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Chapter Text

There were many religions on the Discworld. How many exactly, nobody could say, but most of them believed in some form of afterlife. This usually included a way to punish you, in case you hadn’t behaved well enough in the beforelife: All kinds of hells, the absolute destruction of the eternal soul, rebirth into squalor – you name it. All of them were horrid, all of them deeply feared by their respective believers.

Samuel Vimes had his own belief system, even if it didn’t really account for any gods. There was a hell, though, only it had one peculiarity: Contrary to the more conventional types, it wasn’t waiting for him in the afterlife. No, this special hell returned every single year to haunt him in the guise of the Ankh-Morpork Carnival.

Sam understood that in other regions of the Disc, such as Genua, Carnival meant beautiful people dancing nearly naked in the streets, which were still sweltering from the summer heat. There were supposed to be spectacles with countless performers working in perfect unison, illuminated by fire artists, framed by acrobats and magicians and all these kinds of things.

Not in Ankh-Morpork.

Oh no.

Carnival season in Ankh-Morpork, was the dankest, chilliest, muddiest season of them all. It crept up on you (rubbing, Sam imagined, its’ metaphorical hands in joyous anticipation), when crisp, white snow had faded away into grey sludge, when joyfully dancing snowflakes had made way for showers of sleet, when sunny wintery days had been replaced by foggy half-nights that never grew properly bright.

Nobody, who didn’t want to risk pneumonia, was dancing half-naked in the streets. Or, well, at least not in the aesthetic way a sane person was able to appreciate.

Instead, to keep warm, people wore the most ridiculous, tasteless, sometimes downright offensive fancy dresses, and got drunk. Dangerously drunk. The amount of people the Watch had to roll off the surface of the Ankh, half-mad from the river’s fumes, quadrupled during carnival. Violent altercations skyrocketed (and Vimes didn’t blame the trolls and dwarves who got offended by more than questionable costumes). Birth rates tended to explode about nine months later, which did nothing for Ankh-Morpork’s over-population problem…

But the thing was: It was tradition. You couldn’t say anything against tradition. Folklorists insisted that all this debauchery had a reason. It was a traditional reversal of hierarchies, a way to hold up a mirror to those in power, and also, somehow, to shoo away ghosts. Vimes didn’t pretend to understand how putting on a fancy dress and drinking in the street in broad daylight helped with any of that, but the gist of it was: You didn’t mess with tradition. Even Lord Vetinari, Patrician of this city, accepted the mayhem – at least as long as the hierarchies were reversed by 360 degrees, any and all held up mirrors were kept out of the Palace, and no ghosts were injured during the shooing.

And so the Ankh-Morpork Carnival remained a trial for the Watch each and every year.

Commander Samuel Vimes leaned back against a wall and lit himself a cigar. Dusk was quickly falling. Well, actually, dusk had practically been hanging around since dawn, successfully hiding the sun behind a dark wall of clouds, which dropped a good amount of sleet down on the revellers every now and then. It was cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass hippo. It was in fact so cold that Vimes was wearing a cloak – something he hardly ever did. The weather warranted it thoroughly.

He smoked his cigar and watched as the street heaved the crowds forward. People were heading towards the Plaza of Broken Moons where fireworks would soon complete the colourful array of life-threatening hazards the carnival brought with it. As he scanned the scene before him, his instincts automatically categorised everything it saw into ‘harmless fun’, ‘potentially dangerous stupidity’ and ‘downright threatening’. The costumes of course, made it difficult. Known criminals easily hid behind masks and hoods. He needed to talk to Vetinari about this... Again. Last year, three rejects of the Thieves’ Guild had disguised themselves as burglars and had claimed that robbing roughly 5,0000 dollars’ worth of jewellery had been part of their traditionally warranted costume. He had been very tempted to just let Boggis deal with them.

Honestly, why Vetinari didn’t put a stop to this idiocy was beyond him. Tradition was one thing, sure, but… Sam’s thoughts came to a screeching halt when his gaze fell on a tall man, dressed in a colourfully chequered cloak and a mask that turned his nose into a long beak. He stood there firmly as a rock while the sea of revellers surged and parted around him, and he was looking at Vimes. Sam could feel his gaze, even though the mask made it hard to actually see his eyes.

Category: ‘Vaguely but annoyingly menacing.’

Vimes pushed himself off the wall to get a better look at the man. But when he blinked, he was suddenly gone – only to reappear seconds later, on the top of the stairs to a building further ahead, standing as still as a statue, as if he’d never moved.

Creepy bastard.

Sam knew when he was being taunted. It probably would have been prudent not to give in, or at least, to call for backup. But his instincts told him to calmly stub out his cigar against the wall and then walk towards where the man had been – the stairs now empty, but the colourful cloak flashing further down the street.

Sure enough, as Vimes moved through the crowd, the man appeared and reappeared, deliberately leading him onwards and away from the revelries. Finally, he vanished inside an abandoned building, wedged between two workshops which were dark and locked during the carnival.

It was terribly stupid to follow him there – Vimes knew that, of course. But he did it anyway. His instincts insisted on it.

The room was lit by a few flickering oil lamps. It was mostly empty, except for a few dried up pots of paint and a couple of easels, all gathering dust – an abandoned artist’s studio perhaps. Sam didn’t have much time to think about it, because hardly had he crossed the threshold, when something very pointy pressed against his back. He froze.

‘Ah, Commander Vimes.’ The man behind him tut-tutted into is ear disapprovingly. ‘You can never resist the chase, can you?’

His instincts made him react before his brain had a chance to analyse why the voice somehow sounded familiar. A precise and forceful kick to the knee should have taken care of his attacker, but the man managed to dodge. At least, he had to remove the knife from Vimes’ back to do so. Sam spun around, managed to grab him and push him up against the wall. He could feel him wiggle out of his grip and didn’t even try to stop him because he had an inkling that he couldn’t. Instead, he pulled the mask off his face so he would be able to identify him later.

Which turned out to be entirely unnecessary, because he could, in fact, identify him right now.

Breathlessly, Sam took a step back.

‘What the fuck?’ he growled as Vetinari smirked at him, then added a belated: ‘Sir.’

Gracefully, Vetinari vanished a dagger inside his cloak, then smoothed the streaks of hair back that had come loose during their struggle. He looked odd in colourful clothing – almost like a different person entirely. No wonder Vimes hadn’t recognised him before. Even now he could hardly believe his eyes.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Enjoying the festivities, of course.’

‘Enjoying?’

Vetinari raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Are you not partial to our time-honoured tradition of the carnival, commander?’

Vimes didn’t know whether he was more annoyed or baffled. Perhaps it was both in equal parts.

‘No. Why the hell are you?’

Vetinari gave him a sort of not-smile that drove Vimes up the wall.

‘I know that you find it difficult to believe, commander, since you have regularly expressed this to me throughout the years, but the carnival is a necessary institution for the stability of this city. Oh, don’t make such a face. Isn’t it much safer to give the people a designated day on which they can act out to their heart’s desire and be prepared for it, than everyone doing it individually whenever they happen to feel like it? I find the carnival quite the useful outlet. After all, governing a city, especially a city like Ankh-Morpork, is all about channelling what you cannot and will never be able to control.’

Vimes crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘Doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

Gods, Vimes wanted to strangle the man for his inability to give straight answers. Or, well, any answers at all. Nobody ever got under his skin the way Vetinari did – especially because Sam knew they were on the same side. Vetinari had his back, Vetinari always made sure he could do his job properly, no matter what the guilds had to say about it, and yet he insisted on winding him up like a toy soldier every time he saw him.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at Sam, as if he had read his thoughts. ‘Really, Vimes, do you find it so hard to believe that even I might enjoy a day of misrule? On carnival, a person may be anyone they choose.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not real. So why even bother?’

Vetinari raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you never wished to be someone else, Sir Samuel, even for one day?’

This conversation was heading in an unsettling direction, and yet somehow, Sam found himself answering truthfully. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve wished for circumstances to be different, sure, but… I don’t know. I don’t think I ever considered the possibility to be someone other than me.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Is it?’

Vetinari shrugged his shoulders. ‘In my experience quite a substantial amount of people have that wish at one point or another in their lives.’

‘But you?’

‘Oh, very often. It sometimes bothers me that I can only experience one life from a single, rather limited human perspective. Our Disc has so much more to offer.’

‘Right.’ Vimes gestured at the colourful cloak. ‘So, who exactly are you being right now?’

