second, he was frozen in his awkward position, unable to stand, unable to let himself fall back into his chair until the pain in his leg throbbed enough to drown out the pounding of his heart.

"The baby, too," Drumknott went on in a faint voice fighting not to crack, "a boy, I'm told. He was stillborn."

"The commander?" Vetinari heard himself ask as he finally sat down.

"Last I heard, he was at the house, your lordship. On account of the criminal still at large, many of his watchmen are with him. Captain Ironfoundersson among them."

"Good."

This was not what he had expected, certainly not what he had wanted to experience. 

The other Vetinari's mind was already racing, weighing his next steps. Damage control. There was shock and there was pain, but those were shoved aside. No time for such weaknesses. 

"I want eyes on the commander at all times, Drumknott. He is not to be let out of sight. Send two of our - ahem - more specialized clerks, just in case. No, three." Vetinari breathed. For some reason the air felt like a blade slicing into his lungs. "I will want to speak to Captain Ironfoundersson soon, but not tonight, perhaps not even tomorrow. It might be too early. We need to keep a close watch over this situation as it unfolds, Drumknott. Otherwise, I fear we will lose a very valuable asset."

"Understood, my lord." Drumknott rushed to carry out his orders, leaving Vetinari alone in the Oblong Office.

Sybil... 

No, no use dwelling. She was alive in his reality and so was the baby. This had not happened. However, seeing how it played out might actually be useful since tragedy could always strike. As much as he hated the thought, perhaps experiencing this could prepare him for a similar situation.

Vetinari rose and, leaning heavily on his cane, walked to the window. The city lay beneath the palace, busy and oblivious. A thousand tragedies played out in her streets day and night, births and deaths and those dark moments when what was supposed to be one turned into the other. 

Only tonight had he understood that the man he had admired decades ago was the same man he himself had promoted out of the gutter. He had not been alone, however. If there had been no Lady Sybil Ramkin, how far would Vimes have been able to rise? 

With her gone... 

Vetinari observed his counterpart's thoughts with interest. As awful as the circumstances were, at least he was inside the mind of a grown man whose judgment was not clouded by youthful follies. This dreadful situation would require a delicate touch. Knowing Vimes, the fallout from his devastating loss would be immense. The man had been on the verge of self-destruction when Vetinari had first met him and at that time he had not suffered a blow such as this one. 

Perhaps I should go to Scoone Avenue and see for myself. They were both thinking it, but they were both dreading it. What must the atmosphere be in that house in this moment?

He found he didn't want to think about her laid out in bed, cold and dead. Was Vimes with her? Holding her hand? And the child? It could break a man, certainly, an experience of this nature.

Lady Sybil herself was a great loss for the city, of course, but lately she had not shown an interest in using her many talents to benefit society. He'd been so pleased with and impressed by the trade agreement she had negotiated with the Low King that he had wondered if he could use her in combination with her husband more often, but then Sybil had informed him that she was expecting and that she wanted to focus on her family. Such a waste, he had thought. With anyone else he might have found a way to regain access, to put them in a position where their desire to serve the city would naturally reemerge - such moments of clarity happened more frequently than one might think. However, he had too much respect for Lady Sybil to interfere with her life.

She should have exactly what she wants, he'd thought, she deserves happiness.

The cane struck the floor with more force than necessary as Vetinari crossed the office, pacing restlessly between desk and window. His counterpart was uncharacteristically agitated and so was he.

This is not real, he reminded himself. This did not happen. Sybil is alive. Her son is alive. This is merely reconnaissance on my part. Soon I will be returned to my reality and this will only be an unpleasant memory.

Yet before his mind's eye he saw her as she'd been in that attic - candlelight dancing in her wide eyes, the faint flicker of hope in them after he told her he wasn't joking and leaned in for the kiss. That version of Sybil had loved him. The Sybil of his own reality had somehow grown fiercer with happiness, not simply content in her role as wife and mother but willing to go into battle for her family. He cared about her. He could and probably would have denied this to anyone else but not to himself. 

Yes, there was pain. He felt it wrack the body he was currently occupying. Regret too. Memories that his counterpart suppressed, teeth gritted, hands clenched into fists.

There will have to be a replacement, the other Vetinari thought. 

Sybil hadn't involved herself with politics - unless swamp dragons were concerned - and that had been disappointing on some level, but she had kept Samuel Vimes grounded. She had given him a home, she had given him hope. He had become a pillar of city government.

A clerk. Someone who could fill the hole Sybil had left. Not right away, of course, but in time. Female, in her thirties? Vimes was forty-six. He was a man of strong principles and therefore would not be interested in someone he would consider too young. However, children should still be an option - although there was a chance that the man would never risk it again. Still. Best to aim for someone in her mid to late thirties at most. Not a person Vimes knew, not someone Sybil would have known.

