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It was constantly raining for the last two days, and the streets of Ankh-Morpork were covered in mud. It was getting dark, the gray clouds began to turn deep blue and most alleys hid in impenetrable blackness.
In one such shadow sat a watchman with his back against a cold stone wall, head in his hands and a half empty bottle lying next to him.
Sam Vimes wished he could disappear. He was cold, his thoughts were blurry and messy and his chest was completely filled with agonizing guilt. It made his guts cramp with anxiety, but maybe it was caused by the vomiting.
He promised he wouldn't even touch alcohol ever again, and now he was as drunk as always. Some people just can't be helped. He was at a stage where he was still relatively conscious and therefore knew exactly how much he fucked up but already drunk enough not to walk straight. He didn't know what to do, but he was certain that if he stays here, he will inevitably finish that bottle. Not like it was the first thing he drank that evening. He never felt this much need to drink himself to either oblivion or unconsciousness. To silence the thoughts reminding him how close he was to being happy. To make that voice shut up. That voice telling him this is perfect proof that he belongs exactly where he is. In the mud of the streets... Far away from… Her.
He wanted to scream. He knew he needed help and didn't want to keep drinking. He genuinely wished he could replace this with happiness. But there was only one person that could make him feel strong enough to fight this and he couldn't let Her see him this weak.
There was no perspective to light even a spark of hope in his heart and he knew there will soon be much more grief to deal with when She inevitably gives up on him and leaves another fresh wound that he has no way to seal. Logic would, upon seeing the ring on his finger and the cop helmet on his head, say that he received a happy ending and his life will now only improve, but it took him only a few weeks to return to rock bottom. At least that's how he felt in the moment.
Samuel Vimes spent a big part of his life acting according to the strongest feeling forming in his head and he decided to believe it this time as well. This feeling was strange and new, however, and he stared with horror as it forced him to get off the ground. While he decided to trust his gut as always, a different organ, heavily beating in his chest, took the lead.
...
Sybil Vimes opened the door and found her husband soaking wet and staring at the ground with terror as if he had just seen Death himself.
"Sam! Where have you been? You were supposed to finish at work hours ago," she said gently.
He didn't move an inch. She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Sam?"
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She could now smell the alcohol in his breath.
"Oh dear," she sighed. "We need to get you inside."
He obediently stepped into the door, trying to move as normally as possible and failing miserably. The drunkenness itself wasn't such a horrible shock, but the obviously unbearable distress in Sam's face was making her worried.
She sat him on the nearest sofa, ignoring the muddy water getting practically everywhere.
"Are you okay, dear?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, and she couldn't tell if his voice was shaking with grief or fear.
She didn't answer, hoping it would encourage him to say more.
"Didn't know where t'go... Fuckedup... Din't mean to... 'm sorry... I sh... should've stayed in the gutter..."
Sybil looked at her hand that he was now gripping very tightly. At least he was home now.
"It's okay, dear, I'm glad you came to me."
"Had to. I love you," he blubbered as she started to take off his armor. He immediately went to pull down his shoes, not to look like he needs the help.
"I love you too, dear," Sybil said patiently as he got up from the sofa, leading him towards the stairs.
"Wait..." her husband paused, and instead of walking up, hugged her tightly.
"I love you," he whispered again so quietly she could barely hear him as he rested his head on her shoulder. She could now feel his shaky breath on her neck. It felt good, he was much more careful while sober, both with touch and words, and it was nice to know that when his guard comes down, the complete genuineness looks like this. But she would rather have him circumspect with expressions of love than let him drown that feeling in bottles of alcohol.
"I won't touch it again, I promise," said Sam all of a sudden as if he was able to hear her thoughts.
"I know, Sam, I trust you." She wasn't angry at him for drinking again the same way she wasn't mad at any dragon who struggled with flying. She would likely scold him if he came home yelling and throwing hands like it was common for drunkards. But this man was just... Incredibly gentle. In his own way, anyway.
...
Vimes was lying in his bed, clean and warm and felt Sybil's finger in his hair. Everything was still blurry, but he was certain that this is much better than the streets. He must be the luckiest man under the sun. Without Sybil he would be sleeping on the cobbles tonight.
He wasn't sure if he said it already (he wasn't sure about anything that happened that day to be fair) so he made sure she actually heard it at least once.
"I love you."
His wife chuckled behind him. She has such a pleasant voice, he thought.
"You already said that a few times, dear."
"Good"
"I love you too."
"Good"
Another chuckle.
He was safe. He was home.
It wasn't the first time that he woke up with a headache, but never before has he woken up with a wet cloth on his forehead and a glass of water on the nightstand.
...
Lord Vetinari sipped his tea from an elegant cup at Lady Sybil's house and occasionally moved his legs so his boots wouldn't get dissolved in the saliva of a small green dragon lying under the table.
The friends didn't have a single occasion to properly talk for almost a month after the wedding despite having so many things to discuss.
The patrician's injury was one of the topics, but he didn't wish to dwell on it too much. He still wasn't able to walk very well without his cane, but he noted that he has a much better one in the making that will hopefully make up for the inconvenience in elegance.
The marriage, on the other hand, didn't seem to let him rest and despite being very subtle about it, he kept bringing up her new husband quite frequently. Sybil didn't mind sharing her happiness.
"He really is one of a kind, you know?" she said just now.
"He gave me that impression, yes."
"I thought you had restrictions towards him."
Vetinari placed the empty cup on the table.
"They were in no way related to his character. I was merely concerned about his... drinking problem. Was it not a discouragement? I personally find it... off-putting. If not dangerous."
"Are you afraid he might hurt me?"
Lord Vetinari merely shrugged his shoulders.
Sybil laughed.
There is no universe in which Samuel Vimes would hurt his wife.