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The first two could have been accidents. That, or they blended well enough with the general clinking of silver against ceramic in the dining hall. The third time Vetinari’s fork clattered against the plate, Sybil trailed off mid-sentence and blinked at him.
“Are you well?” she asked. She had to speak up a little to be heard over the sound of rain pounding stone outside, not to mention the occasional deafening grumble of the storm. It had been this bad all day.
“Perfectly,” he said, shortly, and picked up his fork again. Now he had their attention, though, both pairs of eyes fixed on the fork in his hand, trembling not particularly slightly with the shaking of the rest of his hand. He had been attempting to keep it still for most of the meal, but it was difficult to focus on keeping still when most of his body seemed to be drowning in a blunt sort of ache, the twisting stab of his leg, much louder than usual, its only interruption. At the very least his teeth were not chattering, but it was, it seemed, impossible to disguise the shaking of his hands.
“You haven’t eaten much,” Sybil said, suspiciously.
It was a fine meal, he knew, but everything seemed to taste more or less like dust when nauseous pain had him in its grip. “I apologize. It is, of course, delicious as usual--”
“It’ll be the rain,” Vimes interrupted, and of course he was right, but there was no reason for him to say so in the middle of dinner. Vetinari’s eyes flicked to him, but he did not glare. Sybil would be upset. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed himself to regain some kind of patience.
He heard Sybil sigh a fraction of a sigh. “Havelock? Is this true?”
“With the recent chill of fall,” he mumbled. “It’s the combination of the two.” He really did feel very poorly, he realized, a bit belatedly. He opened his eyes to Sybil’s mighty frown. Vimes was also making an expression, but Vetinari was not convinced that he was intending to.
“Well then,” Sybil said, “perhaps we should get you home.” She tucked her napkin neatly on the table, arranged her silverware atop the plate just so, such that it was clear she was not finished with dinner, and rose from her chair. “I shall have Wilikins call your coach.”
“I am able to at least finish dinner,” Vetinari protested, but Sybil was standing. It was too late. He relented, took up his cane, and made to stand.
The sound of silver on ceramic was next to nothing in comparison to a body hitting the floor and table both at once, and his cane clattered to the ground besides. It took him a moment to realize what had happened, another moment to turn his head and glare at the leg that had betrayed him, and another moment still to notice Vimes already crouched at his side, examining-- something, although there was little to examine, in Vetinari’s opinion. Finally, belatedly, he noticed the several new pains that his fall had introduced, most notably a bruising throb where his arm and side had crashed into the table, and a threatening twinge in his hip on the side of his bad leg. The pain that had already been present roared around him like a waterfall.
“You’ll be taking the guest quarters, then,” Sybil’s voice boomed from the other side of the table. To Vetinari’s discomfort, this was said in her Voice That One Does Not Question. “You can be off to the palace in the morning once you’ve had a chance to rest.”
He could attempt to argue, he thought. The coach could be brought nearer to the door, or he could take the sedan chair, although he hated the idea of taking it in this weather, and the thought of having to bounce across the cobbles of the city all the way back to the Palace made his already-beleaguered stomach turn. Sybil’s guest quarters weren’t the worst place to spend the night, and she had spare clothes for him tucked away as well.
He had just decided to accept her proposition when he became aware of arms wrapping around him without preamble, lifting him from the ground.
“Thank you, Sam,” Sybil was saying. Vetinari did not bother glaring at her, because she would not bother to listen, but he did glare up at Vimes, who seemed to be attempting to not look at the man in his arms, without actually succeeding.
“This is hardly necessary,” he said, regretting speech the moment it creaked out of his mouth, sounding a bit like tissue ripping. He sounded like an invalid.
“Sorry,” Vimes said, though Vetinari doubted it. He was aware that this kind of vulnerability from the Patrician was a sort of rare gift, as far as Vimes was concerned, and though he at least had the propriety not to lord it over him with glee, he wasn’t making nearly as much effort as he could to spare Vetinari’s dignity. He was, very nearly, cradling him, his face locked into an expression that was not a smile but was not not a smile, which usually meant he was holding one back.
