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Vetinari enters quietly. Well, as quietly as it is possible – his cane is still tapping against the floor. He sneaks in secretly like a snake, slithers forward, and looms over the hospital bed.
His icy blue eyes narrow.
Vimes… had days when he looked much better than he does today. And the Commander of the City Watch generally does not look too kempt in the first place. It means that the current level of being unarmoured, maimed and bandage-wrapped should be assessed as worrisome.
Oh, Captain Angua of Uberwald did try to persuade Vetinari that recklessness was a good thing. She said that while standing at attention in the Oblong Office, her piercing gaze was fixed on the Vimes’s usual spot above the Patrician’s shoulder. So Vetinari pulled his own private strings, shook the usual trees and sent the usual clacks.
When the messy code scribbled on the crisp Uberwaldian paper basically agreed with Captain Angua, Vetinari allowed himself to raise both of his eyebrows.
The general consensus seemed to be: as a newly-adjusting werewolf, Vimes had to test the limits of his body because the Change brought… changes, plural. It brought not only a new form – at-will most of the time and forced once a month – but it also influenced the human part of the Commander. Physically and psychologically, in ways that he needs to learn, recognize and control, if needed. Vetinari was sure that at least the last part of that equation was going to be executed. As for learning and recognizing, he suspected that it might have been a little more… problematic.
The “problematic” quality finally manifested itself as the general brightness of Carrot’s attitude and manners when he reported: “The Commander chased the murderer as a wolf, sir. They both jumped off the roof and the Commander decided to change mid-flight– …No, sir, I trust that was a strategic decision. (It was hard to say if Carrot lied or not). But Captain Angua tells me that he should be sturdier than before, sir! So even though we had to scrap the other guy off the pavement, the Commander will be alright. As soon as Igor is done with him, I can– Yes, of course, sir, I’ll open the door! At once!”.
Presently, Vimes lies on the bed with his arms spread, being almost innocently unconscious. The position displays the competent work of Igor’s for everyone to see, the tight bandage safely wrapped around the Commander’s chest. Vetinari inspects him. Legs unharmed, breeches that are definitely not Vimes’s, chest taken care of, minor wounds on thick, hairy arms, a collar. Above the collar, the familiar, battered face.
Even when out of any contact with the outside world, Vimes looks mildly annoyed. It is somehow appropriate.
He is alive, he has survived, he seems to be in one piece. That is what the Patrician wanted to confirm. Time to leave.
Except his legs do not carry him to the exit.
Vimes right now does not have any armour. More than that - he is half-naked. The situation is atypical and Vetinari has been… against all rational judgement, affected by the impromptu off-roof somersault…
And what he wants to do has been on the mental list “To Inspect” for a solid two weeks now. It has to be done discreetly, if preferable, and any inspection regarding the Commander is that much safer to do when the Commander cannot immediately voice his opinion, which in all likeness would alternate between “What the hell, sir?” and “Stop bloody staring, sir”.
Vetinari’s gaze zeroes in on the object around Vimes’s neck and stays there. The collar is modest and brown, with the City Watch badge attached to it. The Commander decided to follow in Captain Angua’s steps and also started wearing one, for a number of practical reasons (including saving dog catchers from arrest, both legal and cardiac, by giving them a sporting chance to notice which “dog” not to catch). The set looks… suitably standard. It is obvious that the material used for the collar is the same type of leather the City Watch has its uniforms made out of. As much as Vetinari can deduce, it is apparently closed at the back with a simple buckle belt. Vimes already stained the collar with some liquid, on the left side there is a dark smear. The weight of the badge must be heavy, the flat chunk of copper dangling from the leather piece and pulling it down. Does it move when Vimes runs? Can he feel it against his skin while filing paperwork? Patrolling? Reporting in the Oblong Off-?
Vetinari takes a deep breath. One. Enough. Then, after consideration, he closes his eyes and takes another one. Enough. Right from the Tray of Morbid Curiosity, he has managed to swipe unnoticed into his hands a small, forbidden cupcake and devoured it in one bite. Now, he shouldn’t detain himself and leave. He should put both of his hands flatly on top of the metaphorical, non-existent table and shove himself away because tarrying around the Tray brings nothing but trouble.
Trouble from tarrying promptly arrives, but not in the expected form. He’s been walking too briskly to get to the hospital and he’s been standing for too long. His leg starts to tremble from the effort and sends annoying pricks of pain to the nerves. It is the first warning. Vetinari quickly glances around, notices the stool, side-eyes unmoving Vimes and decides his leg is the priority.
He pulls the stool closer to the bed and takes a seat (too heavily for his liking). He tries to stretch. Vimes is still unconscious and it does not look that the situation is going to change all that rapidly.