Someone who had been working outside of Ankh-Morpork for a while. Would Vimes want a woman who resembled his wife? Did he have a type? Vetinari found he couldn't say. 

But yes, there was Verity Skelp, currently stationed in the Ramtops and sometimes venturing into the Hublands, a hearty, no longer all that young but not old lady who had trained at the Assassins' Guild when Vimes was still a drunk. He would speak to Drumknott about sending a clacks. He nodded to himself.

Just then another knock, more urgent, if such a thing was possible. 

"Yes?" he called sharply.

Drumknott swept in soundlessly. "There has been word, my lord, that the commander has left Scoone Avenue. Apparently, he insisted on going out by himself."

"And they let him?" Vetinari snapped. He'd had too much trust in the captain, it seemed. The Watch was loyal to Vimes; they had little to no experience fighting their commander on anything. He wasn't waiting for a reply from Drumknott, he was already striding as briskly as his leg allowed. "I am taking the coach. If anyone comes looking for me, tell them to wait."

He knew where Vimes would go on this night. There was really only one place.

"To Small Gods," he told the coachman.

*

Evening painted the sky lavender. The scent of lilac hung thick in the air. The earth made no noise beneath his soles. But the two figures fighting between the graves did. Grunting, swords clashing, a furious scream. Vetinari approached, keeping to the shadows. He recognized Vimes in his dented breastplate, no helmet, moving jerkily, uncoordinated, driven by nothing but white-hot rage. The other man, his opponent, had a certain look. His movements were showy, taunting. He was laughing, calling Vimes's name to goad him. Even when they crashed into a gravestone and went tumbling into the mud, the man was still making half-choked noises of glee. 

"So who’s gonna arrest me?" the man yelled, "Sergeant Keel or Commander Vimes?"

And there it was for this reality's Vetinari, confirmation. Only it didn't seem to matter much now.

When Vimes's sword was raised over his head, about to come down and end him, the tune changed.

"I surrender!"

Vetinari watched Vimes freeze mid-strike, the blade lingering above the man's throat. They both breathed hard. Vimes's hand trembled; Vetinari could see it, even from his hiding spot behind a large marble statue dedicated to the great Lord Clarkson Venturi I. The man on the ground, clutching at his shoulder, grinned up at the commander with the wide, lipless smile of the truly mad or the genuinely desperate. 

"Can’t kill an unarmed man, Mister Vimes. You got to arrest me now. Drag me in front of Vetinari. Let me have my little say, haha. You can’t kill me, just lyin' here." 

"No one wants to hear anything you’ve got to say, Carcer," Vimes ground out, voice gravelly with pain.

And then he twitched and Vetinari moved, darting out of the shadows to catch the commander's arm, just as it came down to end the man. 

Carcer squealed, Vimes growled, Vetinari said, "I believe this is quite enough." He raised his hand briefly in a quick signal to his hidden clerks. No interfering now.

Vimes gaped at him. "You..."

"Let's have this criminal delivered to the Watch House, commander, and I shall see him in the morning. I believe your officers are waiting for your safe return?"

Vimes breathed heavily through his nose, eyes narrowed in hatred. "Let go of me, sir."

"No, you need to go home."

"To my dead wife and child, you mean?"

Carcer giggled, "Ooooh, they're dead? Ha ha! This is good, this is better--" 

Vetinari stepped on his neck, putting on just enough pressure to cut off air. This was delicate. Too long, too hard, and the man would be dead. But he found he didn't care. If he killed Carcer, that was fine. Unlike Vimes, he was not beholden to the law. 

Carcer choked and gurgled, hands coming up to claw at Vetinari's ankle. He increased the pressure until there was silence.

"Get up, commander, and go home." A pair of golden eyes was watching them from the undergrowth. Vetinari gave it a small nod of acknowledgement. The captain would probably join them as well soon. "Others will take it from here."

Vimes struggled to his feet.

Vetinari stepped off the neck, judging the man unconscious by the nature of his breaths and the silent count of seconds he had kept. 

His right hand was still wrapped around Vimes's wrist, feeling the frantic ticking of his pulse. Vimes's eyes were dry and dark. There was a hollowness about the man, a coldness. His face was an open grave. 

"They've told you, haven't they? The people you have following me. They're good, but I can sense them."

"Yes," Vetinari said, "And I am deeply--"

"Don't you bloody dare!" Vimes barked, sword-arm twitching in Vetinari's grasp,  "Don't you bloody dare tell me you're sorry! You're not sorry, you bastard! You don't feel anything!"

She was my friend long before she was your wife.

Unspoken, the words sat leaden in his mind.

What made it past his lips was a clipped, "Quite."

Vimes jerked his hand free and turned just as Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua stepped out of the underbrush together. She was still in her lupine form, watching Vimes with eyes that held more empathy than Vetinari had ever seen in a wolf's gaze.