‘Just a regular citizen.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound very exciting.’

‘Perhaps not. But I find it rather freeing.’

Sam stared at him while he was desperately trying to make sense of all that. ‘Why?’ he asked quietly.

‘Isn’t it obvious? There are… certain things I cannot allow myself as patrician.’

For some reason, Vimes’ heart picked up its pace at that, as if it was getting ready for a chase. He swallowed. ‘Really? What is it you’d like to be able to do then? That you can’t?’

‘Have you really not figured it out yet, commander?’ Vetinari opened his arms in a gesture of surrender, which – again, without any apparent reason – made Sam’s heart skip a beat. ‘Me being here must give you a clue.’

‘Honestly, my best guess is that you want to annoy me,’ Vimes growled in an attempt to drown out any other suspicion he might have. ‘But to perfectly honest, sir, that is definitely something you can do as patrician. I can testify to that, under oath if needs be.’

‘How then, commander, do you evaluate the probability of this being it?’

‘Well, you are doing it, so…’

Vetinari sighed. Silently, he eased the chequered cloak off his shoulders and let it drop to the ground. Underneath he wore plain black trousers and a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Seeing him like that made Vimes feel like his usual, elegant black coat, buttoned up to the chin, was a costume of sorts, too.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asked, because it was February and freezing outside – and it wasn’t much warmer in here.

‘Are you worried about me, Vimes?’

‘No. Only it would be an awful lot of hassle if you caught pneumonia and died.’

‘Ah. I wouldn’t want to unduly add to your workload, of course. Rest assured that I am fine.’

Despite the reassurance, Sam watched Vetinari’s pale forearms for signs of goosebumps – and for no other reason. No other reason at all. He did not feel the urge to touch them, to check whether they were cold.

‘You’re sure? ‘Cause some people might even be upset about you dying.’

‘Some people?’

‘Two or three at least, I suppose.’

‘And would you count yourself among those people, Vimes?’

‘Well, yeah. As I said: It would be so much work.’

Vetinari turned his head away, as if to hide a smile, and Vimes used the moment to look him over. He seemed more like a real person than usual, hands in his pockets, hair still somewhat dishevelled, laugh lines around his eyes, that Vimes had never noticed before. He made the impression of a perfectly drawn figure that had decided to step out of their painting. It only belatedly occurred to Sam, that Vetinari wanted him to see him like that. But his brain still couldn’t quite piece together want exactly that might mean, not quite yet…

‘So, what are you doing here, then?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

‘Do you really not know?’

‘You’re making annoying me remain a pretty strong contender, sir.’

‘Yes, well. I suppose, when it comes down to it, Vimes… It’s like boys pulling the pigtails of the girls they like.’

Vimes blinked. ‘Um. What?’

Vetinari sighed again. He looked at Vimes, and behind his eyes, there was a decision being made. He stepped forward, and before Sam could react, Vetinari’s hands cradled his face. They were indeed cold – too cold. He needed to give Vetinari a proper talking-to about that. Well, no, first he needed to get gloves on him, as well as his cloak. Then he needed to bring him somewhere warm, give him some tea perhaps, and…

The onslaught of thoughts was derailed by Vetinari’s mouth on his.

Which was definitely not cold.

Not cold at all.

Not even a little bit.

Gods.

After the first moment of shock, Sam’s hands came to rest on Vetinari’s hips of their own accord to pull him in. He was utterly surprised once more, when Vetinari yielded to his touch and stepped in, so that their bodies came to touch. Emboldened, Vimes kissed him back, wrapping his arms around Vetinari’s waist to hug him and warm him up – and to make sure that this was real and not just a particularly peculiar fever dream.

And then, Vetinari’s lips left his, but Vimes still held on to him, making sure that the rest of him wasn’t going anywhere. When he blinked his eyes open, Vetinari was looking back at him curiously. He had one hand still on Sam’s cheek, the other rested on his shoulder, and the rest of him was pressed against Sam’s side. Hastily, Vimes grabbed his own cloak and wrapped it around them both to keep Vetinari warm. It earned him a smile, half amused, half bemused.

‘This is the first thing you think of to do?’ Vetinari asked softly.

‘You were lying to me,’ Vimes huffed. ‘You are cold.’

‘Not very.’

Vimes pulled his cloak tighter around them both anyway, and while he felt Vetinari warm up in his embrace, his brain finally had a chance to catch-up, so that the whole thing about the kiss started to get the attention it probably deserved.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You, er… you kissed me.’

‘An astute observation, commander.’

‘Why?’

Vetinari blinked at him. ‘Why do you think?’

‘But… But you don’t do that kind of thing. Do you?’

‘The patrician doesn’t.’

Oh.

Oh!

Oh.

As Vimes stared at him, Vetinari’s cheeks put on the slightest hint of red. He batted his eyelashes, which – now that Vimes was so close to them for the first time – turned out to be rather long. And dark. And gorgeous.

‘And if I may venture to make an observation of my own, Vimes: You kissed me back.’

‘I, er… Yeah. I did.’

‘So what is the conclusion we should come to?’

Sam gave himself a moment to breathe and think.

‘That’s what you came here to do today?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘To experience?’

‘Yes.’

‘And tomorrow? What then? You’ll be the patrician again, and this will never have happened?’

‘Ah.’ Vetinari inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I’m afraid that is the way it has to be.’

Vimes had expected that, but it hurt anyway.

‘I’m not your plaything.’

Vetinari’s face contorted, just for second, just so that Sam might have imagined the expression of pain on it. Then the patrician stepped away from him, out of the warmth of his cloak. It left Vimes shivering.

‘It wasn’t my intention to toy with you, commander. But I understand why you would feel this way. I apologise.’ He bent down to pick up his own cloak, the vibrant colours now covered in dust. ‘Best to put this behind us, then.’

Vimes watched as Vetinari walked towards the door – and found that even the thought of him leaving felt unbearable. And so, before Vetinari could reach for the handle, he grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

‘You can’t just waltz in here, do that, and then leave!’

On the surface Vetinari remained as calm as always – there was just the hint of a twitch in his eye that betrayed his put upon demeanour. ‘You have made it clear to me that my coming here has been a mistake.’

‘No, that’s not…’ Vimes curled his fists around the lapels of Vetinari’s shirt and pulled him in by it. ‘I don’t want you to leave. I want you to say that you’ll kiss me again tomorrow.’

‘I can’t, Vimes. We can’t. You know that.’

It was true, but that didn’t make it hurt less. It was a mixture of anger, frustration, and desire that made Vimes shove him against the wall and claim his mouth. Vetinari didn’t even pretend to resist – he dropped his cloak and surrendered to Vimes’ passion readily, sighing soft moans into his mouth as they kissed.

Fine. If this was it, if there was only today, then he would make it count. They’d crossed the line now anyway, he might as well make the most of it. So he pulled Vetinari’s shirt out of his trousers, pushing his hands beneath the fabric where they came to rest on either side of Vetinari’s rib cage. The man was lean – too thin perhaps, he needed to eat more – and still cold to the touch. Sam wanted to warm him up thoroughly this time. Vetinari’s breath hitched when Vimes pressed his thigh between his legs.

‘Vimes…’

His name, sighed breathlessly into his ear, aroused Sam more than anything else. He almost couldn’t stand it. While his lips wandered down the side of Vetinari’s jaw and neck and bit into his shoulder, his hand searched for the buttons on his trousers. When he had found them, he flicked them open impatiently and pushed his hand inside.

Vetinari gasped. His length lay heavy in Sam’s hand, hard and pulsing, as he circled his thumb around the tip, spreading the moistness that had already accumulated there. Vetinari clang to him so hard it almost hurt while Vimes closed his fist around him and moved it up and down at a fast, steady pace.

He felt the patrician come undone in his arms as he quickly neared his climax. He buried his face in Vimes’ neck, panted, clawed his fingers into his shoulders. When Sam finally quickened his pace, Vetinari whimpered and shuddered. His pelvis jerked forwards repeatedly, without control, as he spilled into Vimes’ hand.

His skin felt warm now, where his cheek rested against Sam’s, where Sam’s hand rested on his ribs. Vetinari took his time to catch his breath as he clung to Vimes. Only slowly, he untangled himself from the commander, so he could look at him, eyes hooded, lips red. And just when Vimes wondered what was going to happen now, Vetinari went down on his knees.