“Poor dear,” Sybil said, though, thankfully, she did not try to approach. That would have merited a glare. “Next time, Havelock, let us keep a closer eye on the weather. We could have simply waited until next week!”
Vetinari sighed. “It was not nearly as bad earlier.” It was the truth, though he had spent most of the day horizontal until making the trip. Between travel, the sitting-room, and the dining table, the cold and the rain had bore down more and more until he was no longer able to ignore it.
“Next time,” she repeated, firm. “Your overnights are where they always are. I’ll have Wilikins bring you some brandy for the pain.”
Vetinari glanced at Vimes, who seemed to have relented to whatever force was afflicting his gaze, his eyes fixed curiously now on Vetinari’s face. “That won’t be necessary.” He did not need to be any more out of control of his faculties in this house than he already was. “I will need my cane and a cup of hot water suitable for tea.”
“Very well,” Sybil said, and turned, inhaling deeply to call for Wilikins, who was already standing, Vetinari could see, patiently in the doorway.
Before he had a chance to see her wind back down, Vimes was already leaving the dining hall, moving at a brisk pace towards the back stairs. Vetinari had expected the travel to be much worse, but Vimes appeared to be taking care to jostle him as little as possible, and was managing his body with the untroubled ease with which someone else might carry a picnic basket.
“You’re quite light for all your length,” he remarked at the foot of the steps.
Vetinari’s mouth flattened into a deep line. “I am precisely the size and shape that I am, Sir Vimes, by your leave or not.”
“I wasn’t saying it was bad,” Vimes said, at last allowing his eyes to move from Vetinari in his arms to the challenge of the stairs in front of him. “Just a bit odd. I thought you’d have more heft to you.”
He had, once. It stung a bit to realize that Vimes did not know this. It was true that their dalliances had begun some months after Vetinari was shot; months, of course, that Vetinari had spent with various trainers and physics from the Assassins’ Guild, alchemists with their herbs and tonics, even engineers with… curious ideas about the inner workings of the human body. It had taken time, but he had taught his leg to do its most basic tasks once more, and the cane, a special design, had helped enormously. Yet nothing was ever as easy as it had been, and the particular strategies Vetinari had for keeping himself fit and able, even while acting as a largely sedentary man of letters, were simply unattainable. And thus Vimes had thus only ever seen Vetinari’s body in a state of, to the Patrician’s discerning eye, disrepair.
“Sybil would say you need to eat more,” Vimes added, almost as an afterthought. They were already a few steps up the stairs.
“She has already done so,” Vetinari said tonelessly.
“That’s Sybil.” Vetinari found it strange that Vimes was unable to talk about Sybil, in any company, without smiling at least slightly, or without a tinge of fondness creeping into his tone. That it was about Sybil was not unusual; Vetinari understood, to some extent, that married couples were Like That. It was the inevitability with which it happened. It was that inevitability that had assuaged any worries he had once had about the pair of them.
“What was Sybil saying about your overnights, by the way?”
“Hm?” It took his pain-addled mind a moment to process. “Oh. When we were young, I spent many nights in the guest room. We took to keeping some of my possessions here.”
“Wouldn’t, uh.” They had reached the first landing. Vimes was taking each step slowly, and carefully, which Vetinari appreciated enormously not just because it ensured they were less likely to tumble backwards, but also because it meant there was very little bouncing. He could still feel every step, first in his leg and then in every other bit of him, could even feel Vimes’ slight limp, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as a sedan often was, or worse, a carriage. “Wouldn’t your clothes be too small, then? From all the way back then?”
Vetinari managed a tiny smile. “She has kept in touch with my tailor.”
“Ah.”
“If you would not mind waiting until my cane is with me, you can be off.”
“No, si--no, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Vimes said, catching himself a moment too late. Sybil wasn’t around to scold him for the honorific, but she wouldn’t have liked to hear it, either: “Sam, really! You may be an officer of the City anywhere else, but in this house we are as friends and equals,” though she had not yet attempted to convince him to try “Havelock,” to the relief of them both.