"Officers, take this man to Pseudopolis Yard, please. And then accompany your commander home," Vetinari said. "I believe he is to spend the night sitting up with his family. The customary night watch?"

They nodded, ignoring the hateful look Vimes shot him.

Vetinari waited until they were gone - Captain Carrot picked up the unconscious Carter and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Then he went as well.

*

That night, he stole out of the palace in his cloak. The rooftops were trickier to navigate now that he was older and had a handicap - but not impossible. It was painful, but Vetinari sensed that the other him welcomed the pain as much as he did. Thoughts of John Keel coursed through his mind, mingling with thoughts of Lady Sybil. She had been his friend. A true friend, who rarely asked anything of him and even when she did, she made it clear that their relationship depended not on what she could gain from him. In a world full of bad people, she had been a good person.

Candlelight burned in every window of Scoone Avenue. The house was still full of watchmen. 

They weren't difficult to evade, not in the state they were in. Posted by the front entrance were the unmistakable Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon, one small and misshapen, the other quite large. Nobbs's unfortunate face was illuminated by the point of light from the bent cigarette stub hanging from his lips. He made the occasional noise, a guttural half-groan, half-moan of a lament, followed by an "It ain't right, it ain't right, why'd it have t' happen like this? She was a good lady, she was, why'd she have to go an' die like that?"

Then Colon would hiss "Hush, Nobby, be quiet! You'll only upset Mister Vimes more!"

Vetinari slipped past them. The roof would be fairly dangerous - Vimes had booby trapped it - but he knew the mind of his commander and he mapped out the potential paths Vimes would have thought of. Here his leg was the real problem because it limited his ability to take careful steps. He couldn't put his full weight on it, therefore he had to be certain that his other leg was always planted on a stable surface. Vimes had loosened shingles, that was one thing, but he'd also installed greased rails on which some of them slid. Devilish.

He also didn't want his clerks to see him tonight. This visit was private. It took him the better part of an hour to make it to the balcony, which was somewhat embarrassing.

We have grown old. But it is either that or death. 

Well, Margolotta would have contested this statement.

He crouched in the shadows behind the balustrade, his back against the cool wall, and breathed. Up above, there was a sliver of moon, whittled down to almost nothing. He could hear the sounds of mourning from inside, hushed voices, heavy footsteps, the distant sobs of the female members of staff and, beneath it all, a gut-wrenching silence that should have been shattered by the cries of a newborn.

Vetinari sat, listened and kept watch.

*

It had been more than a day. Last time, Vetinari had been inside the mirror reality for roughly ninety minutes, which had translated to a few seconds in his reality. And now he was still here, time was passing and he did not have a way out. 

His counterpart was unsettled as well. He spoke with Drumknott about Lady Skelp and Drumknott - after a moment of confusion followed by the briefest flash of shock which was quickly shoved back under his veneer of professionalism - agreed that she might be a suitable candidate.

"It is far too early to ask her to return to Ankh-Morpork, of course, but we should inquire in general. Could she imagine herself carrying out a task so different from her previous missions? How does she feel about being the commander's... handler, etc." 

Drumknott nodded. He would arrange for an encoded clacks message. 

There was a meeting with Captain Carrot. He would be taking over the Watch briefings for the time being. Vetinari agreed that this was the best course of action, then asked about the funeral. When he heard that arrangements had not been made - the young man's face twisting into a pained grimace - Vetinari jotted down a name and address and told Carrot that they were an old family business going back many generations. Among countless others, they had handled Lord Ramkin's funeral; they would know what was appropriate. Carrot thanked him and left.

The funeral, it occurred to Vetinari, would require a speech. Though who knew if Vimes would allow him to give one. He sat down and wrote it regardless.

*

Three days later, it took place. Vetinari was still here, trapped, wondering if it was time he tried to signal to the Archchancellor - not that he had any idea how that would even be possible when he was merely a passenger, unable to take the reins for even a second. Ridcully was in attendance, more subdued than Vetinari had ever seen the man. 

It was an awful event, one he wished to erase from his memory even as it was taking place.

Vimes looked pale and drawn, his face the same as it had been the evening he fought Carcer. Old Stoneface as he barely lived and breathed. The shell of a man. 

But how could he not be?

Lady Sybil and her infant son were buried in the same casket. This, Vetinari heard, had been the only opinion Vimes had voiced. That the two should not be separated. And if Lord Havelock Vetinari still had an intact heart, the thought of mother and child going into the ground together would have broken it.

Vimes had named the boy John after the doctor, who had failed to save him and his mother. He had also given Dr John Lawn one hundred thousand dollars and the freehold of a large corner site in Goose Gate where the doctor was to open a hospital. It would be the Lady Sybil Memorial and it would have an entire wing dedicated to prenatal care and childbirth. There would be an exchange of doctors and scholars with Klatch, Quirm and Pseudopolis to start. Vetinari had signed the paperwork one day earlier. 