His stomach lurched with excitement. For a moment he felt it hard to believe that this was actually happening, but then Vetinari made short work of his buttons and freed his cock from his trousers.

‘Fuck…’

Sam looked down at the patrician, who knelt before him, one hand around the base of his cock, and his knees almost gave in. He had to catch himself on the doorframe to stay upright. With his free hand he cradled the back of Vetinari’s head and gently pulled him in.

When the lips closed around his cock, Vimes saw stars. Humid heat engulfed him, and he couldn’t help but thrust forward. Vetinari hummed in surprise but didn’t draw back. On the contrary: He opened his mouth wider and relaxed his throat around Vimes – an invitation for him to thrust deeper.

Sam didn’t last long before he felt his thighs shudder with the force of the orgasm that rushed through him as he came into Vetinari’s mouth.

Ye gods… He could feel him swallow.

Vimes closed his eyes, tried to catch his breath, and had to hold on to the doorframe for dear life, feeling the splinters burying themselves underneath his fingernails. Only when he had gone completely limp, the heat around his cock vanished.

Vetinari sat back on his heels and delicately dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief he had gotten who knew where. The man always came prepared. In fact, he would have looked infuriatingly collected, had his hair not been in such disarray and his cheeks coloured a bright pink.

Awkwardly, Vimes tucked himself away. The weight of the realisation hit him that he had just gotten a blowjob from the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Well, not from the patrician, exactly – from private citizen Havelock Vetinari. He didn’t know whether that made it better or worse.

He earned a bemused smile from said Havelock Vetinari when he offered him a hand. But he took it nevertheless and allowed Vimes to help him up.

‘Got what you came for?’ Sam asked, not, as he noticed himself, without a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

‘That is a cruel question, commander.’

‘Well, it’s a cruel situation to be in. If you hadn’t come here…’ He shook his head.

‘Then what?’

‘Then I would have never known how much I wanted this. I mean… Well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You.’

Vetinari remained still for long enough that Sam wondered whether he had heard him at all. ‘I am sorry, Vimes. But even I find it difficult to resist temptation sometimes.’

‘Fuck…’ Vimes rubbed his hand through his face. ‘Look, don’t be sorry. Just…’ Godsdammit. He grabbed him and pulled him into his arms, wrapping them both up in his cloak again. Then he kissed him, simply because he didn’t know what else to say. They were here, together, and they shouldn’t be. They both wanted something that couldn’t happen – Vetinari war absolutely right in that regard.

Vetinari’s hands came up to cup his face, and this time, they were warm. ‘You don’t regret it, Vimes, do you?’

‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you?’

‘No.’

It felt like Vetinari wanted to say more, but just then, fireworks exploded in the distance with a boom and a crackle. Slowly, Vetinari peeled himself out of Sam’s embrace. ‘But I do have to go. It sounds like you, too, have work to do.’

Vimes watched him as he picked up his cloak again, as well as his mask, and put them on. It still felt like a dream. Maybe it was.

‘The next carnival will be around before you know it, Vimes.’

‘And will you be here, then?’

‘There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’

‘Sir.’

Vetinari smiled at him, then vanished out of the door.

Vimes had to sit down for a bit, before he found himself able to head back out again in the direction of the Plaza, trying his hardest not to look for a man in a chequered cloak, who he knew wasn’t there. He barely noticed how hard he was clenching his fists as he grappled with what had just happened.

Carnival, eh?

Always a hell quite of its own.

Chapter Text

Not for the first time today, Havelock Vetinari caught himself staring out of the office window, this time procrastinating on dealing with Lord Downey’s latest letter. The tip of his fountain pen had been hovering over the upper corner of a blank sheet of paper for about an hour by now because he could not think of anything to say. No, that wasn’t quite true. As a matter of fact, he could think of a million things to say – only nothing that would have been appropriate.

The reason Havelock Vetinari had a rather difficult time replying to this particular letter was that it complained about a very specific person. A man, to be more precise, that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was trying his hardest not to think about – which was difficult, having kissed said man only a couple of weeks prior.

Vetinari closed his eyes. He didn’t make errors of judgement often, but looking for Vimes during the carnival had been one. For some reason, he had managed to convince himself that he would be able to control the situation – somehow neglecting his frankly abysmal record of being able to control the effect Vimes had on him. And so, rather predictably, actually, the situation had gotten out of hand, and Vetinari had found himself on his knees. Which he hadn’t done for anyone in years. Well, decades. And to his own chagrin, he had enjoyed himself immensely.

During the past forty years of his life, Havelock Vetinari had meticulously strengthened his mind, so that he resisted temptation easily. But not then. Vimes, as he so oft didn’t, had thrown a spanner in the works and had reacted entirely unpredictably. Vetinari had been prepared for him to be embarrassed at his advances, enraged even, or perhaps confused. He had expected all manners of rejection, up to and including a physical fight. What he certainly hadn’t expected was Vimes’ care and tenderness. His arms around him had felt wonderful, his warmth…

No. He could not allow himself to indulge in these memories. It had been a mistake, and mistakes must not be repeated.

Usually, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was beyond impulsive expressions of frustration, but private citizen Havelock Vetinari admittedly put his pen down on his desk a tad more forcefully than would have been necessary. It even spilled a drop of ink.

He steepled his hands against his mouth in an attempt to calm himself. He couldn’t help but notice that he had found it necessary to make the distinction between politician and citizen more and more often lately, ever since… Well. There seemed to be no use in trying not to think about it. His encounter with Vimes had gone much further than he could have ever expected and it had rattled him more deeply than he cared to admit. He wouldn’t call it panic, because he did not do such frivolous things as panic. But he did have to admit that he had no idea how to handle what had happened between them, and that in itself was rather unsettling. His usual tactic of stowing all thoughts about it away into a secret corner of his mind, labelling it ‘private’ and locking the door, had hardly worked so far. Whenever he had a quiet moment to himself or when an obnoxious guild leader decided to complain about Vimes again for having the audacity to – ah, yes, shockingly insist that the fiscal law of the city also applied to the guilds and their presidents – their hour together returned to him in startling clarity.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his ruminations. Gods, how long had he been sitting there without getting any work done? This whole thing was becoming an actual problem… He tried not to let his own resentment show as Drumknott entered the office, carrying a small wooden box.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting, sir.’

‘Not at all. Please come in.’

Drumknott hesitated anyway, probably sensing that something was amiss – he had been his personal secretary for long enough, after all. He didn’t mention anything, though, of course.

‘One of Mister Terrace’s assistants brought this for you, sir.’

Vetinari allowed himself a slight frown. Mr Terrace was his personal tailor. The man had come into this position because, unlike his colleagues, he did not attempt to outdo everyone else in each new season with fancy colours, ridiculous cuts, and an overabundance of frills. No, Mr Terrace reliably used sensible, high-quality fabrics, measured absolutely precisely, and you were hard pressed to find anything more colourful in his studio than a dark burgundy. He was greatly favoured by the assassins of Ankh-Morpork.

‘I haven’t ordered anything.’

‘I know, sir. It seems to be a gift form an anonymous benefactor. I had it checked thoroughly for traps, of course, but everything appears to be in order.’

Drumknott put the box down on Vetinari’s desk. It was a good foot in length but hardly half a foot wide. Vetinari eyed it cautiously, but it looked exactly like every other box he had ever received from Mr Terrace, including his seal – though it had been broken by the Palace Guard, presumably following instructions from Drumknott. There was indeed nothing suspicious about it that he could find, and it wasn’t unusual for gifts to be send to him, though they rarely came anonymously. The gift givers usually expected a little quid pro quo, thus setting themselves up for disappointment.

Carefully, Vetinari opened the lid. When he peeled away the silken wrapping paper, it revealed a pair of black leather gloves with a fur lining. On them lay a small card that simply read: ‘Wear them!’ He knew the handwriting, of course, he could even hear the corresponding voice in his head. It took effort to appear entirely unimpressed.

‘Thank you, Drumknott.’

He felt his secretary hesitate once more. Even he couldn’t help but be curious whether Vetinari would be able to identify the mysterious gift-giver. He would need to remain curious.

‘Sir.’

After Drumknott had closed the door behind him, Vetinari put the card aside and stared into the box for a while. The gloves were of exquisite craftsmanship, their design simple and elegant. Mr Terrace only made his wares to order, so Vimes would have needed to go there personally to choose the fabrics, the style, the fit… Slowly, Vetinari took one glove out of the box. He couldn’t resist the temptation – almost a theme as of late – and slipped it on. It fit, well, like a glove. The fur inside was soft and silky, designed to keep him warm even in the coldest winter nights. It reminded him of being wrapped up in Vimes’ cloak, wrapped up in his arms…

Hurriedly, he pulled the glove off his hand and put it back in the box.