This regrettable accident really should have been avoided (and Vetinari also shouldn’t have been affected that deeply by it). What is worse, now that he has had an opportunity to take a good look at the collar, his imagination brings to the forefront of his mind ideas that previously had no right to exist. Stronger, more beautiful leather, maybe torn a bit at the edges to give the illusion of being used. A heavier steel buckle, maybe black in colour. On the reverse of the badge, maybe, just maybe, a… subtle symbol. A tiny pressed out shield, with no further aesthetic components, just…
Ah, yes, because it is so, so subtle: to brand Sir Samuel Vimes with your own family crest on the underside of the city badge-
“Sodding…!”
Vetinari ceases all movement. Vimes’ voice is hoarse.
“Oh, no,” he gulps. “Sir.”
“A cordial welcome indeed, Commander,” remarks the Patrician, pulling his leg towards himself and sitting straight.
“The stench,” groans Vimes. “Worse than a scent bom-”
“Oh, however will you survive,” the Patrician’s voice is flat as a pancake. He is well aware that if he participated in a contest of aroma intensity with a modestly-sized lot of peppermint, the lot might come in second place.
He hopes it would come in second place. The alternative of Vimes sniffing out the emotional honesty is catastrophic in its potential.
However, the Commander does not seem like he is interested in sniffing out emotional truths at the moment, focusing more on making sense of his nearest environment. He grimaces, his eyes still closed, and his nostrils flare. “Hospital?” he finally grunts.
“Bravo. You fell off a roof.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No, I jumped off it.”
“Ah, so you are well-aware of what transpired. Capital, that saves me the introduction. Vimes, it fascinates me: what did you think would happen? Do you mind explaining your riveting thought process, so I may attempt to follow it? To the best of my humble intellectual ability?”
“It was a pursuit, sir.”
“If I threw a stick off the roof and told you to fetch, would you mindlessly spring into a pursuit as well?”
Vimes’ expression gains a new level of annoyance. “Terriers do that?”
Vetinari opens his mouth with the full intention to parry - but then thinks better of it and presses his lips into a thin line instead.
“Why did you transform in the air?”
“I thought… I didn’t want to be stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“As a wolf. Igor has no experience with them.”
“That is…” Actually slightly reasonable. “A valid concern. Still, Commander, I do not know why you chose to fall along with the suspect.”
“I didn’t want him to reach the second roof.”
“So instead of taking a detour in a form that gives you advantages like agility and scent tracking, the only valid alternative was to risk the deaths of both of you.”
“Sir.”
“It was reckless.”
“Sir.”
Ah, ‘sirs’ are starting to appear, two times in a row. The conversation walked upon a touchy subject.
Vetinari swiftly stabs touchy subjects as soon as he realises they are about to get touchy. He has a reputation to uphold. Vimes is different, Vimes sits through the touchy subjects and glares at them. He retreats within himself, suddenly finding patience that might be equal to Vetinari’s. Eventually, the touchy subjects give up and Vetinari, achieving nothing, needs to change the approach.
Neither of them have the time for the usual repertoire.
“If that keeps up, Commander, I’m taking you off the streets.”
Vimes suddenly forgets he is in the hospital, has bandages around his chest and that a while ago, he was busy being unconscious. His eyes pop open and he jerks his head to stare at Vetinari, his whole body tensing.
“What?!” he growls, baring teeth.
“Your behaviour over the past weeks regrettably forces me to present an ultimatum. You will channel your new instincts in appropriate ways with the help of Captain Angua. Otherwise, I’m issuing a ban on patrolling.”
“What?! What ‘new instincts’?!” Vimes’ eyes glint with restrained aggression. “The city stinks twice as bad, but nothing has changed!”
“Vimes, do not lie. I have no patience for that at the moment. Don’t get up either! You’re injured!”
“I’m not lying!” cries out Vimes, lying down. “What is it that I'm doing that rubs you the wrong way?”
“Commander,” the Patrician’s voice is a metallic nick of a thin, sharp blade and his raised eyebrow is a perfect arch. “The list is not lengthy but you have been adding new positions to it nearly daily. I am aware that you started to employ disproportionate measures towards speciesism incidents within the Watch. Your patrols overstretch the scheduled time. On two separate occasions, you grabbed silver-coated weapons with your bare hands and jerked them out of aggressors’ grips. While howling obscenities.”