He had considered it a good sign. Vimes seemed to be looking to the future.

But now that he was seeing the man with his own eyes, he had the dark suspicion that to Vimes it had been a sort of enactment of his own last will and testament. His eyes were not looking to a future, they weren't looking at anything. Only through.

*

Sometimes it was so quiet in the Oblong Office one could almost hear the irregular ticking of the clock in the anteroom, so quiet Vetinari could hear himself breathe. 

The day after the funeral was wet and drab. And, somehow, fiendishly, the mirror had still not returned him. He wondered if this would be his downfall. Already there were moments when he found it difficult to distinguish his thoughts from those of the Vetinari who belonged to this reality. Would they simply blend into one? 

On his desk was a clacks message from Verity Skelp, in which she expressed her willingness to return to the city and start working on her task as soon as the Patrician saw fit. He was pleased with her reply and began to work on his plan when Drumknott knocked.

"The commander has started drinking again. He is currently engaged in a fistfight with Captain Ironfoundersson. Our agents would like further instructions." Even though he had spoken in a matter of fact tone of voice, Drumknott looked worried and pale. "Should they interfere?"

Vetinari sighed. "I doubt the commander will be able to seriously injure the captain. In all likelihood he will already have been subdued, even as we speak."

"Do we leave the matter to the Watch then, my lord?"

"For now," he said. "Only have them intervene if the commander's life is in danger."

Drumknott withdrew.

*

The next time Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson came in for the morning briefing, Vetinari said, "Captain, I am promoting you--"

"No!" the captain interrupted with uncharacteristic vehemence.

"--to the rank of Acting Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch," Vetinari continued, pointedly ignoring the interjection.

The young man clenched his bruised jaw. "I cannot accept, Lord Vetinari, I'm sorry."

"You can." Vetinari held his gaze. "You will. This is not a matter of discussion."

"And what about Commander Vimes, sir?"

"You tell me, Acting Commander. I think we both know that he is currently incapable of carrying out his duties. Remember our discussion of the words policeman and politician? We both must do what is best for the city, Acting Commander."

"He will get better, sir," Carrot said, "He just needs time and support. The whole Watch is standing behind him." He saluted.

Vetinari sighed. "I hope you're right, Acting Commander. Tell him that I wish to see him tomorrow."

Carrot looked startled but nodded. He saluted one more time, then left.

*

Vimes came in drunk. Vetinari had expected as much. Perhaps he had not expected the man to carry an actual half-empty bottle of Bearhugger's, but here they were. Liquid sloshed in the bottle which dangled in his loose grasp. The man was wearing a dented breastplate. He seemed to have lost his helmet somewhere and there was a smell emanating from him that was about to develop its own personalty. 

"Commander," Vetinari greeted him, tone deliberately flat, as an unexpected wave of pity washed over him. 

Vimes’s mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a grimace. He lifted the bottle in a mock toast, sloshing more liquor over his fingers."Am I?" he slurred. "Thought that was Carrot now."

"I am not demoting you," Vetinari explained in the calm manner he might use with an upset Leonard of Quirm. 

Vimes barked a laugh, sharp and brittle. He took an unsteady step forward, the bottle swinging dangerously. "No difference. 'N I don' care. Do whatya want. Doesn' change anything, doesn' matter."

Vetinari leaned back slightly in his chair, assessing. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Vimes scoffed, his red-rimmed eyes gazing past Vetinari, fixing on some invisible point in the middle distance. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, the tendons standing out like cords.

"I 'ssume you're - hic - sussspendin' me...?"

"Yes, for the time being," Vetinari said, folding his hands on the desk. "I would advise you to allow your fellow watchmen to help you with your problem. I'm sure they have offered--"

"Bugger'em! An' bugger you!" Vimes snarled, lurching forward, slamming a fist onto the desk hard enough to make the inkwell jump.

Vetinari didn’t flinch. He merely tilted his head, watching as Vimes’s chest heaved as his breath came in ragged, whiskey-soured gusts.

"Ah." He paused. Then, softly, "And bugger Lady Sybil, I suppose?"

Vimes froze. The rage in his face flickered, then twisted into something raw. "What?"

Vetinari kept his voice level, almost gentle. "If I remember correctly, she was the one who started encouraging you to seek help regarding your drinking habits? She went to meetings with you?"

Vimes’s grip on the bottle turned white-knuckled. His whole body trembled.

Vetinari watched his face the way one might watch a rumbling volcano. "Imagine how disappointed she would be--"

"Shuddup!" Vimes roared, slamming the bottle down so hard the glass cracked, whiskey bleeding onto the desk. "Shut your... shut your mouth! You don', you don' get to talk about her!"