This couldn’t be. It had been stupid of him to allow himself the indulgence. Now he craved for more. He probably should have seen that coming, but he was so used to being able to manage his emotions that it hadn’t for a moment occurred to him that he might not be able to control this. He should have known. Vimes had always been a wild card, but he had hardly expected him to share the desire, much less that he would match it.

Vetinari should send the gloves back. It would get the message across once and for all: No, Vimes. Leave it. We mustn’t. We can’t. We shouldn’t.

But then again… Gingerly, he touched the leather. The thought that had gone into this gift, the time, not least the money… He knew what Vimes earned and while it wasn’t bad – he’d made sure of that – it wasn’t a fortune either. The title of the Duke of Ankh came without any financial assets whatsoever. These gloves had cost him. And frankly, Vetinari was getting tired of denying himself. He had started out his reign with the iron conviction that nothing and nobody could ever mean as much to him as Ankh-Morpork, and so the sacrifice had never felt like such.

Until now.

He sighed.

He closed the lid.

He would not make any rash decisions. Infatuations were dangerous. They had toppled kingdoms, they had destroyed empires. Ankh-Morpork would not suffer in exchange for his private happiness. And that was that.

~*~

About a week later – Vetinari still hadn’t made up his mind about the gloves, which probably meant they were staying – another anonymous package arrived for him. Commendably, Drumknott did not remark on the gorgeously ornamented box of Klatchian tea.

Or on the tin of assorted biscuits in the following week.

Or the quilted comforter another week later.

While the arrival of anonymous gifts continued, Vetinari was having his usual meetings with Vimes, who did not so much as allude to any of these packages or to their carnival encounter. It drove Vetinari near insanity, the way they discussed fraudulent traffic signs, budgets, and goblins in the watch, as if nothing at all had happened. And after this had gone on for nearly two months, he… well, for lack of a better word, he snapped.

‘Stop it, Vimes.’

The commander’s face remained blank.

‘Stop what, sir?’

Just for a second, Vetinari almost doubted his judgement. Was that how people felt opposite him usually? How disconcerting. Luckily, he didn’t succumb as easily as them.

‘You know what.’

‘’M afraid I don’t.’

Gods, this man could really drive him to the brink of madness. Also disconcerting. It had been a disconcerting few weeks.

‘Drumknott is discreet, of course, but he isn’t daft. He will suspect that I have a suitor, even if he will not suspect you, I believe.’

‘A suitor?’

‘You are clearly courting me, Vimes!’

As surprise took over the blank face opposite him, Vetinari sighed inwardly. He had lost his temper there – just for a second, but he had lost it. He looked down at the desk and straightened a document that didn’t need straightening.

‘I’m not sure where you are expecting this to go, commander. I already told you that anything… romantic between us is out of the question.’

Vimes shrugged his shoulders infuriatingly calmly. ‘I just think you need to take better care of yourself, is all.’

Vetinari stilled and stared at him. Since when was Vimes the calm one with plausible deniability, and Vetinari the one who was driven mad by his nonchalance? This had gotten severely out of hand. Most disconcerting.

‘Your worry is entirely unnecessary, Vimes. I have managed to stay alive so far, even without your… ministrations.’

Vimes huffed. ‘Ha! Barely.’

‘If you are referring to the incident with the arsenic…’

‘Well, I am! If I hadn’t scraped you off the floor right there…’ – he was stabbing is index finger in the direction of there – ‘we’d not be having this conversation!’

Ah, he was getting angry now. Good. That felt better. Familiar.

‘And may I also remind you, sir, that it was me who carried you through the gonne fire to the Great Hall while you were busy bleeding out?’

‘You’re exaggerating, Vimes. It wasn’t a fire as much as it was a single bullet.’

Yes, it was feeling much better to get back to their usual dynamic. Very good.

‘Never mind that you would have been shot clean through the chest even before that if we hadn’t…’

Perhaps too good.

‘Enough,’ Vetinari interrupted him hurriedly. ‘I have given you an order, commander. I expect we will not have to talk about this again.’

And this time, Vimes did not manage to keep up the mask. The words hurt him.

Well. Good. Better he learned it now than later: Trying to get close to the patrician would only result in injury.

‘Do you know, commander, I have been thinking about Captain Carrot lately. I feel that we should advance his training as your successor. Forthwith he shall report to me.’

‘This is ridiculous!’

‘Nevertheless, it is my order.’

Vimes stared at him for a good ten seconds and it took all of Vetinari’s effort to show him a blank face until he surrendered and shook his head.

‘Fine. Fine! Have it your way.’ Vimes almost kicked his chair over as he sat up. He stormed for the door but swivelled around half-way. ‘But you know what? I have learned to expect pretty much anything from you during the past decades – and I still wouldn’t have expected you to be a coward.’

Vetinari reached for his pen as if preparing to get back to work, doing his best to disguise the fact that he simply needed something to hold on to.

‘Discretion is not the same as cowardice.’

Vimes snorted. ‘You can bend words all you like, but it won’t help you. Not this time.’

‘Then I shall remain silent on the matter.’

‘Fine!’ Vimes threw his hands up in frustration. ‘Fine. Fine! Whatever you say, mylord.’

There was at least one person who would be very happy about how their conversation ended: the palace’s plasterer. On his way out, Vimes gave the wall outside a beating like it hadn’t received in years.

‘The commander seemed quite upset,’ even Drumknott couldn’t help to remark when he entered the office.

‘Indeed.’

‘Is everything quite alright?’

When Vetinari raised a surprised eyebrow at the question, his secretary coughed awkwardly. ‘I beg your pardon if the question is too private, sir, but...’ He hesitated. ‘The commander seemed rather upset. More upset than usual, I mean.’

‘Really? Well, I have made some arrangements he was none too pleased with.’

‘I see.’ Drumknott collected a stack of signed documents from Vetinari’s desk. ‘Should I let the Guard know that we will not be expecting any more anonymous packages?’

Only when Vetinari froze, Drumknott seemed to realise what he had just professed to knowing or, at least, suspecting.

‘An entirely unrelated question, of course, sir.’

Vetinari squeezed his pen in an attempt to keep himself from falling apart.

‘Of course. That will be all, thank you.’

‘Sir.’

On his way to the door, Drumknott hesitated as if about to say something else, but, to Vetinari’s relief, stopped himself just in time, and left.

Suddenly, the pen cracked in Vetinari’s grip. Ink spilled out, drowning Downey’s letter in black.

Which was something at least.

Chapter Text

Vetinari had made it very clear that he wanted distance. It would have been wise, therefore, to just forget about it all. Their meeting during the carnival had been a calculated move from the patrician – as everything he did was calculated, even the misrule. He had used Vimes exactly the way he had meant to use him, and now that he was done with him, he had put him up on the shelf until he became useful once more. That’s all Vimes was good for, after all, especially to someone like Havelock Vetinari: to be a tool – in every sense of the word.

The trouble was: How on the Disc were you supposed to forget about Havelock Vetinari on his knees before of you, eyes wide and cheeks flushed and eager…? Well, you simply didn’t. That moment Sam would remember until the day he died.

And it wasn’t even like Vimes was particularly interested in these kinds of shenanigans generally – or had the time for them, frankly. If he ever felt the need… well, his own hand had been of service. Or sometimes, if he could make the time, which was almost never, he did go to Rosie Palm’s, as most men did. Depending on his mood, he’d see a lovey girl there called Violet or a lovely boy called Blue, and then he’d be satisfied again for months.

With Vetinari it was different. Of course it was. Vetinari was different from anyone anywhere. It wasn’t even about the sex, at least not primarily. No, Vimes wanted… Well, he wanted to take care of him. And maybe… well maybe he wanted to be his tool.

But Vetinari wouldn’t let him. It had been two weeks of Carrot dutifully trotting up to the palace every time the Watch was needed. The captain hadn’t asked any questions about it, simply had accepted it as part of his job. He was good with Vetinari, you had to give him that – probably better than Vimes ever had been, because he didn’t fly off the handle so easily, or at all, really. Vetinari might actually prefer to deal with him.

‘Sir?’

Sam looked up at Angua’s frowning face.

