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Havelock Vetinari has laboured under many things in his time, but he feels quietly confident that delusions are very rarely among them. Unlike many heads of state, he has never believed that any of his officials would not readily betray him, if ever he were to allow that option to appear more profitable than loyalty.
He has never believed that the populace of Ankh Morpork regard him with affection, even the ones in a position to understand what he attempts to do for their benefit and the sacrifices he has made to place himself, then keep himself in a position where he can do so. He has never thought for a moment that they would not overthrow him for another man, woman, dwarf, troll, gnome or even vampire who played with the right words or offered the right promises.
He has always been aware that such a moment as this might come; he is prepared. He did not graduate from the Assassins' Guild without picking up... ideas for when a challenger might be standing before him.
Only now he is standing in the Oblong Office, staring at Vimes, who is still panting from the run upstairs and leaning, exhausted, against the doors he has just bolted behind him.
And Vetinari has theorised every form of betrayal by every person imaginable – yes, even Vimes, uncomfortable as it was – only now, he is realising, with one fatal exception.
That he could betray himself.
His hand will not move. The trap is there, is sprung, is genius; his hand will not move.
"Sir," Vimes says, desperately. His eyes are wild; Vetinari wonders for a moment if he's been drinking, and for a second – for a split second that is too, too long – that is more worrying to him than anything else that is happening.
"Sir, I didn't want to – I don't want to..." Vimes is still breathless, stepping forward, hands held out. "I have no idea how they made everyone think this was what I meant in my speech – why on the Disc did you make me do a ceremonial speech? Didn't you know I'd be terrible? You did, didn't you? You did it to torment me. And now they think I want revolution and I don't..."
His words run quickly, one after the after, as if there isn't space to say enough of what he means. Suddenly, many events of the last two weeks are shifting and altering in Vetinari's mind, and with that movement comes a strange half-pain, like blood coming back to a limb; terrible, wonderful relief.
Vetinari raises an eyebrow, aware he's also biting his lip. "Are you telling me, Vimes, that despite the crowd clamouring for your rule – the opportunity presented to you to finally run this city as you feel is right – that you are... loyal to me?"
Vimes' breath is coming back, but he's blushing. He folds his arms defensively. "You heard me."
At another time, Vetinari would not tolerate that tone of voice – Vimes has to be kept in his place, because... But it seems Vimes doesn't need keeping, it seems Vimes is prepared to stay.
Vetinari's terrier; Vetinari knows how much that title rankled, but here Vimes is, at his side.
Vetinari shuffles a stack of papers – if his hands aren't going to do what he wants they're damn well not going to tremble either, this is ridiculous. "But it seems, Commander, that the people of the city would like you to – what was it? – 'string up the tyrant once more/and run the streets with his gore/and then do it some more' really, the verse is appalling but the sentiment is clear."
He looks up; Vimes is closer than he was.
Vetinari's body betrays him again, his senses informing him of so many things he usually will not let himself know; that Vimes is two inches taller than him, and looks down at him with piercing brown eyes in a face lined with a history of pain and The Right Choices; that Vimes smells of the streets and cheap tobacco, but under that something else, something unique and interesting; that the pulse in Vimes' neck always speeds up when they are near each other.
Vetinari looks that tiny little bit upwards, and takes in Vimes' expression with a sensation he's never felt before.
"You know I couldn't hurt you." Vimes's voice is broken – he's probably spent the day shouting and smoking. "Any more than you could hurt me."
Vimes is so very definitely not allowed to say that, but they've both known it to be true for a very long time, and in the moment he realises that Vetinari also sees that this weakness in himself goes right to his very foundations.
"Because I keep the peace? Because I am the lesser of, oh, two hundred evils?" Vetinari is still on the defensive, playing for time because he cannot rationalise anything else he wants or needs right now. "Because it would be The Wrong Thing to Do?"
Vimes glares at him. "You know why."
"Commander Vimes, it is a mystery to me why you assume I am omnipotent. It's flattering, I admit, but..."
There is a touch; Vetinari almost throws him off, almost reflexively goes for his dagger. But Vimes is holding him, shaking slightly, and when eventually Vetinari shifts his own answering grip a little, he hears "...thought they might get to you before I did, oh gods," and finds he is feeling somewhat unsteady himself.
Oh, Vimes could hurt him.
"Very well," Vetinari's voice is level, and Vimes' grin at that is dangerously infectious. "What do you propose to do now?"
Vimes face turns serious. "Whatever you tell me to."
And now Vetinari can't stop himself smiling. "Oh, I doubt that very much."
Vimes raises his eyebrow. Raises. His. Eyebrow. "Try me."
And Vetinari does.