Vetinari didn’t move. "I'm only saying that it would break her heart--"

"She's dead!" Vimes’s voice cracked like the bottle, "You bloody evil little tyrant, she's dead! An' everyone keeps tellin' me that! That Sybil would be so sad an' disss...disssappointed an' that she'd want me to do this an' not do that an' so on! But she don' want anythin' right now, does she? 'Cos she's dead! An' she can't see me an' I can't talk to her 'cos she's gone!"

Vetinari let the silence stretch for a beat. Then, quietly: "Yes, you're right. She is gone."

Vimes swayed, his breath hitching. His face crumpled, the fury draining away, leaving only a hollow, broken emptiness behind. "So it doesn' matter! None of it! 'Cos it's all over, cos she died cos of me! An' if a man kills his wife he should be punished! An' I did kill her an' I am a watchman, so I get to punish! 'S my job..."

Vetinari stood then, slowly, deliberately. He met Vimes’s shattered gaze. "You did not kill her, Sir Samuel."

"Yes, I did. If she never met me, see, she'd be alive right now." Vimes's voice was a broken rasp. "She'd be alive with her dragons, goin' about her day..." His gaze flicked from side of the Oblong Office to the other as if he was searching for something.

She is alive, Vetinari thought suddenly, and so is your son, only not here, not anywhere you can ever reach them.

His counterpart stepped around the desk and very carefully laid a hand on Vimes's shoulder.

"You need rest, Sir Samuel." It was too early for Verity Skelp, but perhaps in a couple of weeks... 

"Murderers should hang. You hang murderers in this city. It's the... the godsdamned law," muttered Vimes, swaying, his breath as acidic as any dragon's. 

"When was the last time you slept? Or had a solid meal?" Vetinari asked, refusing to acknowledge the perturbing statement. 

Vimes ignored him. Then, suddenly, he shook off Vetinari's hand, wrenched himself away, threw his bottle at him and drew his sword. For a drunk man, he moved with astonishing speed and dexterity.

Vetinari only just managed to duck the bottle, which shattered on his desk, covering it in amber liquid and glittering shards. An uncoordinated swipe with the sword was next. Vetinari sidestepped and grabbed Vimes's wrist. The man was strong and ruthless with desperate abandon. He kicked against the shin of Vetinari's injured leg.

Vetinari hissed through his teeth as pain lanced up his leg, but his grip on Vimes's wrist only tightened. The commander twisted like an animal in a trap, his free hand clawing at Vetinari's face. A fingernail scraped across his cheekbone, drawing blood.

"You want me to kill you," Vetinari said, dodging another wild swing."You're trying to force my hand, your grace."

Vimes bared his teeth, mindless, beast-like. He wrenched his sword arm free and lunged again, telegraphing the move so blatantly even a novice could have countered it. Vetinari pivoted, using Vimes's momentum to slam him face-first into the desk. The sword clattered to the floor.

"You need to surrender, commander," Vetinari snarled in his ear, pinning him down. "Or this will end very badly, for both of us."

Vimes shuddered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Just end it. I can't... stand it anymore.. Make it stop..."

That was when the Palace Guard burst in, three men, crossbows raised, and more running down the corridor behind them.

"Take him to down to the dungeons," Vetinari ordered. "He can sober up in a cell."

*

After a cursing and flailing Vimes had been dragged out of the Oblong Office and the maid staff had come in to clean up his mess, Vetinari took his seat behind his desk again. Verity Skelp's clacks message had taken some damage. He eyed it, wondering. 

Drumknott came in, carrying tax reports.

"Do you think the size of Miss Skelp's bosom might pose a problem?" Vetinari heard himself ask.

"Pardon, my lord?" Blood seemed to have drained from Drumknott's face. It was whiter than the papers he brandished.

"If I remember correctly, she is quite a bit less endowed than Lady Sybil was. I believe this sort of thing matters greatly to some men. Would you say that Vimes--" Seeing that Drumknott's face had rapidly changed color again, this time going bright red, he interrupted himself. "Are you quite alright?"

Drumknott made a strangled noise, then cleared his throat. "Er... um... I... I fear I cannot say, your lordship... I... er... taxes!"

"Thank you, Drumknott," sighed Vetinari. Obviously the man would be no help. "Be so good and tell the guards to keep an eye on Sir Samuel. He is unstable and I want him to get through the night unharmed. Also send word about Vimes's whereabouts to Acting Commander Ironfoundersson. That will be all."

"Yes! Of course! Right away, my lord!" Having dropped the files onto the desk, Drumknott fled. 

Vetinari slid the clacks message back and forth across his desktop, contemplating his options. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps there was someone better suited to the task at hand. If Sergeant von Überwald were older... but then, she was involved with Acting Commander Ironfoundersson... was there someone else in the Watch? Sergeant Littlebottom? She had a rapport with Vimes, didn't she? But she was a dwarf and Vimes was her superior officer. While an inter-species relationship might benefit the commander's image in the long run, the question of power dynamics between a commander and a sergeant might arise. Unless she were to leave the Watch. 