“Why ever not?” Vetinari tried to imagine some possibilities. To his knowledge, Sybil had not delivered any secret messages, and there was no protocol in place for Vimes to be following. And it seemed ludicrous to be after something sexual, after having so spectacularly collapsed at the dinner table.
“Well, you’ll need help getting ready for bed, I’d think.” Vimes was Not Looking at Vetinari’s face again. “Takes a lot of standing, doesn’t it? The way I do it, it does.”
Vetinari’s face went vaguely paler. “I am capable of--”
“I know you’re capable,” Vimes said, stepping onto the second floor, “but that doesn’t mean you’d be comfortable. Oh, hello, Wilikins, you made it here ahead of us.”
“My lord,” came the response, and then dashing footsteps. Vetinari would have turned his head to look, but was being held in such a way that staring up, more or less at the face of Vimes, was the only approximately comfortable position.
“What’s a cup of hot water going to do for you, anyway? It’s good brandy Sybil’s got, you know.” Vimes nudged the door open with his leg. Despite the years since Vetinari had actually spent the night here, the guest quarters still smelled and looked exactly the same as he remembered. Indeed, as Vimes lay him in bed and he could take a look around, the only differences of note were the steaming cup of water and a lit candle on the side table, and his cane propped against the foot of the bed. He supposed that, as social as Sybil might be, she did not have many friends particularly interested in sleepovers, these days.
“Hand me my cane and I’ll show you.” Vetinari moved about until he was more or less sitting upright, ignoring the urgency of his leg and the spikes of pain in his back and neck. Relief would come soon enough.
Vimes glanced at it, back at Vetinari, back at the cane, to the cup of water, back at the cane. “...Sure.”
Safely in his hands, Vetinari ran his hands down the faint notches on its side, counting until he arrived at the correct location, and pressed down with care. The puzzle - at least, that was what Leonard called it - unlocked at the application of the correct pressure points, and the top of the cane swung down to reveal a small hollow, packed with teabags. Vetinari plucked one from inside and set it to steeping.
Vimes was still standing near the end of the bed, staring, as Vetinari set the cane back upright, clicking its parts back into place. “We decided to make use of the storage space,” he explained, rather pleased to finally be able to show it off to someone. “There are numerous medications and poisons in the other sections. I have memorized the order of their placement, of course.”
He sighed, and settled back into the pillows. The linens were musty, but in the familiar way that permeated most of Sybil’s home, and it was hard to mind, being now mostly horizontal as he was. “It will take a few minutes to steep, but should be helpful in terms of pain relief.”
“I’m glad,” Vimes said slowly, as though he was spending all his energy thinking of what to do next.
Vetinari decided to be helpful. “My overnight supplies are just here in this drawer. They are nothing particularly fancy, mind.”
Vimes, of course, immediately pulled out the fanciest item: a boar-bristle brush with a fine wooden handle and pearl inlays. He thrust it at Vetinari, his face alight with disbelief. “Nothing fancy?”
Vetinari gently pried it from his hand and laid it on the bed. “It was a gift from Sybil after my decision to grow my hair out. You will find it is the fanciest object in that drawer.”
It was true. There was a single strip of purple-dyed ribbon, meant for tying one’s hair; folded nighttime robes that were mustier than the linens; and a single pair of woolen socks.
Vimes looked somewhere between disappointed and relieved. Vetinari wondered just how much Sybil had told him much about their relationship as children. Apparently very little. Perhaps Sybil had been carefully avoiding it, and Vetinari would not blame her. Their particular situation, as it was, was precarious and bewildering enough, without inviting history into it.
“I will need to change, and do my hair.” Vetinari reached, hands still visibly shaking, for the cup of tea, but Vimes made it there first.
“I don’t want you to spill it all over yourself, sVetinari,” he said, making a valiant effort at a recovery.
Vetinari let his hands rest in his lap, and tried to channel his amusement towards relaxing his tensed shoulders. “Do you intend to feed it to me?”
“I don’t see how you can feed someone tea, but just about.”
He frowned. His hands were trembling even at rest, and his neck, shoulders, hips, and legs were burning, aching, his old wound wailing for attention atop all other sensations. With all these distractions, he was fairly sure he would spill it, if left to his own devices. He motioned at Vimes. “Fine. The teabag can be discarded.”