‘Are you done with staring the coffee pot down? ‘Cause I need some caffeine, if you don’t mind.’

Vimes nodded and handed her the pot, and only then realised that he hadn’t even filled his mug. Angua took care of that by pouring a good measure for him before she got to her own cup.

‘Haven’t slept enough?’ she asked.

‘When do any of us ever?’

‘Fair.’

They both sipped at their coffees, then pulled similar faces. You could always recognise Nobby’s brews easily: They were mostly made from ground tree bark, because Nobby pocketed a good chunk of the beans.

Angua put her cup aside. ‘Can we talk?’

Vimes supressed a groan and instead made do with a blood-curdling scream in the privacy of his own mind. Any conversation that started with that kind of question was going to be dreadful.

‘Um, yeah. Sure.’

‘Alright. Good. Because there is something we, er… Well. Should talk about. I suppose.’ Angua picked up her cup again and had another sip of the awful coffee – which made Vimes even more nervous, because that meant that what she had to say was worse than what Nobby had produced. He had another mouthful, too, just so he didn’t have to look her in the eyes. ‘Right. This is going to be awkward and terrible one way or another, so I’ll just ask, okay? Are you jealous of Carrot?’

Sam almost did a spit take, but just about managed to swallow. How could she possibly know?

Wait. Did she know?

‘What?’ he sputtered weakly, hoping that this was all a big misunderstanding. ‘Of course not. No. Why would I be?’

‘You tell me, sir. It’s just that…’ She turned her head to make sure nobody in the scarcely populated main office was listening, then still lowered her voice. ‘Every time you see him you give off the same scent as a wolf fighting with another wolf over a mate. And the only person Carrot is seeing is…’ To Vimes’ ever-growing horror, she awkwardly gestured at herself. ‘And while I appreciate you as my boss and am grateful for your mentorship, I…’

Oh gods, that was even worse!

‘Good gods, no! Absolutely not. Bloody hell, no!’ His face was so hot, it had to be a glowing brightly enough to guide ships in the night. ‘I mean, not that you’re not an attractive woman – you are!’ Oh, gods, he had taken the completely wrong turn there. ‘Um. In an objective, absolutely professional way, of course!’  Hardly any better. Abort, abort! ‘Not that I think about the attractiveness of my employees, generally. I just…’ He closed his eyes in defeat. ‘Just no, captain. Absolutely not.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’

‘Hm.’

They both held onto their cups and quietly stared into the middle distance for a bit.

‘Is it Carrot, then?’

‘Hm?’

‘Are you jealous of me because you’re interested in Carrot? You can tell me, I won’t bite. Promise.’

And they called Sam the terrier… Angua didn’t let go of anything she had gotten the scent of, that much was certain.

‘No! Captain, I am not in the habit of leering after my employees, honestly. I don’t know what you think you’re picking up on, but it’s not that.’

‘Mr Vimes, with all due respect: If there is one thing I can trust then it’s my nose and it tells me that there’s something going on with you. It has me worried, otherwise I wouldn’t bring it up. It seems to bother you, like, a lot.’

It wasn’t nice when people didn’t let go once they knew you were lying, was it? Vimes didn’t appreciate the other side of this at all.

‘I’m fine, captain! I mean… as fine as I’m every going to be, I suppose.’

As if the whole situation wasn’t embarrassing enough, Carrot chose that very moment to enter the main office and make a bee line for the coffee as soon as he saw them both standing there. Vimes was very aware of Angua’s gaze on him.

‘Commander Vimes, Captain Angua.’ Carrot nodded at them both jovially. ‘I’m glad that I’ve caught you, commander. The patrician has asked me to ask you to send him your assessment of The Pickle immediately.’

Vimes growled.

The Pickle referred to an actual pickle – or rather, the drawing of a pickle: Fraudulent traffic signs with that same vegetable had mysteriously cropped up all over the city, confusing carriages and pedestrians alike. The general public had come up with about a million explanations for them, one more ridiculous than the other, while the offender was still at large. It was a whole thing. Your typical Ankh-Morporkian Tuesday.

‘Oh, he asks now, does he?’ Sam could feel Angua startle next to him, but his rage made him not care. ‘Why don’t I just go up to the palace instead of spending my whole evening trying to put everything into a neat report and tell him what I think?’

‘He, er, he specifically asked for it in writing.’

‘Oh, did he really?’

‘Er… Yes, sir.’

As he watched his sarcasm slide off Carrot like jelly off a greased wall, Sam sighed and deflated. ‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you, captain. Would you ask Sergeant Pessimal to draft the report for me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Carrot walked away and left a deeply uncomfortable silence behind, until after a good minute, Angua interrupted it with a polite cough.

‘So, you are jealous of Carrot.’

‘Sergeant…’

‘Because of him?’

When he managed to look at her, he expected so see shock on her face. But there was pity, mostly.

‘And he knows? That’s why he’s keeping you at a distance?’

‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, of course. Just… If you don’t mind me saying… Perhaps it’s better this way? Honestly, Mr Vimes, I don’t think the patrician is… Well, what Cheery would call boyfriend material.’

Sam winced at the mere idea of calling Vetinari his boyfriend. ‘Ah. No, he probably isn’t.’

‘He has a tendency to use people.’

‘Yes, I know.’

And if I want to be used? What then? A terrier needs his master’s hand to steer him, doesn’t he?

‘It will pass if you ignore it for long enough.’

‘I know, I know. It’s just harder to ignore than I would like.’ And it wasn’t even so much Havelock Vetinari on his knees that was so hard to forget. It was him snuggling up to Vimes inside his cloak, seeking warmth… ‘Anway. I’ll be fine. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.’

Angua didn’t look like she believed him.

Who could blame her? Vimes hardly believed himself. That’s why, after he had awkwardly excused himself, he went up to his office to find the packet of high-quality cocoa he had gotten from a Howandalandian merchant the week before, and filled its content into the battered cocoa tin in the main office, where it would be used up quickly.

~*~

After picking up a stack of signed documents from Vetinari’s desk, Drumknott did not, against his usual habits, briskly walk back out of the Oblong Office. Instead, he hovered. He hovered, in fact, for a good few seconds. Then he very gingerly placed a sheet of paper back on the table.

‘Perhaps you could quickly review whether this particular letter is exactly the way you had intended it, sir?’

Which was his way of saying that Vetinari had made a mistake. And not only that – it was a mistake so glaring that Drumknott could not simply correct the document in question himself (without, of course, ever mentioning it). Vetinari raised an eyebrow at the offending piece of paper. Apparently, he had written a letter to the guild of the Drivers of Fast Carriages on the back of Vimes’ report concerning The Pickle. And not only that – he had picked the page, it seemed, which contained particularly many swearwords, quite a few of them levelled at the aforementioned guild.

‘Ah. I see. Thank you.’

Drumknott nodded but kept hovering, thereby testing Vetinari’s patience – a resource that had mysteriously become scarce lately.

‘Is there anything else?’

His secretary shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, before he finally plucked up his courage.

‘May I speak freely, sir?’

‘Always, Drumknott, though at your own peril.’

The little man pressed his lips together, but the subtle threat did not dissuade him.

‘Ever since Commander Vimes has stopped coming to the Palace you seem somewhat… distracted.’

‘Distracted?’

Drumknott swallowed nervously but ploughed on. ‘Indeed, sir. I believe that it would be beneficial if you managed to solve whatever problem as arisen between you and him. For the sake of the city, of course.’

Bold words for Rufus Drumknott. One had to appreciate the honesty, Vetinari supposed. There had been a time, long ago, when he had been young and temperamental, where he might have casually mentioned the scorpion pit to any man who made such personal observations about him. Not anymore. With careful nonchalance he rose from his seat and walked over to the window to look out over the city. The streets were bustling with people. A well-oiled machine indeed, notwithstanding the occasional, well, pickle.

‘It is foolish to think that every problem has a solution, Drumknott. Some unsatisfactory situations one must simply outlast.’

‘Is the commander a problem to outlast, then, sir?’

The question landed like a blow to his chest. Vetinari had to make an effort to keep his face impassive, even though he knew he wasn’t fooling Drumknott for a second.

‘If I were somehow forced to – theoretically speaking, of course – decide between him and the city, I would always pick the city. So, yes, Drumknott, I fear in this – naturally highly theoretical – scenario, the commander would be a problem to outlast.’

‘Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you can have the city without the commander. Or the commander without the city. Speaking entirely theoretically, of course.’

