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Lord Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, did not use perfume on principle. It was one of the first things they taught you in the assassins school, after all. Hardly worth it to bother with perfect camouflage and soundless movement, was it, if a cloud of fragrance followed you wherever you went. But there was a more personal reason, too. The same one that governed his dietary choices. Many theories existed among idle population as to why the ruler of the city seemed to subsist solely on bread and water. Fear of poisoning was a popular one. Rare affliction was another. Some even went as far as suspecting vampirism. Lady Marglotta found that one particularly amusing. The truth was much simpler, as is usually the case. Plethora of flavours associated with extravagant dishes expected to be consumed by someone of his stature was… distracting. And he couldn’t afford to be distracted. The same applied to scents. Like with flavours, he didn’t abhor them, he found many to be quite pleasant, in fact. He just preferred not to be surrounded by them most of the time.
At this particular time, His Grace Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch Samuel Vimes was pacing around the Oblong Office and delivering a passionate speech on… what was it?... ah, the pros and cons of giving Lord Rust a good beating. He was also wearing perfume. It wasn’t unpleasant, Vetinari had to admit. Notes of cedar, a hint of old parchment. What was annoying, though, was that there was something there that didn’t belong, and he couldn’t figure out what or why.
“Sir?”
“Hmm?”
“So how about it?”
Vetinari mentally rewound the last three minutes. Then he sighed.
“Vimes, you know how delicate the situation is.” Delicate. Delicate? Yes, that was it. Like… a flower. A flower he knew well. It was lilac. Vetinari was aware of the convention to use different ingredients based on the gender of the prospective perfume wearer. The Commander didn’t strike him as a person who’d make such a… progressive choice. In fact, the Commander didn’t strike him as a person who’d make any kind of choice at all when it came to perfumery. A gift, then? From someone close, someone who he wouldn’t want to offend by not using it? Someone close enough to notice if he weren’t?
“Sir, are you well? You seem a bit… distracted.”
Godsdamnit.
“I am fine. Just a touch of a headache.” Not an excuse he’d normally resort to, it didn’t do to show weakness. But it was much preferable to the truth in this case. Besides, it was Vimes. He hadn’t felt the need to be on guard around him for a long time now.
“Commander, I hope you don’t mind terribly if we continue this discussion next time. If you can find it in you to not take any rash actions towards Lord Rust for a while longer, I will see if I can influence his disposition somewhat.”
“Of course. Thank you, sir. I hope you feel better.”
The scent of lilac lingered for a long time after he left.
*
Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch was sitting behind his desk and eating a chocolate truffle. It was surprisingly delicious. The combination of smooth sweetness and sharp bitterness of chocolate melting on his tongue was downright decadent. Not something he’d ever think to pick up for himself, being more of a fish-and-chips or burger-and-fries kind of guy, but he was glad he got to try them. He’d got a box of them as a birthday gift a week before, from Captain Carrot. An unusual choice, on the surface, but he could see the Captain’s logic. There was probably a rule somewhere about what you were traditionally expected to gift to your superior. The list likely also contained whiskey and flowers. The former was not an option for obvious reasons, and he supposed even Carrot could see that flowers would be completely wasted on Vimes. Among other gifts were a beautiful brass paperweight shaped like a dragon (from Cheery) and a small flask of perfume (from Angua). The latter was the most awkward gift of all, which was quite impressive considering that Fred and Nobby saw fit to give him a framed iconograph of the two of them with Vimes in a pub, from the “good old days”, that is to say when Vimes still frequented such establishments. The perfume, though. Sergeant Angua approached him when he was alone and quickly shoved the flask into his hand. Met with his inquiring gaze, she mumbled:
“It’s a perfume. Made by a witch. It really works!” She looked embarrassed.
Vimes was trying to think of a tactful way to point out that, in his experience, most perfumes seemed to “work”, despite not having been brewed by witches. He was fairly sure. Not that he knew much about perfume trade. He was spared the effort when Angua spoke again.
“It. Um. Worked for me. It’s pheromones, you see. It reacts to them. With us werewolves it’s easy, you can just tell. But with humans… I wasn’t sure. I thought he did… like me, that is. Carrot. Anyway, I went to a witch, and she gave me this, and it worked. You just put it on, and if you are around someone you are attracted to, the magic reacts to your pheromones, and then they can detect it. It will smell like something they like. But only if they are attracted to you too. So that’s how I knew,” she finished with a bashful smile.
Vimes was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat.
“I… am very happy for the two of you. But… um… why… I mean, there is no one that I…”
“Oh, I just thought, people like us, you know… we are so consumed by our work that we often don’t notice anything else. And only now I realize what a shame it would have been if I’d never noticed. You… deserve to be happy, sir.”