For several awkward moments, Vimes stood at the edge of the bed, trying to figure out the best way to help Vetinari drink without spilling. Finally he relented and circled round, and lay down on the other side of the bed. “Here,” he said, gruffly, obviously not particularly sure what else to say, and lifted it to his lips.
The urge was to steady Vimes’ own hands with his, and Vetinari’s hands lifted of their own volition, but he did not make contact, aware of his trembling. It took some time, and some care, and some tea did spill onto his chin, but they made their way through the entire cup, in time.
Vimes lowered the cup, but did not look away from Vetinari.
The Patrician stared back at him. “Yes?”
He seemed to realize where he was looking then, and turned his entire body away to set the cup down on the other side’s table. “That’s that done, then.”
“It takes a bit to kick in,” Vetinari said. “About a half hour. But it’s the fastest formula I’ve yet to find that still works.”
Vimes turned back around. “I can undress you.”
Vetinari gave a single, sharp nod, turning slightly to give access to the buttons of his overcoat, but said aloud, “It has taken some months of experimenting. Parts of the formula are an old assassins’ recipe, for relieving aches and pains after a long and difficult job--” He turned again, lifting his hips slightly, just for a moment, so Vimes could pull the coat off from behind. He did not so much let them fall as they fell of their own accord, and he winced without sound.
“Hang on,” Vimes mumbled. “Shouldn’t let you do that again.” He moved down to the end of the bed to undo the Patrician’s bootlaces.
Vetinari regarded him and attempted to continue allowing it. “A few alchemists have been of assistance, although most of them are… less than interested in herbal remedies. Few herbs are explosive enough for their tastes, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Vimes removed his socks, carefully tucked each one in their respective boot, and moved back up along the bed to undo the tie of Vetinari’s robes.
“But they did have several helpful suggestions,” Vetinari continued. This time Vimes lifted his body carefully with one hand and pulled his robes from below with the other, setting him back down gingerly, like some fine piece of ceramic. “Without their assistance, I believe I would still be steeping in alcohol, rather than water, and of course I prefer not to be incapacitated if at all possible.” He paused. Vimes was working to pull off his undershirt. “Mind your hands--”
“I know,” Vimes said. Below Vetinari’s undershirt, as usual, straps criss-crossed his chest, lined with small, hidden razors, a safety measure beyond the usual several other safety measures, most of which were now somewhere on the floor. Vimes had cut his fingers on these straps more than once attempting the same activity, hence the warning.
To his credit, he removed the shirt without sustaining any injuries, and glanced at Vetinari, hands paused. “D’you want these off?”
“Please. I prefer not to sleep in them.”
Vimes glanced at the door. “And you-- feel all right with that?”
Vetinari smiled, without humor. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe this is the second safest place in the city, Commander Vimes.”
This flattery did not miss its mark, and Vimes ducked his head to hide his pride, fiddling carefully with the buckles of the straps. He had gotten much better at this, Vetinari reflected, and though his ability to adapt was not a surprise, his ability to adapt in the context of one of Vetinari’s own habits did always… stir… something. Some kind of emotion. But Vetinari would rather not think about things like emotions with his razors removed. It was easier to focus on the very light touch of Vimes’ fingers along his chest, doing their best to avoid running into sharp edges or causing pain.
“I will take those,” he said hastily, as it looked as though Vimes was about to pick his straps up between his fingers very much the wrong way, and handled them expertly to the drawer of the side table.
Vimes looked at Vetinari’s drawers uncertainly.
“I don’t have a pair to change into here,” Vetinari said, interrupting his train of thought. “Ignore them. May I have the change of robes, please?”
Vimes seemed relieved. Vetinari could hardly blame him. For all that he was not particularly interested in having sex in his sister figure’s home, blessed by that sister figure as the relationship might be, Vimes was, presumably, not particularly interested in having sex in his wife’s home, with a man who was not his wife. And it was difficult enough to deal with Vimes’ careful touch on his chest and back, undoing his razors, with keen focus in his eyes. It would be much worse to resist being completely naked.