To hide his consternation, Vetinari turned around and walked back to his desk, where the page from Vimes’ report still waited for him. The letter on its other side was indisputable proof for what Drumknott had just said. Carefully, Vetinari traced the commander’s signature on the bottom.

‘Ank-Morpork’s continued existence and prosperity must not be reliant on any particular person.’

‘You’re not thinking of sacking him, are you?’

Vetinari tore his eyes away from Vimes’ writing. ‘Hm? No. I have a reputation for cruelty, but even I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. The commander shall stay commander for as long he wishes it.’ He sat down in his chair, pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the stack on his desk, and started to write the address for the guild of the Drivers of Fast Carriages for a second time today. ‘Still, it is crucial that we anticipate his eventual succession. None of us live forever, but the work does.’

‘Nobody will do it like him.’

‘Indeed. They will do it differently, and that’s exactly how it should be.’

Drumknott eyed him very cautiously, then nodded. ‘Mr von Lipwig is here for his three o’ clock appointment, sir.’

Vetinari raised his gaze at the timepiece on the wall, which showed a quarter to four. ‘Very well. Send him in.’

‘Already?’

‘Please.’

Drumknott nodded. He went on his way and left Vetinari with the nagging suspicion that he had revealed far more in this conversation than he had planned to.

Gods, was that what it felt like? How positively dreadful.

Chapter Text

The weeks passed. The Pickle got solved. The Pickler, as the public had dubbed him, had not only turned out to be an up and coming, overzealous vendor of pickled goods, but also the nephew of one C.M.O.T. Dibbler – which explained much about him.

Nevertheless, work required Sam’s constant attention, so he hadn’t had much time to further ponder Havelock Vetinari in his arms and the taste of his lips; the way his cheeks flushed, and… Nope, he hadn’t thought about it at all. Not even for a second. And anyway – before he knew it, it was the 25^th of May again.

Wretched day. The scent of lilacs hung in the air everywhere and still most people went on their merry ways without even spending a single solitary thought on the men who had died for their freedom all those years ago. Even the garrison at Treacle Mine Road station simply went about their day, all of them too young to even know who Winder had been. And so they shared confused looks when the Commander of the Watch came in for a day but didn’t seem to do much except wander around the place and, when dusk fell, settle on the stairs leading up to the front door, in the glow of the lamp, with a cup of hot cocoa in his hands, staring into nothing for a while.

Had it really been forty years? Ned Coates would have been nearing retirement age right about now, just as Vimes was. For all his faults, he had been idealistic and passionate, and he hadn’t deserved his fate. He had been one of many potential lives gone unfulfilled.

Alone on the stairs, Sam slowly drank his cocoa. Treacle Mine Road had changed a great deal since then – the whole city had. But still, he recognised the roof the assassin had fallen from back then, shot down by a young--

No. No way. He wouldn’t even think his name, not today of all days. There was enough to feel bad about already.

And so he went to rinse his mug, put it back in the cupboard, and made his way to the cemetery of Small Gods to meet with Nobby and Colon, as he had done every year for the past forty years.

They paid their respects, which didn’t take long. It always felt like it should take longer. Ultimately it was just them, standing there in the flickering light from their oil lamps, staring at the graves in silence. Everything that could be said had already been said years ago, everything that could be thought had already been thought. And still it was important to show up, every year, and to demonstrate that they would never forget.

When they finally walked back towards the gate, Sam’s gaze wandered across the swathes of lilacs that hung from the cemetery walls. A few yards down the path, he stopped.

‘Colon, Nobby, you two go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.’

Colon frowned. ‘You alright, Sam?’

‘I’m fine. I just need a moment.’

Fred, to his credit, hesitated to leave him alone at this time, at this place. But Nobby gently tugged his friend along. Watching his colleagues walk on through the gate, Vimes pulled out a cigar and lit it on his lamp, which he then set down on the ground. He took a few puffs, before slowly turning towards a dark corner where a statue threw its shadow.

‘You’re sending me mixed signals here, sir.’

The shadows remained unmoving at first, but Sam waited patiently. Slowly, the slim figure of a man emerged, dressed in lose, grey clothes. Nonchalantly, as if he had always meant to be seen, he reached out a hand to pick a lilac from the wall and turned it between his fingertips.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Vimes. I have come here to pay my respects, as I have been doing every 25^th of May for the last forty years.’

‘Hmhm. Only tonight, you’ve also been sitting on the roof opposite Treacle Mine Road for a while, sir.’ Vimes slowly breathed out smoke. ‘You could have had some hot cocoa if you had come down.’

If Vetinari was surprised at having been detected, he didn’t show it. Instead, he calmly stuck the lilac into his buttonhole.

‘I have as much cause to remember this particular day as you have, commander. I remember the people, who died for our freedom, yes, I remember the revolution. But also remember a man, who helped shape me.’

‘Yeah,’ Sam muttered. ‘Me too.’

Vetinari smiled enigmatically. ‘Indeed. The same man – and yet not the same man at all. That is what I would call mixed signals.’

Ha!

In the following silence, Vetinari looked over to the graves. ‘These men have given their lives to the city. But so have we. Less violently, less bloodily, but still.’

‘At least we’re alive.’

‘Yes.’ A bitter streak edged itself around his mouth. ‘But do you never wonder what your life could have been if it hadn’t been swallowed up by the tar pit that is Ankh-Morpork?’

‘Not really.’ Again with the being another person thing… ‘You have?’

‘I have wondered, yes. But I could never truly imagine anything else. Perhaps I could not exist without the city.’

‘No, me neither.’

They remained silent for a while. It was still early enough in the year that the nights were cool. As the wind picked up, it even became chilly. Vetinari crossed his arms in front of his chest.

‘Don’t you ever dress right for the weather, sir?’

‘Light clothes are right for climbing, Vimes.’

‘Yeah, well. You should wear gloves when climbing.’

‘They would hinder my grip.’

‘You don’t have to scale buildings at all, to be honest.’

Vetinari paused to look at him with an open expression Sam had rarely ever seen on him. ‘Sometimes I need to feel the city underneath my hands.’

Ah. Vimes looked down at his own boots. He wiggled his toes, feeling the gravel of the path through their cardboard soles. Right.

He dropped his cigar and ground it into the path with his heel.

Then – and he didn’t know where he got the courage from – he took Vetinari’s hands in his own and held them into the scarce light from the lantern. The skin was rough. Dried blood showed a few spots where Vetinari had cut himself on a broken shingle or splintered wood or something similar. Vimes didn’t know what he was thinking – he probably wasn’t thinking at all – when he raised Vetinari’s hands to his mouth to kiss them.

He felt him shudder ever so slightly, heard him breathe out quietly – almost a sigh – before gently taking his hands back.

‘Vimes…’

‘No, I know. I know.’ He shouldn’t have touched him; it had been insolent. He took a small step back. ‘But how can you complain that the city swallows you when you allow it to do so? You are a person and the patrician – not one or the other.’

For an long time, Vetinari just stared at him. His face was blank, hiding any thought that was going through his head, though Vimes knew there were many. It was excruciating to watch him, but he forced himself to stand there anyway and wait it out. When Vetinari finally spoke, his voice sounded so unlike him that Sam almost looked around to search for the speaker.

‘Give me a little more time.’

Vimes had never heard the patrician plead before, and he was almost convinced he had imagined it. Vetinari straightened up slightly and raised his chin.

‘I know that patience is not your strongest suit, commander, but I’d appreciate if you could give it a try. I am not fond of being rushed.’

‘Never meant to rush you.’

‘Perhaps. But you are angry with me. And I…’ Vetinari frowned, as if the fact confused him. ‘I find that hard to stand. Do you know, in my position, everyone is angry with me all the time. It’s part of the job. But with you… it bothers me.’

‘I’m angry with you all the time, too!’

‘No – you’re angry about what I do, sometimes. There’s a difference.’

Sam’s heart fluttered at the honesty in Vetinari’s voice. He never spoke that way in the Oblong Office. There he was always, precise, guarded, cool. And now here he was, merely asking for Vimes not to be mad at him.

‘Does that mean…’ Sam hardly dared to say it. ‘Does that mean we might… see each other again?’ His throat went dry. ‘You know… in private.’

‘I do not make promises, Vimes. As a rule.’

‘Right.’