What he presented is a handful of important examples, but there are also… personal ones. Dark Clerks susurrate that the Commander’s usual patrol routes seem to lead him nightly around the Palace before he returns to the Yard. His face’s microexpressions smoothen out when he marches in for the daily eleven o’clock. In contrast to the expected ire, he grunts “Sir,” if Vetinari praises his work (it was confirmed once - twice - all right, thrice). Vimes barely suppresses gnarls if he smells a letter from Margolotta on the desk (which may or may not have been confirmed once - twice - all right, thrice). In the Rat Chamber, he drills his gaze into Vetinari’s figure, following him in every way except physical. He scowls at lord Rust, and with every opposition he voices, Vimes looks as if he wanted to bite into the noble’s leg.
Such is the way of a canine ilk, Vetinari is not a fool. Vimes had always been a guard, even when it was not his responsibility. After the Change, the newly-found… sentimentality is as natural as breathing.
Vetinari thought the illusion would bring intellectual pleasure, akin to one brought by reading notes upon a music sheet. He was an utter imbecile. All the illusion did, it smashed his hard-trained peace to pieces, bittered into resignation, and started to hurt like his leg on rainy days.
“Sir, I don’t behave in any different way!”
“Yes, Vimes, you do.”
“I’ve always been protective of my men. When giving chase, I’ve been giving my all. Sir! If anything was amiss, I think I would have noticed!”
“Vimes, you are-” he is seconds away from using the word ‘delusional’, “-distracted, more than usual.”
“I do not feel any different!”
“I told you what I expect, Commander. This is my final word. Either you - pardon the expression - put the leash on your actions or you will be stuck at the desk until you prove to me that you have them under control.”
“Sir!”
Vetinari leans on the cane and draws himself up to his full height.
“Sir, please!”
The intonation of that word stops him from taking a step forward. It is not a beg, Vimes never begs. A beg is easy to silence with an icier look, with an arched eyebrow, with a trenchant lack of comment. But this right here, this is a frustrated plea, a madlike attempt at understanding. Vetinari’s fingers tighten around the cane knob. Vimes. Vimes, who instead of keeping his tail between his legs, speaks up. Vimes, who demands explanations from a tyrant, because for some unsurmountable reason, he so deeply cares to understand what Vetinari means.
He turns to look at him.
Vimes has hauled himself to the edge of the bed (he should not do that), he lies on the side, propping himself on one elbow and stares at Vetinari with fire in his eyes. The Patrician once again realises that he has no idea how deeply the Change affected the Commander’s physique. His body has always been dark from the sun, he is still broad, handsomely scarred. If anything did change, it might be the hair. The Commander was always more on the hairy end on the scale of attractiveness, but recently, it seems that the stubble on his square chin darkens much faster, and his head hair is lusher than what Vetinari remembers.
He is pointedly not glancing at the neck and what is around it. The neck is off-limits.
“Sir, I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about!”
“You had to notice patterns,” Vetinari insists, with a new reservoir of patience, reason, determination - all of these things that Vimes should have exhausted an eternity ago. But questions, demands and that need to understand everything resemble rain. “I find it hard to believe that anyone with your levels of self-monitoring could… ignore what’s happening.”
“Sir, I apparently can’t notice them! I do nothing that I don’t want to do. I don’t feel forced, keelhauled or anxious. I f- I feared,” Vimes stammers, “rage… obsession, odd ticks… Demons know what else! But I don’t feel out of control, sir! I pulled wilder stunts when I was normal- Human! Nothing is out of place. Yes, I do have the irrational urge to arrest cats but that’s it!”
“Moist von Lipwig came to my office in panic after a five minute talk with you.”
“What, because he’s a postmaster general and dogs are an occupation hazard?! That’s just prejudice, I’ve never liked him. This is nothing new!”
Why does Vimes have to be so driven to understand?
“Ah, Vimes!...”
“Sir, nothing has changed about me!” His Grace Samuel Vimes stares at him, honey-like eyes alight with fever, open and sincere. “You have to believe me!”.
And why is he so driven to make Vimes understand?
“Commander…” he starts with no rush, his thoughts expeditiously sorting through all acceptable scripts. “Even around me, you are displaying signs of-” Neutral approach, use the most neutral approach. “Of over-vigilance that previously wasn’t so striking. The situation is understandable, the reason for the unusual behaviour is obvious, but I cannot let it pass unaddressed.”
“What?! That’s dragonshit!” yells Vimes. “Who walked into the room when you were sprawled on the floor, dying from sodding arsenic?! Who dragged you behind the cover after your knee was shattered?! You are the Patrician, of course I’m vigilant! I treat you like usual, I feel like usual! It’s normal!”
“What is normal for you, Vimes?”
“What I’m feeling! I’ve always felt this way.”
The quick and merciless in their precision clockwork cogs of lord Vetinari's mind turn and shift, and the needle of deduction spins until it freezes and points to an alarmingly plausible conclusion.
The perfect machinery momentarily conks out in panic.
“Always?” he blinks.
“How many times do I have to repeat!”
“Always.”
