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Guards! Guards!
“It's part of the specification, you might say,” the patrician went on, gazing through the window with an expression that Vimes would have categorized as both dreamy and absent. “Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world; the good people just don't seem to have the knack…”
He blinked twice, to clear his head a little, but Vimes couldn’t get any of the current events to arrange themselves in place.
“Maybe,” he said, half aware of why they were even having that conversation, “but you're wrong about the rest. It's just because people are afraid, and alone-” he paused.
It did sound pretty hollow, even to him. Ah, well…
“They're just people,” Sam said with a shrug. “They're just doing what people do. Sir.”
Lord Vetinari gave him a friendly smile.
“You must believe that, yes, of course,” he mused, throwing the watchman a glance. “It is the sole conclusion to prevent man from going mad; the last slither of faith without which existence would be a dark agony, and the only hope would be that there is no life after death.”
“I don’t think that because I have to,” argued Vimes, too sluggishly for his own liking, “it is simply what I believe.”
Vetinari stepped closer to him with the same thin smile and nodded.
“You don’t trust me…” Sam muttered.
“I do more than you think,” said the patrician. “Especially in the wake of your recent actions.”
“What, that I stopped Wonse?” scoffed Vimes and noted a certain glint in Vetinari’s eyes.
The man stepped even closer, bringing them face to face and mere centimeters apart. Vimes felt a sort of doom hang loosely in the air, wondering just what possessed him to contradict the tyrant of the city.
“In case it had escaped your knowledge,” the man went on in his smooth tone, “it is something not many people would have done. Give me any crowd and for all my mind and logic I won’t be able to pick you one man to trust for the job.”
The patrician’s hands moved up and rested on his shoulders. Sam would have swallowed dryly if he still retained any control over his actions, but he lost the last slither of it when cold fingers brushed his collar and neck.
Oh gods… he was going to die.
“I was not talking about that,” his mouth countered before his brain could think, “I meant that you think me daft. You believe that your way of viewing the world is right and everyone who thinks it’s not quite as dark and hopeless is deluded.”
Now Vetinari abandoned the smile and took one second to consider himself.
“That is not true,” he answered after a pause, “not regarding you, at least.”
The fingers drifted up from his neck to gently rub the line of his jaw, soft skin against unshaven stubble.
“But fate has sentenced us to different lives, and even more different interpretations of what we have experienced,” he went on. “I suppose that might have caused some dissonance in the perspectives we now hold, captain.”
Vimes swallowed dryly. He was left speechless but mostly because the patrician’s fingers were massaging his face and didn’t know what to make of that.
“I suggest that we agree to disagree, respectfully,” said Vetinari with a smile.
The watchman opened his mouth blankly, as he only registered half of that line, and would have closed it back had there not been lips on his the next second.
He froze in place, but in no time Vetinari gasped flinched away himself, covering his mouth with his fingers.
He was dead. He was quite simply dead, that was the only logical conclusion. There was poison on his lips, or the patrician had used the distraction to stab him in the gut and he simply didn’t notice yet.
“You taste of ale,” said Vetinari, looking short of horrified, “are you drunk?”
The gears in his head creaked gradually into motion and Vimes remembered he had to breathe. Usually smelling of ale was enough to get him kicked out of any respectable establishment, being told that he tasted of ale was definitely a new one so far. In all fairness, right now he probably stank of enough other things to hide the alcohol.
“Well, we’re not doing that then…” Vetinari murmured to himself, already walking away with a hand still covering his lips.
“Wait… did you bloody kiss me!?” Vimes said after rationality dawned over him.
The patrician threw him a look from behind the desk. “I do apologize for it, given the new circumstances,” he said coldly.
“But you bloody-”
“I have misunderstood the situation, captain,” he cut Vimes off. “Consider that I owe you a favor, for my brash approach, which I must assure you will never repeat.”
Vimes wanted to say something else, but already Vetinari’s voice was back to its cold, distant tones, and his fingers were flicking through papers splattered in ink rather than holding his chin.
He frowned.
“I suggest you go and have a good night’s sleep,” he said. “Ah, and do bring in your men tomorrow, the city must show its gratitude.”
“You can’t just dismiss me after that!” Vimes said and took a step forward.
Vetinari looked up but any glint of smile from his expression was gone and replaced by a blank, unreadable veneer.
“I was given to understand that I haven’t acted in line with your desires, captain, which wouldn’t have mattered either way given your state,” he said. “I owe you a favor for that, but otherwise I feel we are done here.”
“But you can’t-!”
“I quite can, Vimes, as I am a tyrant. I hope I mustn’t remind you of that.”
The watchman took a step back and only now remembered he hadn’t slept in a while, and his head spun for no reason at all.
“Maybe I am the daft one,” he said bitterly, “a smarter man wouldn’t have stopped Wonse.”