Despite still swimming in the sea of awkwardness, Vimes was touched.
“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
In the days that followed his attention was urgently needed in multiple places, often at once, so he put the entire thing out if his mind. This morning, though, his eyes landed on the little flask as it glinted in sunlight, and he picked it up, carefully removed the cap and sniffed at it. It didn’t smell like anything at all. On a whim, he dabbed a little behind his ears. And immediately felt like an idiot. This was ridiculous. Of course it had worked for Angua and Carrot, they were clearly mad about each other. It was probably one of them… placebo things. Or maybe it was a wolf thing, their noses were different, weren’t they? And if it did, somehow, against all odds, actually work, what was the point anyway? For him, that is? People like us don’t notice anything else. How can you not notice something like that? Before he could follow that train of thought much further, he got summoned to the Patrician’s office and that brought all his other trains of thought to an abrupt halt before they could even leave the station. Some collided right there on the platform and caught fire.
He envied the man his unshakable calm, he really did. To deal every day with the likes of Downey and Lord fucking Rust and not lose either his mind or his cool was truly admirable. It was also infuriating. Even more so because Vimes himself was struggling to keep his temper in check. Just seeing Vetinari sitting there completely unperturbed stirred something in him, a desire to… rage on his behalf? It sounded silly. But he couldn’t help it. So rage he did, and the Patrician would regard him over his steepled fingers, sometimes deigning to raise an eyebrow at a particularly vibrant outburst, and he seemed almost… amused. Which was fuel to Vimes’ fire. The entire affair more often than not ended in Vimes not being detained and the wall outside the office being punched with feeling.
Not today, though. Today Vetinari was uncharacteristically distant. Vimes realized something he had never noticed before – that he always got the Patrician’s undivided attention, unlike many others. And now that he wasn’t getting it, it felt… disconcerting. Of course, it stood to reason that there might have been more important matters on his mind. Maybe something had happened. Maybe he had got some troubling news this morning. He never hesitated to involve Vimes before when his help was needed. He also never hesitated to keep things from Vimes if he decided they didn’t concern him. Or maybe it was something personal? As hard as that was to imagine. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well? Vimes realized something else. That he was worried.
*
On the Discworld, belief mattered a great deal and could in fact shape reality. It was astonishing, therefore, that Lord Rust didn’t spontaneously vanish by now, considering that so many people believed very strongly that he should. Until that happened, it was Vetinari’s unfortunate duty to mitigate the effects of his continued existence on the city. And on Commander Vimes specifically, who showed up unannounced several days after their previous encounter. And brought the scent of lilac with him.
It wasn’t that Vetinari couldn’t handle scents, of course. His preferences notwithstanding, he wouldn’t have got very far if every time air wasn’t pristine he completely lost his ability to focus. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all, clean air here was a mythical phenomenon that most inhabitants had never experienced. It was just that this particular scent made him remember. Made him think of a time when he, young and full of ambition, fought for what he believed in. He never stopped fighting, did he? The city worked under his rule, didn’t it? He looked at Vimes, wondering how he saw it. What he thought of Vetinari, really. Did Vimes believe he was a ruthless tyrant that he so often proclaim himself to be? Maybe once. But now… he thought Vimes understood. Perhaps even… He’d saved Vetinari’s life more than once by now, and it was his duty, of course, but at the time, Vetinari thought he saw something in his eyes. Something that looked like worry. And not just about the fate of the city.
The thing about Vimes was, he cared. It showed in every rant, every wall punch, every decision he made, no matter how impulsive or wrong. And so Vetinari tolerated his outbursts, listened to his speeches, and did what he could to deal with matters he brought up. Because blunt and rash as he was, he was often right. And because Vetinari, to his horror, couldn’t stand to see him disappointed. Angry he could handle, even enjoyed winding him up, but witnessing disappointment in Vimes’ face felt like a cold blade twisting between his ribs.
The Commander seemed to have reached the end of his diatribe, and was currently looking at Vetinari expectantly from across his desk. Surrounded by a cloud of lilac. Vetinari breathed in. He wondered sometimes what would happen if he got up, pulled Vimes in and kissed him. He’d be shocked, of course, but what else?
He’d likely never find out. The risk was too great. And even if it paid off, that would be the greatest distraction of them all.
Fucking lilac. Vetinari had had enough.
“You never struck me as a sentimental man, Commander.”
“Sir?”
“Lilac?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”
“Your perfume, Vimes. An interesting choice.”
The Commander’s eyes went impossibly round. Vetinari didn’t think he could look more shocked if he had indeed kissed him. He stood there frozen for several moments as panic spread across his features.