He shook his head. No. A clerk was the right choice. Verity Skelp would answer to him. Through her, he would have an even more direct line to the commander. All he had to do was find the right way to introduce her into Vimes's life. Make it seem natural, a coincidence.

It would be very difficult. Vimes was suspicious by nature and now much more so than before. Miss Skelp had to be warned. She must not try to seduce the commander; it would instantly earn his distrust. Sybil had had it easy. Vimes had been a mess when they had first met. All she'd had to do was scoop him up from the gutter like the forlorn wet rat that he was. No one else would have wanted him. Now he was the richest man in the city. Soon he would have to beat off a horde of admirers with a stick. Knowing Vimes, he might do it literally. An annual income of seven million dollars did a lot for a man's dating prospects. 

Vetinari sighed and folded up the message. He would send a reply in the morning, he decided - after speaking to Vimes. Another thought crossed his mind. It might not hurt to have more eyes on the commander inside his cell. Vetinari whistled softly, once short, then a little longer. Something small and grey scurried out from behind a bookcase, ran across the carpet and climbed the desk.

Vetinari looked down at the rat. It twitched its whiskers at him.

"Skrprp, there is a man stinking of alcohol and grief down in the dungeons. I want you to keep an eye on him for me. If he endangers himself in any way, please alert me. Wake me up if you have to. That will be all." Once more the whiskers twitched, then the rat scurried off dutifully.

There, thought Vetinari, I have done all I can.

*

Still here.

Another night had passed. Wuffles' empty basket sat in the corner of his private quarters. Vetinari felt a pang of loss at the sight of it. 

He dressed quickly and made his way down to the cells. At this predawn hour, the palace was as silent as the proverbial grave. 

He exchanged a few words with the guards - after an hour of spirited cursing and banging on the door, Vimes had been mostly quiet. He'd not touched the meal sent down from the kitchen, instead he'd tried to throw it at the man who'd brought it.

Vetinari asked for a key to the cell - this was a formality. He did have keys to all cells anyway, but it helped to make the guards feel important. He told them he would lock himself in with the prisoner and that they were to keep watch at the far end of the hallway until he reemerged. They tried to dissuade him from this plan, but a meaningful look changed their minds rather swiftly. 

Once they were out of sight, he unlocked the door. The click of the lock echoed down the hallway. He waited a moment, half-expecting Vimes to launch some kind of attack, but there was nothing.

Cautiously, he opened the door into the cell. 

It was fairly dark inside, the only light coming from a small grille high on the wall. Vetinari, of course, had very good night vision - vital for assassins and tyrants - which was why he could make out the large lump that was Vimes, curled up on the thin straw-filled mat the palace provided its not-so-important guests. 

Vetinari closed the door and, after a second of weighing his options, locked it from the inside. Then he approached the other man, who had been stripped of his armour, chainmail and even boots, and lay there just in his shirt and leather britches. 

"Commander," Vetinari said quietly, standing over him.

Vimes didn’t move. His breathing was slow and even, but Vetinari knew better than to assume he was asleep.

"I am not here to lecture you," Vetinari continued, leaning slightly on his cane. "Nor am I here to gloat, or to punish you further. You have done an admirable job of that yourself."

Still no response.

Vetinari sighed. "I am going to sit down now. My leg is bothering me."

He lowered himself onto the ground, his back against the wall, the cold seeping through his robes. The cell smelled of damp straw, stale sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood--not necessarily from Vimes, many men had bled here before him.

"You tried to provoke me into killing you," Vetinari said conversationally. "What do you think would have happened if you had succeeded?"

Vimes didn't reply. He kept breathing, his face to the wall. There were only two hands' breadths between his head and Vetinari's outstretched leg, but he had not moved away. 

"I suppose it wouldn't have mattered to you, since you would have been dead?" Vetinari ventured. "Or perhaps you think the consequences would have been negligible? After all, Acting Commander Ironfoundersson is already doing your job. My position might have been weakened - temporarily - but I daresay I have withstood bigger crises than the death of one man. And, had it happened in my office with only my guards and clerks as witnesses, the narrative would have been completely under my control."

Vetinari paused in brief contemplation. "I must admit, relating the facts in this manner, I am starting to wonder myself. Why didn't I do it?"

Vimes snorted softly. 

Following a strange impulse, Vetinari reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. The man tensed but didn't flinch. Vetinari had a sense that he was bracing himself, accepting. This was unbearable. Vimes was not supposed to surrender. He never did.