Evidently Vimes was thinking of the same thing. Vetinari exhaled a little louder than necessary. “My robes?”
“Sir,” Vimes said, automatically, and then sighed, shoulders dropping. “I mean.” He set to unfolding the robes. “Habit.”
“I understand,” Vetinari said, not unkindly. It was habit, for him as much as Vimes. He reached for the change of robes, attempting to lift himself in such a way that he could pull them around himself, but Vimes pressed one hand down on the edge of his hips (chastely) and looked stern.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “You can’t be feeling better yet if it takes a half hour.”
“Lying down is helping,” Vetinari muttered, but he had to admit that straining would have made his leg, at least, flare up all over again. He shut his eyes rather than watch Vimes move in close to him, guiding his arms into the sleeves, lifting him on one side, then the other. He was close enough for Vetinari to feel his breath.
Vimes tied the robes loosely at Vetinari’s waist, sat back, and did not speak. Vetinari did not open his eyes. For a moment they sat there in peaceful silence, or, at least, Vetinari felt it was peaceful. It was possible, or rather quite likely, that Vimes was not feeling peaceful or calm in the least, but he was doing a good job of not making too much of a fuss, regardless.
“I can brush my own hair,” Vetinari said at last, eyes still shut.
“Oh, come on,” Vimes said, and now he just sounded exasperated. “Can you just let me do this for you, please?”
Vetinari opened his eyes then, a little surprised. Vimes had the boar-bristle brush in his hands already and a somewhat determined look on his face.
“This can hardly be enjoyable for you,” Vetinari began, but Vimes cut him off with a half-grunted sigh.
“I want to brush your hair,” he said, with irritation, and picked Vetinari up, bodily, moving him several inches down the bed.
Vetinari blinked at him. He was no longer lying against the pillows, and felt strangely vulnerable. Though perhaps vulnerably strange would be a more suitable turn of phrase.
“You don’t feel well,” Vimes said, as though that was enough explanation for this behavior, and moved to sit behind him, pulling slightly at his shoulders to force Vetinari to lay back against his own chest.
Vetinari fully expected Vimes to be terrible at brushing hair. He could hardly have had much experience with his own, and Sybil’s hair was much shorter than Vetinari’s. But Vimes was more ginger than, perhaps, anyone who had ever brushed Vetinari’s hair before, including Sybil (especially Sybil), and himself, for that matter. He was methodical, careful not to miss a single section, and addressed tangles more gently, Vetinari suspected, than they deserved. He seemed to know Vetinari’s neck was part of what bothered him and was careful not to tug or add any undue strain. Perhaps that, at least, shouldn’t have been surprising; observation was most of his job, after all.
Vimes finished brushing out the tangles, and continued to brush regardless. Vetinari was too soothed by the repetition and the pleasant, gentle prickling of the bristles on his scalp to protest. He relaxed a fraction of a fraction of an inch into Vimes’ weight, and continued to allow it.
And then. “...nari? Sir?”
“Mm?”
“Does the tea make you tired?”
“No, it…” Vetinari blinked. Had he fallen asleep?
“I’m afraid I, uh, I don’t know--” Vimes paused behind him. “How to braid it.”
Vetinari leaned forward, stretching a bit. “How to… that’s all right. I can braid it.”
Vimes peered over his shoulder, down at his hands. “Are you feeling better?” He wasn’t questioning the timespan, which had Vetinari a bit concerned. “You look better.”
“I feel better,” Vetinari said, and it was true. His leg was still wheedling away unpleasantly in the corner of his mind, but the rest of his body was down to somewhat uncomfortable rather than all-consuming agony, which would be more than enough to sleep on.
Vimes extracted himself, carefully, from behind Vetinari, and dragged him, carefully, back up against the pillows. They were warm with body heat. Vimes was not holding the brush.
“Then,” Vimes said, not looking anywhere in particular, “goodnight.”
Vetinari blinked, slowly, at Vimes as he stood, still drowsy. “Ah. Yes. Goodnight, Vimes.”
Vimes pinched the candle on the way out.