“I… I… I’m sorry, sir, I… have to go.”
Then he turned on his heel and bolted, without even waiting for a reply.
Vetinari steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. Fascinating. He had always hated unsolved mysteries and he would get to the bottom of this one.
*
Vimes’ feet propelled him all the way back to his office without his mind ever making a conscious decision to go there. His mind was currently incapable of making any decisions at all. Or having any rational thoughts. He barked at the bewildered recruit on desk duty that he wasn’t to be disturbed and shut the door behind him.
It had to be a mistake. The magic was… wrong. It was the only explanation. He looked at the offending flask sitting innocently on a shelf.
He didn’t know what possessed him to use the damn thing for the past several days. A stubborn, idiotic urge to prove, if only to himself, how pointless it was? An inside (in a very literal sense) joke and not even a very good one? He should have known that the joke would be on him. He wasn’t even planning to go see the Patrician today. Rust was a nuisance, yes, but not very high on his list of priorities at the moment. He was just passing by the palace and looked up, and he could imagine Vetinari standing there by his window, gazing at the city below, and he… couldn’t resist the nagging feeling that’d been following him ever since their previous meeting. That something was off. He had probably imagined it. But he could drop by, quickly, just to make sure.
Well, he supposed he got his answer. He found out what was distracting His Lordship. Too bad that it opened up an array of new questions that he couldn’t even begin guessing at.
He sat down in his chair and leaned back, looking at the ceiling. He needed to calm down. He was a policeman first and foremost, right? So he should review the facts.
Sergeant Angua wouldn’t lie to him or trick him. That was a fact. Or prank him, especially with his birthday gift. She really believed she was giving him something useful and meaningful, he knew that.
No witch worth her salt would try to deceive Sergeant Angua. That was also a fact. And she wouldn’t go to one that wasn’t reputable.
The perfume didn’t have any scent while in the flask, and nobody made any remarks to him about it for the past week, so it had to be assumed that nobody could smell it on him. (This may have sounded like a stretch, but Vimes knew his watch…persons, and while they displayed many wonderful qualities, tact was in somewhat of a deficit among them). This fact complied with what Angua had said about how the perfume worked.
And then today, Vetinari said that it smelled like lilac to him. According to Angua, it was supposed to smell like something a person liked, provided that… ah… other criteria were satisfied. Lilac… It could be just a meaningless preference, of course. He remembered young Havelock Vetinari, in the past (which for Vimes had happened very recently), fighting with the flower in his teeth. Fighting for what was right. Thinking about time travel made Vimes’ head hurt, but what he managed to understand was that whatever changed during his brief foray into the past became the new past that everyone now remembered. So, for Vetinari, that would feel like a very old memory. Did it still hold meaning? And… did it even matter? It mattered to Vimes, undeniably, he could still remember the crippling fear of not being able to go back, or, arguably even worse, fucking up so badly that what he did go back to would be unrecognizable. But had it actually changed anything for Vetinari? His demeanor toward Vimes, maybe, slightly – it was impossible to share something like that and not gain new understanding of each other. But other than that, he was essentially the same person he always was. And he did the same thing he’d always done – he kept the city running, making sure, in his unconventional ways, that there was justice. Still fighting for what was right. He wondered if he knew that Vimes saw this.
What he did know was that Vetinari trusted him. Maybe not with all the details of his plans, but, oddly enough, with his life. Just as well, because Vimes had to save it multiple times already. And “had to” didn’t mean that it was his duty (even though it was). It meant that, in those moments, he simply didn’t see any alternative. It was as if his whole reality narrowed down to this one thing that he had to do, in any way he could, at any cost. It scared him. So much so that he avoided examining it, afterwards.
Okay, fine, so he thought the world was a better place with Havelock Vetinari in it. So what? It objectively was. And if Vimes was prepared to go to extreme lengths to defend this conviction, that just served to prove his… strength of character. Or something like that. It didn’t mean that it was… that is to say, that he wanted… that he would want to… Unbidden, a memory rose in his mind. Vimes had just finished reporting on a minor crisis that he managed to avert. Vetinari was standing by the window of the Oblong Office, watching the sunset. Then he turned to look at Vimes and smiled. Actually smiled. It reached his eyes. And it took Vimes’ breath away.
Fuck.
*
The next several days were a blur. To say that Vimes had trouble wrapping his head around his latest realization would be like saying that the Great A’Tuin was a fairly large specimen of a turtle. To make matters more complicated, he recalled Angua’s exact explanation, and, apparently, the only way for somebody to sense the perfume was if they too… he couldn’t put it to words even inside his own head. Because no words could describe how ridiculous the very notion was. But what if…?