"Lady Sybil sent me a basket of comfort foods when my dog died a few months ago and a letter expressing her condolences. She has sent me a birthday present every year since I was - oh - eighteen perhaps? There was a bit of a gap, of course, when I was away and she couldn't track me down. During those periods, she would send them to my aunt instead, where, upon my return, I had quite a few gifts to open." Vetinari drew in a deep breath, feeling it all come to a slow boil within himself. "Your wife was my friend." If he heard the tremor in his voice, so did Vimes. "But she is gone," he continued, "and we are not."

"It's that simple for you, is it?" growled Vimes and rolled onto his back, shaking off Vetinari's hand. 

"Yes, because that is all there is in the end. The dead are gone and the living must remain and move on and any pain and anger you might feel had better be put to good use, otherwise it is just a waste," he hissed. 

"A waste, eh?" Vimes's voice was dangerously low. "I'm sorry I can't find a way to put the death of my wife and our newborn son to good use for you, you bastard." The commander pushed himself up into a sitting position, his movements slow and laborious. 

Vetinari adjusted his position, planting his foot more firmly on the ground, tightening his grip around his cane.

"That is not--"

"Yes, it is. It always is with you." 

He will attack, he has already made up his mind. He is sober now, but hungover. Still furious, grief-stricken, perhaps you should call out to the guards. This was a mistake.

"We cannot change the past, Vimes," Vetinari said evenly.

Vimes lunged. "The past?" he roared, "Three days ago I buried them! Three days! I'll kill you!"

Vetinari had anticipated the move--had seen the tension coiling in the commander’s shoulders, the way his fingers flexed before curling into fists--but even so, the sheer force of the man was staggering.

Vimes crashed into him, knocking the cane aside, his hands closing around Vetinari’s throat. The impact drove the air from Vetinari’s lungs, his back slamming against the stone floor. For a moment, all he could see was the raw, animal fury in Vimes’s eyes, the way his teeth were bared in a snarl, the veins standing out in his temples.

He did not fight back.

Instead, he went utterly still beneath Vimes’s grip, his hands flat against the cold stone. His pulse hammered against the pressure of Vimes’s fingers, but he did not struggle.

Vimes’s breath came in ragged, furious bursts. His grip tightened, then faltered.

“Fight back,” he growled, voice thick with hatred. He was kneeling over Vetinari, palms hot against his throat.

Vetinari stared up at him, wondering silently if this was the end. 

Will I be sent back if he kills this version of me here?

“Fight back!” Vimes spat, shaking him.

Vetinari grasped Vimes's wrists, holding them instead of trying to pry them away.

"Nothing we do can change anything that happened," he rasped, "You know that. You can kill me and it won't help."

"They'll hang me and you'll be dead, maybe that's enough," said Vimes, voice brittle with despair.

"They might not hang you, they might make you Patrician." Vetinari smiled at the thought. "It might give you an appreciation--"

Vimes punched him then, quick and brutal, straight in the cheekbone. The pain exploded across his cheek as his head snapped sideways against the cold stone floor.

Breathing heavily, Vimes stared down at him in something like horror. 

Nervous rodent chittering could be heard.

"Don't interfere," Vetinari muttered to the small shapes he could see out of the corner of his eye. "Careful, commander, a bite from a rat can have very unpleasant consequences." 

Vimes was trembling. "You're mad. This is mad, this whole city... How am I supposed to-- Gods--"

"Just breathe, commander." Carefully, Vetinari pushed himself up on his elbows. Then, when Vimes made no move apart from shaking silently, he slipped an arm around the other man's waist and pulled him down, hoping that doing what Lady Sybil might have done would somehow help. 

Vimes collapsed onto him with a grunt, his forehead hitting Vetinari's shoulder, his hands grasping at his robe.

Vetinari brought up his free hand and ran it through Vimes's greasy hair. 

"There, there," he said awkwardly. His face was throbbing. Vimes made strange, breathy, half-muffled noises into his shoulder. Only as it grew damp did Vetinari realize he was crying.

Oh, he thought. He was suddenly reminded of poor Wuffles' last moments and something inside him clenched. He gripped the commander harder, pulling him more tightly into his embrace. 

Vimes shuddered against him, his breath hitching in ragged gasps. Vetinari could feel the heat of his tears through the fabric of his robe, the way his fingers twisted into the cloth as though Vimes was hanging over the abyss and holding on for dear life.

For a long while, neither of them moved. Vetinari kept his hand in Vimes’s hair, fingers carding through the unwashed strands with a gentleness he rarely allowed himself. The commander’s breathing slowed, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Then, very quietly, Vimes muttered, “Why?”

Vetinari stilled. “Why what?”

Vimes lifted his head just enough to glare at him, his face streaked with tears and fury. “Why this? Why not just let me--” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

“Because you are replaceable,” Vetinari said simply. "And yet I find myself not wanting to replace you." An irrational thought, tied to emotion. He had given it voice and, clearly, Vimes did not know what to do with it. Neither did Vetinari. 

