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It could have begun with a dark and stormy night. The rules of narrative could have at least allowed him that small dramatic pleasure. It was in fact night, but a rather unseasonably humid one, which left dark—and was there ever a night that wasn’t dark? It was a question that had been on Vimes’s mind since childhood, and he still hadn’t found the answer. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad, however unfairly earned.
He’d been summoned by Vetinari at seven to discuss something. The door to the Oblong Office was closed behind him and his mind was…it wasn’t so much wandering slowly as running full-tilt away from him.
Vetinari stopped talking and Vimes wondered why. Not enough to actually look at him, though. He kept his eyes fixed on that small square of pasteboard just above his head. His mother had once said that if you were afraid of looking into someone’s eyes, to just look at a spot above their eyes, and they’d never know the difference. He wondered if half a foot above the head might be pushing it—perhaps just a little. He adjusted his gaze half an inch downwards and hoped that would be enough compensation.
Vetinari sighed. Vimes adjusted his gaze another half-inch downwards. The silence grew more threatening by the moment. He moved his eyeballs down another half-inch. And another, and another…half-inching as it was, his line of sight moved inexorably downwards until he could just about detect grey eyes at the depths of his vision—and his eyeballs were now fixed in the position they would remain trapped in for the rest of the meeting.
“Vimes.”
“Sir.”
“Vimes, you have been in this room for half an hour. In that time, you have not once looked me in the eye, and your only contributions to this discussion have been “sir” and a noise that sounds rather uncannily like a foot sinking into the Ankh.”
Damn. “Sir?”
Silence.
He would not rush to fill up the silence. He wasn’t falling for that trick again. He tried to put the fear of gods into his tongue, but he could feel it begin to move atheistically against the roof of his mouth like the traitor it was. He heard himself asking, “Is it true?”
He detected movement at the base of his field of vision. There was something like a sigh, then “Yes.”
Oh.
The thing was, he’d thought he’d always have enough time. As the days went by and every meeting was suffused with the same easy familiarity, it had been all too easy to pretend that every day would be the same as the last—that Vetinari, unshakeable and all too real, would always be sitting in his seat in his office; that he would always say “Ah, Sir Samuel,” by way of greeting, then gesture fluidly for him to sit down. Then, perhaps a game of Thud.
Every day at eleven, and then some. The meetings continued even now, when he was old enough to feel the weight of his bones. The weight of the world, too, but that had settled on his shoulders a long time ago, so long that he doesn’t remember how he’d felt without its almost comforting heft. And Vetinari, almost as old as he was now? He must surely feel the same way, or he wouldn’t be—
“To be clear, Sir Samuel, are we both referring to the column in the Times regarding my impending retirement?”
Vimes nodded, taking care to swivel his eyes back to the square of pasteboard as he did so. There didn’t seem to be anything he could say. The words gathered in his throat and choked his voice away.
Vetinari stood up soundlessly enough for Vimes to have to look at him. He quickly looked away. If he looked for too long, he feared his eyes would start smarting, as if he’d looked for too long at the sun. He tried to summon his ever-present rage to distract himself, but found its well curiously empty today, just when he needed it most. It had to be shock.
“Vimes, if you would kindly follow me, we could take a short walk on the grounds.”
Vimes blinked. Today was different. And the week after next, the beginning of the rest of his life.
Vetinari selected a red dog biscuit from a drawer in his desk, and picked his cane up.
He’d been walking for what felt like a long time, putting one foot in front of the other in a troubled daze. Raising his head, he saw a small gravestone in front on him, wreathed in lilac and marked with the word ‘Wuffles’. He looked down at the tiny gravestone and felt an unfamiliar wave of fondness for the bastard. Every week, they said, the self-professed tyrant would visit the grave of his dog, walking slowly until he reached it. And he would bring a dog biscuit, but never a yellow one, of course.
Vetinari retrieved the dog biscuit from his pocket and knelt to place it reverently at the foot of the grave. As he got up, leaning heavily on his cane, his foot slipped barely an inch, but Vimes felt himself already moving towards Vetinari and placing a steadying hand on his arm.
“Thank you, Vimes,” said Vetinari, and Vimes felt unbelievably fortunate. Who else could touch the Patrician like this; who else could pierce the shield of his invulnerability? But—godsdamnit, what was the use of all he had learnt about Vetinari if he was retiring the week after next? He’d move somewhere else, perhaps one of his ancestral properties. Moist von Lipwig would move into the Palace, and perhaps there would be meetings at eleven with him.
He imagined looking across the table at Moist, and shuddered. If he retired as well, would that help matters? No, he doubted it. He hated to admit it, but it might help matters if he just talked to Vetinari. The problem was that he could never find the right words, and that was probably an accurate summary of his life so far.
“You’re leaving the week after next?” he heard himself asking, and his voice sounded like a far-off echo.
“Yes. I have been planning my retirement for some time, and have already undertaken measures to ease the transition. The week after next, Mr Lipwig will have moved into the Palace, and I will be…doing whatever one does after retiring.”