Vetinari smiled, though barely, and then… Ye gods. Then he leaned in, bathing Sam in the scent of his lilac, and breathed the lightest of kisses on his cheek. Vimes closed his eyes, feeling his skin burn where Vetinari had touched it. And when he opened them again, the path lay empty before him. There was a light rustling in the lilacs that hung off the wall, but that was just the wind.

Chapter Text

The trouble with Vimes was that he always did the right thing – or at least, what he believed to be the right thing. And that meant that, after Vetinari had asked him for time, that’s exactly what he gave him. No questions, no more anonymous packages, and no grudge.

Vetinari hated it.

But he couldn’t back down now, could he? And it wasn’t like he missed Vimes’ perennial scowl, his grumpiness, his complaints, and the smell of cheap, stale tobacco. Captain Carrot was a much more pleasant man to talk to. Polite, concise, calm, smelled faintly of cologne.

Boring.

Ah, well. Vetinari had work to do anyway – work that Vimes could know nothing about. He’d had tried to stop him, perhaps, and Vetinari actually might have let him. Being unsure about a decision was not a problem he usually had, but this was a big one. Perhaps the big one… And so it happened that on the one hand, the months dragged like years, and on the other, they went by in a flash. And then, carnival rolled around again.

He debated whether he should go or not with himself, back and forth, while the decision had in truth long been made.

The workshops were dark, their owners celebrating carnival. But above them, in the uppermost storey, light flickered behind a window.

Vetinari’s heart picked up its pace. He could still turn around and end this folly. He could return to the Palace, he could… But no. His feet already walked up the stairs, uninterested in all the places they could go instead. Instinctively, they avoided the spots where the old wood creaked because Vetinari knew this place intimately: He had rented it when he had still been a student at the Assassins’ and had needed some peace and quiet away from the other boys from time to time. Here, he had experimented on methods of concealment, on the right way to paint your face, and sometimes, just sometimes, even with colours on canvas. Old Mrs Hammond still received her monthly rent, adjusted for inflation, even though Vetinari rarely used the room anymore. At least not until last year.

Quietly, he slipped through the door, but he remained concealed in its shadow as he took in the room. There was a big fire going in the hearth, heating the place up – a stark contrast to the ice-cold, rainy February evening outside. Before the fire, blankets and cushions covered the old hardwood floor. Vimes stood with his back to the door, prodding the wood with a poker. He had ditched his usual armour and only wore trousers and a linen shirt. Vetinari’s heart started to beat even faster.

‘You’re going to come in or what?’ Vimes growled over his shoulder.

It was unsettling the way he noticed him. Not many people would have registered the man in the shadows. But then again, Vimes clearly had been waiting for him, perhaps listening for the slightest rustle in the dark.

He had been waiting for him. Every instinct in Vetinari told him to run away.

Instead, he stepped out into the light. Vimes stared at him quietly for a long moment, perhaps as unsure about how to proceed as Vetinari. Then his eyes trailed a little lower, and the faintest of smiles crossed his face. Ah. Yes. Vetinari raised his hands, and slowly, finger by finger, peeled off his black, fur-lined gloves.

‘They suit you.’

Vetinari could not stop his cheeks from reddening. It was the heat from the fire, he told himself, the room was downright stuffy. Delicately, he put the gloves aside, deciding not to concede that they had kept him wonderfully warm on his way here.

‘No costume,’ Vimes remarked.

‘Evidently.’ It had felt right that he should be himself tonight. For whatever that actually meant… ‘You seemed rather certain I would come,’ he deflected with a gesture towards the blankets and pillows in front of the fireplace.

‘Nothing is ever certain with you. But I figured you might.’

Vetinari’s breath caught in his throat. All this work, all this preparation, for a maybe. For him.

‘Or, well,’ Vimes continued. ‘I hoped.’

Vetinari turned his face away, and went past him to approach the fire, to feel the heat sear his skin. ‘You have always been an optimist, Vimes, deep in your heart.’ He stared into the flames, trying to recollect himself, trying to not feel how much he wanted to be here. There was no version of this where he wouldn’t have come. None.

He heard Vimes move behind him, heard him come closer. Then hands curled around his waist and ever so gently pulled him backwards until he rested against a broad chest. Vetinari bit down on his lip to stop the contented sigh that was about to escape him.

‘You alright?’ Vimes muttered.

The held-back sigh turned into a soft gasp as the words ghosted over the sensitive skin behind Vetinari’s ear. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that – probably because nobody ever had, not like that, not so carefully. He’d had his amorous adventures, yes, but the way Vimes held him, genuinely waiting for an answer to his question, felt overwhelming. Vetinari had to either flee or… or turn around in Vimes’ embrace, grab his face, and press a desperate kiss on his mouth.

To his embarrassment, Vimes backed off. ‘That’s not an answer.’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘But I do!’ Vimes took a proper step back this time, leaving Vetinari bereft, desperate for his touch. Gods. Why couldn’t he just fuck him and get it over with? Why did it have to be like this? ‘I do worry. Why is that so hard for you to accept?’

Well, that wasn’t news. Vimes had hardly held back in that regard. But to hear it spelled out so directly... Vetinari didn’t even have a snarky answer ready.

‘Why?’ he whispered.

‘Why do you think? I care about you!’ Vimes huffed. ‘Beats me why sometimes, honestly, but I do.’

Everything in him screamed to turn and run away, out into the cold, where it felt safe and familiar, to scale the nearest building and hide on the rooftop, like he had done as a student when everything had become too much. He had work to do anyway, he shouldn’t even be here…

No. Vetinari stopped that line of thinking by putting his metaphorical foot down. No more running. Carefully, he took a step closer towards Vimes.

‘I’m fine’ he said quietly. ‘And even if I were not, you would make it so, I have no doubt.’

Vimes let out a puff of air, something between a disbelieving laugh and a huff, as if he were waiting for the inevitable catch. Vetinari took another step in his direction, so he was close enough to take Vimes’ hands and place them back on his hips again. Vimes looked down at them as he gently rubbed his thumbs along Vetinari’s waist.

‘You don’t seem sure about this.’

‘I’m as sure about this as I am ever going to get, Vimes. Take it or leave it.’

Vimes looked up and caught his gaze. After what felt like an eternity of staring into each other’s eyes, he nodded. Gently, he slid his arms around Vetinari’s back to bring him in even closer. When he leaned in to kiss him, Vetinari found he actually lost his nerve. How else would you explain that he quickly whispered: ‘Although I may be a little… rusty.’

Vimes chuckled softly. ‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll take care of you, sir.’

The way he whispered sir sent shudders down Vetinari’s spine. Vimes had always used that one syllable to make clear exactly what he was thinking of any given situation, and now, for the first, time, Vetinari heard him say it with reverence.

His mind went blank when Vimes kissed him. He was vaguely aware of fingers on the buttons of his coat working away until the garment was carefully eased off his shoulders. In the heat of the fire, it was a relieve to lose a layer. His blood was rushing through his veins so quickly that he almost felt on fire himself. A good thing then, that Vimes rid him of his shirt, too. His hands roamed Vetinari’s bare back, then held onto him tightly. Gently, but with determination, he lowered them both down on the blankets.

Vetinari came to rest on his back, propped up on a pillow, with Vimes kneeling above him, already nestling on the fly of Vetinari’s pants. Only when his hand brushed his cock Vetinari realised how painfully hard he was. During the last decades he had always, always put his needs last and to allow himself this… Eagerly, he nestled the hem of Vimes’ shirt free from his trousers to pull it over his head. He trailed his hand through the golden fluff on his chest, speckled in grey, traced them along the plethora of scars that riddled his skin, glistening with sweat in the firelight. If the romantic hero of a popular book series would have come to life, he might have looked a lot like Vimes, Vetinari thought.

In between heated kisses, Vimes pulled on Vetinari’s trousers. Vetinari bucked his hips up to make it easier for him. He didn’t remember the last time he had wanted anyone so badly – he probably never had.

‘Sam…’ he whispered.

Vimes grinned wickedly, before he pushed Vetinari’s now bare thighs apart – and dove down between them. Vetinari it his lip so hard he drew blood. It was a habit not to make a noise, so ingrained in his self that he felt unable to do otherwise. But when Vimes flicked his tongue like that and used his hand to squeeze there and then, by the gods, pushed oil-slick fingers that way… No power in the world could hold back Vetinari’s moans anymore. He clawed at the nearby pillows, almost ripping holes into them as Vimes continuously sent sparks of pleasure through him with his mouth and tongue and hands.