Vetinari froze with the quill in his hand, but didn’t lift his gaze from the paper. Sam felt his heart shrink and took a step back… then a second… a third.
“I will not argue with an inebriated person, captain, so feel free to reopen the subject when you have a clear mind,” said the patrician, hovering the feather in midair, letting it bleed on the documents.
Vimes retreated until his back touched the outer wall.
“And do not forget to bring your men in tomorrow for the ceremony, it is essential for such triumphant victories.”
“Yes sir,” Vimes said absently.
He regarded the patrician, who returned to scribbling something on the scroll before him, then left and shut the door behind himself. It was one hell of a day, and he expected the next would not grant him an easier passing.
Damn everything…
He needed to find his men. And then he needed to find a good tavern.
༻ o ༺
Men at arms
Vimes pushed open the door to one of the bedroom suites the Palace held.
He wasn’t himself, not really, and his thoughts didn’t belong to him tonight. He’d carried the same question far too long like a thorned weed inside his heart, and it hurt not knowing why. Not understanding why he cared. As the day turned to night he lost leverage over it, over his own thoughts, and was laid prey for them to chew on.
He’d used to drown it in alcohol, but Sybil said no. Not during their engagement, not after their marriage, so he resorted to his work. And now he’d finished wrapping up last vestiges of the gonne case, tying stray threads together, and had enough anger and despair in his soul to fight it.
To confront it.
It was a few minutes past midnight, which meant the Palace was deserted but for a few guards who were most likely asleep or playing cards, and the one Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. He’d checked for him in office, but he wasn’t there, so Vimes headed for the room he helped carry him to after he was shot.
It had been about a week ago, but he be damned if it didn’t feel like eons.
Vetinari didn’t look up at sound of Vimes barging inside and simply flicked a page from the book he was reading. He sat in a green velvet armchair, without his coat but still dressed in his day clothes. The entire room was well furnished, Vimes noted, looking far better than the patrician’s former bedroom. Mossy insisted he stay there; demanded he sleep on an actual bed until his leg bettered.
“Not quite the conventional hour for visits, Sir Samuel,” Vetinari said languidly, “but I will amend it in your case.”
“You'll what?” asked Vimes.
He met his gaze. “I mean that you may speak up, captain.”
“Oh, I will speak up, you bastard,” said Vimes and stepped closer, which earned him a raised eyebrow.
Why was he there? He didn’t know, but if you asked him he could tell you a plethora of reasons. All placeholders, all balms to safeguard his own sanity, to spare him from looking deeper.
“We were wrapping all this gonne business up with my men,” he said, “and as I was questioning those licensed murderers you let loose around my city, guess what I found out?”
Vetinari sighed and set the book down.
“Captain, this-”
“You gave them the bloody weapon! You knew the Assassins had the gonne and yet you made me run circles around this city while Cruces killed whoever he liked.”
“I hadn’t been aware Dr. Cruces still had the weapon until you informed me of his unfortunate death,” Vetinari said plainly. “Though you are right that I had given it to them, you greatly misunderstood the rest of the situation, captain.”
“We could have stopped him from day one!” Vimes snapped and took another step forward. Vetinari got up with ease from his chair and leaned on the desk beside it for support.
“I don’t have the entire night, captain,” he said smoothly. “So please state the reason for your visit so that we can get on with things, hm?”
The watchman frowned and clenched his fists at his side.
“No, I…” Why was he there…
Well, he knew why he was there, he did, the answer didn’t need to frighten. It was because he’d spent the entire day dealing with assassins, scrubbing blood out of the clothes he had refused to touch since the ceremony, signing the last death reports that were to be held at the Watch and now he felt like a total wreck.
And he couldn’t go to Sybil in this state… ye gods they weren’t even married yet and he respected her too much to let her see this. To let her see him. So the only solution his brain brought forward was that Vetinari had promised him a favor once and it’s been almost a year since he was ignoring that.
Why was he even promised a favor? Why did he come for it instead of trying to force the memory out of his mind?
Sam squirmed inside his own body like an animal caught in a snare, the thought of surrender lethal, the yearn for escape pointless. And like an animal he resorted to the only shield he knew, the only cloak that kept him alive throughout his many years of blood and gutters. He rose the fur off his spine, and bared his teeth, and growled.
“I fucking hate you,” Vimes snarled stepping closer, forgetting he cornered an assassin, “I fucking hate you so much you can’t believe it.”
Vetinari stepped away from the chair, his face betraying no emotion at all as he abbandoned the support the desk offered.
“You said nothing… we could have saved them.”
“Is that why you’re here, captain,” he asked with a suppressed struggle in his voice. “You need me to claim responsibility for Dr. Cruces’ murders so maybe you can sleep better at night?”
