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The small, dark brown jar hits the desk with an accusing ‘tock’.
Vetinari’s eyebrows travel up, both of them.
“That container and its contents are also a part of your report from Uberwald, Your Grace?”
Sir Samuel Vimes looks gloomy in his armour, but what is truly entertaining about his current stance is the rapid crimson awakening on his face and the way he’s looking at Vetinari – truly looking at him, and not at his usual point at the wall.
That means the official part of the visit has ended.
“N-no, this is…” he chews words out, angry for no apparent reason, “…When I had to hide in this stupid ditch of a make-up shop, I thought- I know you use the stuff. When I asked, the owner told me they are very good. He seemed to know more than me, anyway.”
“And it is most probable that his expertise was not unfounded,” Vetinari says slowly, fighting his bemusement. “Uberwaldian cosmetic goods have a reputation for their quality, most likely due to the demands of one… particularly insistent and authoritarian type of clientele, desiring to blend in with the humans for the sake of co-existence.” Gods as his witnesses, Lady Margolotta never passes a remark about the superiority of their beauty industry over other nations of Disc and her occasional gifts prove the truth behind the boast.
“Yeah. So,” barks the Commander, crimson as a lobster, “a souvenir. You’re welcome.”
The situation is positively absurd and Vetinari wants to enjoy it, if not for the fact that the man in front of him fumes with furious determination and – it is as plain to see as the Sto Plains – unspoken shame. The Commander is not shortsighted. He knows that the little, oval jar cannot measure up to what is stored within the Patrician’s camouflage kit, both in volume and most likely quality. Just giving him the product is like jumping through a lot of hoops, it does nothing except provide entertainment and actually make him look like a fool in the process.
But this is Samuel Vimes, a boy who grew up in Shades, and in his mindset, this is what one does for someone, who is a…
Vetinari blinks and stops himself right there before mentally filling a blank with words or a phrase that might be wholly incorrect, overstating, and – the worst of all – not objective.
He might suffer being wrong or overdramatic, but he draws a very hard line at being swayed .
“Thank you, Sir Samuel,” he finds himself speaking. “But why in the Office…?”
“I've had enough of carrying this junk like a paranoid thief!” he growls. “I don’t want anyone to add anything to that jar when my back is turned! So, you’re getting it now.”
Thoughtful. His mind betrays him . Cari…
No. He will not be swayed.
“Vigilant as ever, Commander,” he nods, gracefully. “It is appreciated.”
“Ehe.”
***
On the next day's morning, which for the Patrician means the usual half to five, Vetinari’s reflection tells him that no, he has not yet managed to cheat nature and appear well-rested for a change. He unscrews the lid of the little jar while rolling his eyes. Vimes. During an undercover mission in Überwald, Vimes still had time to barrage into a cosmetics shop, worm himself underneath the counter, have a chat with the owner and decide on a concealer, out of all things. Quite probably even haggling, while the squad giving chase was running through the very same street.
Vetinari lifts the container up and carefully takes a sniff. Hmm. The fragrance, something he does not like, is… obviously aimed at providing some pleasure for the user. At least it is not overwhelming, primarily carrying a singular fresh tone. He puts the lid away, carefully dips two fingers in, frowns and leans towards his mirror. He pats the skin underneath his left eye, ignoring the pang of irritation. It is most likely a total waste of time; he has his own products that work and hide the shadows that need hiding. Why has he even considered trying out this silly gift, he pulls his hand away and leans back, it is not like Vimes has any idea–
He freezes.
He blinks.
He grabs the nearby candleholder, pulls it closer and leans in, his eyes bulging.
It is perfect.
All right, not exactly perfect. He could do without the fragrance, but it is close. The cosmetic has blended in smoothly, it feels light, but most importantly, it suits Vetinari’s fair complexion. Good coverage as well.
It suits his complexion.
Vetinari does not move.
Vimes, during their foolish little trysts, has managed to observe, notice and file in his brain of a copper the honest-to-gods shade of the Patrician’s skin, accurately enough to choose a concealer–
“No,” Vetinari’s reflection says aloud. “I cannot be swayed.”
Then, he applies the cosmetic to the right eye, switches fingers with a sponge, pats at the skin, reaches for the make-up kit, does the usual routine.
When he finally puts the powered brush down and gives his reflection an appraising look, he looks… Adequate.
Satisfactory.
Oh, damn it all, he simply looks good .
He cleans up and at the very end, gently twists the lid back on the new concealer jar and puts it on the very top in his make-up kit.
Vetinari suppresses a frown that wants to creep onto his expression, even though he is alone in his quarters. Vimes should have never been allowed close enough to remember such information as his skin tone.
Vimes dragged the little thing all the way back from Überwald and slept with it in his chest pocket for safety measures.
Caring.
If Vetinari’s reflection shows him gulping, it is only a trick of candlelight in the early morning.