He gasped in shock when Vimes sat up, and all the wonderful heat was suddenly gone. But not for long. Vimes got rid of his own trousers quickly, then pulled Vetinari up while he sat back. Vetinari allowed Vimes to manoeuvre him until he straddled his thighs and then… then Vimes guided him down on his cock.

Fuck.

When the head pushed inside, Vetinari groaned and had to prop himself up on Vimes’ shoulders. It was a lot. But he wanted this so badly that he lowered himself down further anyway – until Vimes gently stopped him.

‘Don’t rush it. We’ve got time.’

Vetinari peered down at him, at this face that had vexed him so many times during Oblong Office meetings, and that he just wanted to kiss now. And so he did, slowly, deeply, tasting Vimes like he hadn’t done before, tasted the mixture of coffee, tobacco, and sweat. Gods, he was sweating, too, in the heat of the fire and the heat of their bodies. His tension eased and he sank down lower towards Vimes’ lap, steadied by gentle hands on his hips.

‘Easy,’ Vimes growled into his ear, hot breath tickling his skin, and it made Vetinari whimper. He sank his fingernails into Vimes’ flesh when he finally came to sit down on his lap completely, Vimes’ cock buried inside him to the hilt. Good gods, he felt full. He furrowed his brow and tried to relax, while Vimes stroked soothing circles on his back and peppered kisses on his neck and jaw.

‘Sir,’ he breathed, in a way that could make a man go insane.

Out of pure instinct, Vetinari bit his ear, making Vimes hiss and grip his hips so tightly it hurt. Vetinari’s patience ran out – he started to move on Vimes’ cock, up and down, and came almost undone by the first second. Vimes had to support his movements to keep them at least somewhat steady. One hand he curled around Vetinari’s cock, making it even harder to keep up a rhythm. But it didn’t matter much longer anyway – they both came fast after that, though Vetinari didn’t know who was first and who was second. The orgasm made him collapse on Vimes as he lost all sense of time and space for its duration, and all control of himself.

Vimes held him for a good while after, gently playing with the hairs on the back of his neck. They were quiet together for a long while – no sound disturbing their peace but their heavy breathing and the crackling of the fire. Until…

‘I am going to retire, Vimes.’

He could feel the commander freeze underneath him. With effort, Vetinari sat up. He slid off Vimes lap so that he could sit next to him cross-legged. Awkwardly, he pulled a pillow into his lap and hugged it.

Vimes turned towards him and propped himself up on his elbow.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

He had expected the anger. It was Vimes’ usual reaction to confusion.

‘I am not getting any younger. I have saved Ankh-Morpork more times than I can count. I am tired. And I feel like the next generation should decide where this city goes next.’

‘The next gen… Who?’

‘Mr. von Lipwig, of course.’

‘What? There’s nothing of course about this!’

‘I have prepared him, Vimes, and we have talked a lot during the last few months. He is ready. Or, well, as ready as anyone is ever going to be for this job.’

‘He’s a con man!’

‘The perfect qualification for a politician.’

After the first onslaught, Vimes didn’t seem to be able to keep up the anger. He wasn’t young anymore either.

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Of c…’ Vetinari began to reply automatically but interrupted himself. ‘Not entirely, no. But something happened that I did not think would ever happen.’

‘And what is that?’

‘It appears that there is something I want more than ruling this city.’

Vimes furrowed his brow in even more confusion. ‘And what’s that?’

‘You.’

There was a pause. Only the fire crackled as Vimes’ confusion seemed to grow even further. Vetinari sighed.

‘I have often been told that priorities shift over the course of a life. That what once seemed of the utmost importance won’t matter one day. And while my shift in perspective is not quite so radical, I find that I might enjoy my final years on this Disc more if I had more time for… personal issues.’

‘Meaning… me?’

‘Yes.’

‘No politics? You’ll be bored.’

‘Oh, well. I might act as advisor, now and then. Especially during the early days Mr von Lipwig might need some support. I could imagine acting as an ambassador from time to time. These kinds of things. As long as the four-hour Rat Chamber meetings with attendees from the Rust family are presided over by somebody else.’

Vimes stared at him.

‘You seem surprised, commander.’

‘How can I not be? You… you are the city.’

‘No, Vimes, you are. Which is, perhaps, why I am willing to give up the patrician’s seat in the first place. I know you think that I can be a ruler and a private citizen at the same time – but I’m afraid I cannot think about it this way.’

‘I don’t want you to give your seat up for me.’

‘Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I have pondered this for quite a while now, and for many reasons.’

‘You want to be someone else.’

‘I’d like to try it.’ He peered down at Vimes, suddenly very nervous. ‘Would you still be interested in me if I did?’

‘So first you don’t want any relationship at all and now you want… What exactly do you want? For…’ Vimes shifted awkwardly. ‘Well, for us?’

Vetinari had already opened his mouth to answer, when he suddenly realised that he didn’t know. He hadn’t planned that far ahead – the fear of rejection had been too overwhelming, perhaps.

‘Whatever you are willing to give, Vimes,’ he muttered. ‘I suppose.’

‘Whatever I’m…’ Vimes looked taken aback. ‘Considering our time together, do you think there is anything I would not be willing to give you? Tell me what you want!’

Vetinari’s heart skipped a beat. In his whole life there had never been anyone like Vimes, anyone so unconditionally devoted to him. He swallowed heavily. He had never been one to speak aloud the first thing that popped into his head, but for once in his life he probably should, no matter how afraid it made him.

‘For you to love me,’ he said, and tried his best to ignore the turmoil the words caused on Vimes’ usually stoic face. ‘I don’t much care about the how, Vimes. Labels and formalities, I feel, will not be helpful in the kinds of lives we lead. What I want is for you to be by my side.’

‘Always have been,’ Vimes muttered hoarsely.

‘I know.’ He smiled carefully. ‘You don’t have to worry: I am not planning on moving out into the plains with you to retire. But I would like it if we spent more time together privately. Not just here, not just during carnival.’

Vimes nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. I’d like that, too.’

He smiled lopsidedly, then leaned forward to grab Vetinari by the shoulders and pull him into another kiss.

Chapter Text

When Vimes left the Oblong Office, he let out a deep sigh. He peered over to the wall where he had left his marks in the plaster over the years. He was just considering adding another one, when Vetinari appeared in a doorway a little further down the hall and signalled for him to come in. Vimes followed, and as soon as Vetinari had closed the door behind them, he pulled him into a kiss. It only lasted for a moment.

‘How was it?’

‘As if you don’t know,’ Vimes scoffed.

Vetinari, smiling subtly, inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘But what was it like for you, Sam?’

Ah, hell. Vimes’ whole body still wanted to melt into a puddle when he called him by his first name. He himself had trouble calling him Havelock. Sir still rolled from his tongue so much more easily.

‘It was fine.’ Vimes ruffled his hair helplessly. ‘Gods, he’s actually suited to the task, isn’t he?’

Vetinari still smiled that enigmatic smile. ‘He is. It will be a new era for Ankh-Morpork, but dare I say, perhaps a better one.’

‘Hmhm.’ Vimes chewed on his lip for a moment before deciding to say what he had been thinking the whole time. ‘I believe he and Carrot might actually work well together. They are complete opposites, of course, but…’

‘So are we.’

‘Yeah.’

Havelock’s smile slowly dropped. He knew perfectly well what was going on in Vimes’ head, as he always did.

‘Don’t rush into anything, Sam. A decision like that takes time. But isn’t it gratifying to know that we can pass the work on to people who can handle it? Not everybody is so lucky.’

Sam shivered with cold all of a sudden. ‘Maybe. But in any case, Lipwig needs to get settled in properly before I can even think about leaving.’

‘Of course.’

‘The Oblong Office isn’t the bank.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He’s bound to screw things up.’

‘And we never did?’

Vimes shook his head, more in defiance than as an actual answer. Of course they had. Everyone screwed things up. And he already knew that there was big decision lurking in the back of his mind, like a ship in the mist.

‘Not quite yet,’ he muttered, and Havelock, bless him, understood what he meant.

He kissed Vimes’ cheek and held his hand, and his touch warmed his whole body up. ‘You have time, Sam. Whenever you are ready.’

Gods, he wasn’t. Not yet.  But the Disc was turning… He grabbed Havelock and hugged him close, burying his face in his neck. And suddenly, he couldn’t help but smile. As long as he had him to hold on to, things would be fine.

Ankh-Morpork would be fine.

And that was all that mattered.