“You are responsible!” snapped Vimes. “It took us days to… We only found him because he was daft enough to show himself.”
He wondered absently, to himself, how well he had thought all of that through. It was different when he was still in the Watch House, in his room, but confusion frightened him more than death, so he drowned any doubt in his own anger.
“I have told you already, I wasn’t aware he was still in possession of the gonne,” Vetinari replied, but his words fell on deaf ears.
“You want to know why I’m here?” Sam spoke, half aware of himself and dully ignoring the argument, “Well, you promised me a favor once, and I really want to beat the shit out of you right now…”
And I want to know why… Why did any of that happen?
Vetinari opened his mouth dryly then closed it back. He crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded Vimes with the same plain, empty look.
“I had expected something else,” he said, “but be it as you wish.”
Vimes stared at him in surprise.
He wasn’t expecting a yes, he was expecting a knife in the abdomen or two guards carrying his writhing body out of the room. Something twisted in his belly, something sharp and honeyed that he’d been carrying for far too long.
This wasn’t happening, and yet it was; and he felt helpless and betrayed and angry, and he could do something about it.
Vimes lurched forward and grabbed a handful of Vetinari’s hair, then pulled him down and across the room until he reached a wall. The patrician only clung instinctively to his sleeve but didn’t do anything to fight it.
“I can’t believe you knew and told us nothing!” he yelled and tugged hard on the silky hair, reveling in the sound of tear. “None of them would have died if we went straight to the Assassins!”
Soon Vetinari’s hands were on his wrist, and Vimes hit his head against the wall before he managed to open his grip. The patrician closed his eyes for a moment, then merely looked up at him.
“Dr. Cruces informed me it had been stolen,” Vetinari said, ignoring the blood that trickled from his temple. “That is mainly the reason I even told you anything.”
“You bloody told me not to search for it! You reprimanded me and almost took my badge because you wanted me to lay low and let an incompetent solve everything. And you knew Quirke was incompetent, you knew he would fail!”
Vetinari opened his mouth to say something but was only slammed harder against the plaster. He drew away at the rough handling, so Vimes yanked him down by the hair and landed a knee in his below his ribs.
The patrician gasped and collapsed to the floor, eyes watery, and was kicked again when he almost caught his breath. He retched dryly and was suddenly thankful he skipped dinner that night.
In no time there was a weight on him, on his shoulders and back, pinning him down and pressing his head to the floor… not that it mattered much now as his muscles only spasmed uselessly.
“Not on the floor,” he hissed.
“Not with your arms free,” Vimes argued.
Despite having his face flat against the wood, Vetinari raised an eyebrow. “Do not delude yourself with the idea that we would be having this conversation at all if I had planned to kill you.”
The weight on him was soon replaced by another kick to his gut and Havelock couldn’t do much but gag again as Vimes hoisted him up by his arm.
“Undress then,” he said, looking the patrician in the eyes.
Vetinari decided that it would be more dignified to keep quiet rather than gasp out and answer, as the only thing holding him from throwing up was an empty stomach. He shot Sam a look that convinced the man to wait on the edge of the bed until he was done and limped over to the armchair to lean on it as he stripped.
He removed his clothes layer by layer with slow, deliberate movements, licking the blood that trickled from his nose when it dripped over his lips. Though Vimes eyed him closely at first, he couldn’t help but look down, at his own feet, before the patrician even reached his belt. Every time he felt a tinge of pain and guilt pierce his stomach, Vimes forced the image of Cuddy into his mind, and it all disappeared.
Vetinari folded his clothes neatly on the back of the chair and went to stand before the watchman when there was nothing left on him; nothing to hide himself under. He’d also taken the decision to ignore the way air felt on his bare skin, the way strange eyes felt on his naked body, and that was because he’d considered it far too many times and grew tired of the recurring conclusion.
The anger on Sam’s face flickered away when his gaze drifted down, to his left thigh, threaded together in ugly stitches like a doll that had been ripped apart and patched by a child.
“You’re good with that?” he asked, a lick of worry in his voice. “There’s some blood on it…”
“It is dried, captain,” Vetinari answered now that he could breathe again, “and I hadn’t expected you to shy away from the sight of blood. I assumed it was quite common in your profession,” he said and twisted the metaphorical blade he was holding. Two can play this game, watchman.
Vimes shot up from the bed and actually punched him this time. That was unexpected, Havelock thought as he grabbed the edge of the desk not to collapse. He was shoved forward on the cold wood and felt metal lock around his wrists.
Vetinari slipped his hands out of the cuffs the moment they were in and spun around to push Vimes away.
“You bastard!” Sam yelled as he remained only with the empty tool dangling in his hand.
“There is a bed, what has to possibly happen for you to understand and use that?” Vetinari snapped ignoring him.