“I see. Why exactly are you retiring, sir?” He had to know.
“For the usual reasons, I’m afraid. A greater degree of freedom, spending time with old friends and family”—Vimes suppressed a snort— “but mostly due to my advancing age.”
“Really, sir? I had sort of assumed that you would go on forever. Till death do us part, and all that. Ha ha,” he said leadenly, and winced. Wasn’t this conversation going well?
“Vimes, I do believe you attempted a spot of humour there. Well done,” said Vetinari, and smiled in a way that was decidedly un-humoured. “I have been Patrician for almost forty years; wouldn’t you say it was time to move on? A worthy successor has been found, one who will drag us confidently into the next century.”
“I can respect that, but you must have a personal reason for wanting to retire, sir,” he persisted.
“To be completely honest with you, Sir Samuel, I’ve been ruling this city for so long that I’ve forgotten what living in it feels like. As I’m certain you’re aware, I’m not getting any younger.” There was an almost wistful look in Vetinari’s eyes; a look Vimes had never seen before, had never thought he would see in those eyes.
“Neither am I. Can I be honest with you too, sir?”
“Why, Vimes, you have never been anything but honest with me, I’m sure.”
“I’ve never thought about what you…not being here would be like.” He really hadn’t; he’d never had the courage to even casually approach the thought.
“Surely you wouldn’t have expected me to stay forever.” The words held a gentle reproach, but Vetinari was looking at him quizzically, as if he hadn’t expected Vimes to say what he’d just uttered.
“It sounds bloody daft now, but I think I really did, sir,” Vimes replied, and felt the rain fall gently onto his face.
Except that it wasn’t bloody raining, and he was actually going all weepy at the thought of that insufferable bastard leaving and going gods-know-where. He was sure he hadn’t cried since he was ten, and that was when he’d been starving, for gods’ sakes! He was going unbelievably soft as he aged. Furiously blotting his eyes with his sleeve, he turned back to Vetinari, who was looking like he’d just swallowed a sock—an extra-lumpy one darned by Mrs Palm herself.
“Sorry, sir, allergies—you know how it is,” he managed, gritting his teeth.
Silence. The sock was still being digested, it seemed.
Vetinari only stared. Then, as slowly and reverently as he’d placed the dog biscuit on Wuffles’s grave, he reached out and brushed a thumb across a still-wet spot on Vimes’s cheek.
Vimes forgot how to breathe. He was sure he was going pink and varying shades of purple. It felt incredible, but he’d never tell the bastard that. “Sir, I’m, uh,” he stammered.
Vetinari raised one eyebrow.
“I actually do like you. Quiteabitinfact,” he said in a rush, cursing himself for sounding like an overly-affectionate old biddy.
“As do I, Vimes. I have grown rather fond of you over the years.”
“In what way, sir?” said Vimes, with rather more daring than he felt.
Sighing in exasperation, Vetinari cupped both his hands around Vimes’s face, and he had to fight hard not to lean into the touch, because the heat bleeding into his skin really did feel that good.
“Does that answer your question?”
“Ah, yes, I see. Brotherly affection, then. Very heartwarming.” He tried not to grin.
The Look he received in return could have cut through steel.
“Vimes, I would appreciate it if you would cease being deliberately obtuse.”
“Oh, all right,” he said. He’d tortured the man enough for one day, he supposed. Ignoring the numerous parts of his brain that were still screaming that this is not happening, he dazedly reached for the nape of Vetinari’s neck. When no tiny hidden daggers or ingenious poisoned arrows came darting at him, he was pleasantly surprised, and suddenly he was kissing the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, and nothing else in the world mattered.
He was very warm against Vimes’s body, this man who was at once achingly familiar and utterly distant. Vetinari, flesh and blood after all—warm flesh that pressed deliciously against Vimes’s chest and thighs; blood that thudded wildly into his heart, which Vimes felt racing beneath his palms. Vimes felt his own blood thrumming in response, his nerves set aflame by the friction of Vetinari’s body moving against his own. His skin sang to the tune of the Patrician’s nimble fingers, heating where it was touched; craving more, so much more. Ankh-Morpork settled onto his tongue, and he tasted strange spices and tea and home, heady and sweet.
Gods, he’d been an idiot, hadn’t he?
Vetinari finally pulled away, to Vimes’s disappointment, to point out that this was a graveyard after all, and would he like to retire (ha, ha) to a more appropriate location?
The rational part of Vimes’s brain, which had shrunk to just a tiny fraction of its original size, agreed. The other parts congregated on the other side of the divide and produced only a rather embarrassing mooning sigh, which Vetinari pretended not to notice save a tiny quirk of his lips.
They managed somehow to make their way into Vetinari’s Palace chambers without further mishaps, during which he made Vimes admit that he would follow him to the ends of A'Tuin; well, to the tail, at least. Vimes tried to take it back after they were done with their...upstanding activities, but Vetinari forbade him to. Carrot would just have to make do.