He had thought that he could fill the vacancy left by Lady Sybil with Verity Skelp or another eligible woman who could marry Vimes and perhaps even give him children. 

Now he was not so certain anymore.

Because fixing Vimes was all well and good, but what about him?

Using the moment of confusion following his statement, Vetinari found purchase on the ground and in one perfectly calibrated moment, flipped them over so he was on top of Vimes. The commander stared up at him, the whites of his eyes standing out in the dark, and Vetinari realized that this was what he wanted. The most efficient solution. Cutting out the middle-man. The commander would be his and that would be that.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to Vimes's. The man made an undignified noise and stiffened beneath him and Vetinari caught his wrists and pinned them above his head, pressing himself against the commander. 

Vimes’s lips were chapped and tasted of salt and stale whiskey. For a moment, he remained rigid beneath Vetinari, his breath hitching in surprise-- then, with a muffled growl, he twisted his wrists free and grabbed fistfuls of Vetinari’s robe, dragging him closer.

Their teeth clicked. Vetinari's face hurt. Vimes reached around and Vetinari felt fingers dig into his shoulders, blunt nails scraping through the fabric, as if the commander couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him in deeper.

Vetinari made the decision for him. He slid a hand up Vimes’s neck, thumb pressing against the pulse point there--too fast, too frantic--and deepened the kiss, swallowing the ragged noise Vimes made in response.

Then, abruptly, Vimes tore his mouth away. His chest heaved, his eyes wild. “What the hell are you doing?”

"I have come to the conclusion that I should take you as my lover," Vetinari said, studying the disheveled wreck of a man. 

"You're mad," breathed Vimes, "You're a bloody monster! It's Snapcase all over ag--"

Vetinari cut him off with a kiss. "Do be quiet, commander," he murmured between kisses. "Your input is not needed."

"Mmmff," went Vimes.

Vetinari ignored the muffled protests, focusing instead on the way Vimes’s body responded despite himself--the hitch in his breath, the way his fingers twitched against Vetinari’s back.

"You don’t get to--" Vimes managed between kisses, voice rough, "--just decide this."

"Yes, I do. I am a tyrant," Vetinari murmured, trailing his lips along the prickly line of Vimes’s jaw. The man smelled of sweat, cheap whiskey, and stale cigar smoke, but beneath it all was the familiar scent of steel and dragons -- the essence of the Ramkins. Vetinari found it intoxicating. She still clung to Vimes, oozed from his pores, he would never be able to shake her off.

Vimes shuddered as Vetinari’s teeth grazed his throat. "This is--"

"Necessary," Vetinari supplied, pressing a knee between Vimes’s thighs. The commander let out a strangled noise, his hips jerking involuntarily. "For the city."

"You're bloody mental," Vimes snarled, but his hands were tightening in Vetinari’s robes again. There was the sound of tearing fabric. 

Two could play at that game. Vetinari made short work of Vimes's shirt. In the dark, Vimes's torso was pale and firm, broad shoulders, with some softness around the middle. Sybil's handiwork. Vetinari remembered a gaunt Captain of the Watch, all skin and bones, marinated in alcohol and cynicism. 

Vimes's face was flushed. He looked wounded, angry and unsure. "You can't do this," he said. "It's perverse, it's--"

Vetinari leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Some of the fight seemed to have gone out of the commander. "No one will know," he said softly. "no one will judge. You will be mine and I will take care of you. I can give you purpose. As I have before. And for a few moments each day, I can give you oblivion. You won't have to think or remember. You simply have to be."

Vimes's eyes were wet again. Vetinari caressed his cheek. He was glad when the other man leaned into the touch. 

"I won't pretend that I can make you happy, commander. We both know that is not what this is. But I can make you forget. Would you like me to make you forget?"

After a beat Vimes nodded.

"Very well." Vetinari kissed him again, slower this time, soft and probing. He savored the stutter of Vimes's breath against his lips, the raw, incomparable taste of him. His hands explored Vimes's upper body, finding his scars. Ridges of flesh where cuts had not healed well, felt the faded shadows of sloppy field stitches slightly raised beneath his fingertips. Vimes was breathing raggedly, holding very still as he was examined and appraised. 

He hissed when Vetinari started undoing his britches. He was hard under them and, Vetinari guessed, somewhat ashamed of this. 

Vetinari paused, leaned back and peeled his robes off first. Under them, he wore a dark shirt and trousers. He watched the rise and fall of Vimes's chest, carded his fingers through the coarse curls around his nipples, followed the trail down to his waistband again. 

"You may touch me as well," he said, arching an eyebrow. 

Vimes merely looked at him, his hands coming up, then settling uneasily on his waist.

"Did you do this sort of thing in school? With other boys?" he asked suddenly, a hint of accusation in his voice.

"No." Vetinari's reply was clipped. "I have never been with a man before. Have you?" He knew what the answer would be before Vimes shook his head.