“Sir!”
When His Grace, Sir Samuel Vimes, the most suspicious bastard in the whole City, or at least a strong contender to the title, is suddenly acting obtuse, there has to be an underlying reason for it. And if the reason behind the obtuseness is not a downright lie or a fib, then-
“If this is normal… then… Hm."
“Then what?! Why are you making holes in the wall with your eyeballs?!”
Vetinari gazes upon the hospital wall with a slightly tilted head and an expression that bears resemblance to the one worn by an average modest and civilised citizen of Ankh-Morpork. A citizen who has just heard that their least favourite neighbour was robbed, their house was set on fire and when they went to get drunk, they were served a mug of watered beer for the full price.
“Sir, are… Are you all right?”
“Ah?” Vetinari drops his gaze to Vimes. But the gaze, the traitor, drops lower, from the eyes to the neck.
It will take time. It will take a lot of time and a lot of subtlety, and it will require so much patience and influence. But when - in case - it finally happens - in case - it happens, then any kind of shield branding will be too threateningly obvious. A better choice will be a black buckle or a single black stud. He will mention that in the future when the time is right. In case the time is right. Probably. Hopefully.
“What the sod is going on?!”
Under the threat of the Commander’s considerable fury, Vetinari manages to pull the traitorous gaze back to the face - only to see that Vimes, instead of baring a whole set of teeth at him, looks intensively and carefully, suspiciously, scanning him from head to toe.
The bittered, marinated resignation transforms into a feeling Vetinari would prefer to deal with in a more private setting. However, he is forced to do something about it now, because the feeling starts beating whatever was left of his peace into a useless pulp while howling about black leather collars. This will not do.
“That protectiveness does not feel… wrong to you, Vimes?”
“What, why should it? Why are you covering your mouth?”
“Ah, Vimes.”
“You- you came to scold me, you threatened me with a patrolling ban…! Then you just- froze! And now- now you’re bloody laughing?!”
“At whatever may I be laughing, Commander?”
“You’ve laughed! You’ve done that thing with your hand, you always do this when you laugh!”
“Always,” Vetinari repeats lightly. “It’s the second time you use that meaningful word. You are very adamant in your persistent attention towards me, Commander.”
“Wh-! Sh-! I-! Th-!” sounds leave Vimes’ mouth one after the other but none of them manages to become a full word. He grits his teeth. “Sir!”
“I admit I was worried, Vimes, but the passion you have presented convinces me quite well that the source of your intentions remains unchanged.”
“Wait, that’s it?” Vimes blinks and scowls so deeply that it looks like his face does not know any other expression than a frown. “You simply… let the matter go?”
“Ah, Vimes! How well you know me.”
“I thought so,” he grumbles under his breath.
“I demand from Captain Angua her own, personalised reports on things she educates you on. Your meetings until now have been happening in an informal context but it would be beneficial for all parties involved to make their character more regulated.”
“What? You’re expecting me to… Attend a Sunday school on how to be a we-?! To be what I am?!”
“I was thinking more of a training program, as befitting your position. But since you prefer the nomenclature of a primary educational system, I can also receive reports from a Sunday school. I am much more accommodating than you give me credit for, Commander.”
Vimes’ eyes scream bloody murder. Relatively restrained. “I’m being punished for performing my own bloody job!”
“You are not being punished, Commander, you are being regulated. I am aware you tend to think that these two acts are parts of the same leash, but I assure you this is very far from the truth. I’m certain that you will carry out the additional responsibility remarkably, with an appropriate amount of exclamation marks.”
“Sirrr.” The rolled ‘r’ makes the title sound oddly like ‘wrrr’.
“Consider that a spectacular success of your negotiation skills, Commander. You’ve switched a patrolling ban to Sunday school reports, a very good trade off. In the future, I’d advise to restrain yourself from the practice of falling off roofs in a heated up pursuit. Otherwise, the difficulty level of the negotiation sequence shall raise significantly.”
Vimes’ face is familiarly wooden and somewhere during the longish speech, he has also restrained himself from growling. “Yes, sir.”
“Capital. Now, since that is out of the way…” Vetinari sighs and gets onto his feet with slow dignity. No pain, the leg has rested. “I say that we should not detain each other.”
“Can’t wait to finally breathe air that doesn’t smell like peppermint, sir.”
“Ah, Vimes, the list of your noble sacrifices has no end.”
“Sir.”
“You are a… passionate man, Commander. Now that I’m sure of it, I won’t let that passion stray too far away.”
“Sir.”
“Recover now. That’s an order.”
Vetinari leaves, back straight, footsteps heavy on the floor. Vimes’ ears nearly twitch at the sound.
“The hell he feels so triumphant about?” he growls to himself.