Damn it. That was human nature for you. Even in the frozen tundras of desperation, amid the driest deserts of irrationality, atop the most inhospitable cliffs of sheer impossibility, a single ray of sunshine was enough to give life to that persistent weed sprouting through the cracks and blossoming in defiance of the whole world. Hope.
It was late in the evening and the watch house was almost deserted. Having run out of people to boss around, Vimes stalked to his office and dived into the pile of paperwork. Even that was preferable to being alone with his thoughts and it was saying enough. Desperate as he was to get out of his own head, Vimes hadn’t noticed the difference in the texture and thickness of the shadows in the corner until they shifted.
The Patrician gracefully slipped into his field of vision. Well, whatever else he may or may not want, Vimes thought, dazed, it was good that Vetinari didn’t want him dead.
“I hope you’ll forgive me this unannounced intrusion, Your Grace. I was rather busy for the past few days, and so were you. Or so I hear. Congratulations on solving the Blackwell case, by the way.”
Vimes nodded in thanks but couldn’t utter a word.
“You left quite abruptly at the end of our last meeting, as I recall. I do hope that it wasn’t something I said that made you… uncomfortable.”
“No! It’s just… I just… ahem.”
Vetinari was watching him quizzically. Then he continued.
“I wasn’t… ah… criticizing your taste, as it were. It was rather that, given the fact that you don’t normally indulge in perfumery, I found your choice quite… intriguing.”
Vimes employed the last reserves of his willpower to stop himself from gaping like a fish. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?
He was saved by a knock on the door. Cheery poked her head in.
“Sir, I just wanted to let you know that Sergeant Detritus just left and I’ll be leaving soon too, so if you… oh. Sorry Your Lordship, I didn’t know…”
“It’s alright, Sergeant. Say, what do you think of the Commander’s new perfume?”
The bottom dropped out of Vimes’ stomach. He looked from the Patrician to Cheery, who looked back in confusion. He thought fast.
“Ahem. His Lordship is joking.”
“Oh. I see. Very funny, sir. Um… I’ll be going now?”
She looked desperate to be on her way.
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sergeant.”
The door closed behind her. With a sense of dread, Vimes turned back to the Patrician, just in time to see his eyebrow finish its upward journey.
There was nothing for it.
“She can’t smell it.”
The eyebrow rose even higher.
“Neither can I. Only you can.” The words just tumbled out of him.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Um. It’s magic, you see. It was a gift from Sergeant Angua. For my birthday. She got it from this witch, and it worked for her, when she… ah… that’s not important. Anyway, it has no smell while in the bottle, and you can’t smell it when you put it on, and no one else can either. Only… well, it reacts to… um… certain emotions.”
The eyebrow reached impossible heights.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Of the wearer?”
“Yes. But even then, nobody else can sense it unless they also… that is… it apparently reacts to pheromones, or something like that, but it’s very specific, and then if it detects them in.. the other person, it smells like something they like. To them, that is. But no one else can…”
Vimes trailed off, realizing he’d been babbling. The Patrician’s expression was unreadable.
“I see. So what you’re saying is that this perfume is triggered by the wearer’s emotions and can only be sensed by another if these emotions are… reciprocated?”
“Um. Yeah. Ahem. Yes.”
“How interesting. Do you have it here?”
Vimes scrambled out of his chair, crossed the room and got the flask from a shelf, offering it to Vetinari.
The Patrician took it and examined it carefully.
“May I?”
“Yes, of course.”
He unstoppered it and brought it to his nose.
“So if I were to use it, it wouldn’t smell like anything to me?
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“And to you?”
Vetinari looked straight into his eyes. Vimes was helpless.
“Like… something I like, I suppose.”
He thought he saw a hint of a smile on the Patrician’s face. What was there to lose now?
“Would you… like to try it?”
“No. I’ll take your word for it.”
And then, bending all rules of probability, possibility and reality, Vetinari leaned in and pulled him into a kiss. His lips were hot and so soft against his own. Vimes’ hands came up to draw him closer. Vetinari chuckled.
“Careful, Commander, you wouldn’t want this to break. It proved to be quite useful.”
He reached out and put the flask back on the shelf. Vimes proceeded to push him against it. He heard Vetinari’s soft intake of breath as he continued exploring his mouth. Felt his slender fingers wrap around the back of Vimes’ neck. Breathed in his scent. And didn’t need the magic to tell him that he could never get enough of it all.
*
Havelock Vetinari was aware that he couldn’t afford distractions. However, he was also aware that, despite his best efforts, he was only human. And so, apparently, some concessions needed to be made.
Well, he thought, as he held on for dear life while being ravished by Commander Vimes, if there had to be distractions, this one was definitely worth it.