“You think you’re so funny saying that, eh?” Sam proceeded to ignore him back. “Yeah, I saw enough blood to last me a lifetime, let me tell you that. I was bloody covered in it and had only muddy, street water to scrub it off!”
He would have lurched forward again if it weren’t for Vetinari grabbing his bicep and dragging him roughly to the bed. Vimes tried to hit him, but the man dodged then sat on the smooth, cream blanket as if nothing was happening.
“You came here,” he said in an even tone, “and you will either be very explicit about what you plan to happen next, or you will walk out of that door now and this will never be discussed again.”
Vimes frowned but only clenched his fists emptily instead of reaching for the man.
He considered it and decided that leaving was probably the wiser, healthier option… But he was already stone hard under his pants and had never been in the habit of choosing the better of two.
“I want to fuck you,” he said and gestured with his hand, still unable to lower his eyes from Vetinari’s face despite his words.
“That would be easier if you also took off your clothes,” the patrician said plainly, as if they were talking about supper.
“This first,” said Vimes opening the handcuffs again and stepping closer. “I might die in a stupid way someday, but I won’t be by your hand.”
Vetinari rolled his eyes but offered his wrists. “No, Sir Samuel, I am afraid our roles are reversed in that particular aspect.”
“You really are a bastard,” he muttered as he put the man’s hands behind his back and tightened the cuffs as far as they went, until they dug into skin.
He maneuvered Vetinari around and shoved him face-first in the blankets without warning. Havelock breathed in when he felt hands on his hips and turned his face to the side so he could speak.
“You may hate me all you want, captain, but if we are doing this you will use some oil.”
“I don’t have any,” Vimes grunted but loosened his grip.
“First drawer of the nightstand,” Vetinari murmured and followed the watchman with his eyes as he fished inside for the little bottle.
“You don’t know that I hate you,” Sam muttered weakly after resuming his position.
He hadn’t expected to get that far. Hell, he hadn’t even been aware this was the far he would aim for, so the novelty of it calmed him a bit.
That only frightened him more, really. Anger was a trusted shield; he didn’t know what else to use.
“I quite do as you announced it mere minutes ago, at least,” Vetinari answered after noting the click of a bottle being opened, “I don’t condemn you for it, I am a tyrant, after all, and it would be quite foolish to not ha- Aah!”
Vimes pushed a finger inside and Havelock pressed his face to blanket as he arched his back. There was a tension in his body, like the tight string of a bow being drawn, and he remembered just how long he hadn’t done that in.
“Well, I don’t know what to think anymore,” Vimes said as he pushed deeper, looking for the spot. “You tell me to do my job, protect the city and then you make me sit back and do nothing!?”
He pushed in a second finger and Vetinari rolled his eyes back and choked on air as Vimes scissored them. It was tight, and not nearly enough oil on them as there should have been, but there was something pleasant about that burning stretch as it was about being hit.
He despised himself for it, he used it to his own advantage, to bite off more than he could chew and suffer the consequences he deserved.
“Why did you threaten me with my badge?”
“I didn’t mean it,” Havelock rasped out despite his face being half buried in cloth. “I thought it would spur you on, I hadn’t anticipated it was so imp- gah… important to you.”
“That’s bloody stupid,” Vimes said and grabbed on the chain between the patrician’s wrists with his other hand. He was still in his pants and they were growing painfully tight.
“It’s a thing called reverse psychology,” Vetinari argued because he had to, “and it works wonderfully well if you don’t push the person too far.”
“Oh, and I suppose you just know where everyone’s ‘too far’ is then?”
“I have made some conclusions from the recent events, worry not,” Vetinari mouthed against the mattress trying, and failing, to weave his mind together as the watchman pushed in a third finger.
He wanted to cry. He also yearned for more. He hated that, hated himself, and wished that if maybe he had no say in what was happening he might enjoy it more.
Sam let go of the chain to stroke the patrician’s thigh roughly, but his hand flinched up when he felt dampness against his fingers.
“Oh shit,” he said and peered at the bright red that bloomed along the line of sutures, where raw flesh had been stretched open from the entire commotion.
Vimes took his fingers out and Vetinari whined softly at the release.
“Ignore that,” he said. “It’s merely been a week and it will need far more to fully heal.”
“You said it was dried blood,” Sam said.
“Well at that point in time it had been. You didn’t ask me for a prognostic.”
Vimes sighed then shoved his fingers into the stitches and Vetinari yelped more from the surprise than the sensation itself. He could stifle that.
“Why did you say that stuff about our roles being reversed?” he asked, tugging the stitches on his leg like the strings on a violin.
Vetinari gritted his teeth and forced the pain out of his mind to answer. “Your version of pillow talk is astounding, captain.”
Sam dug his nails into the meat and that wrung him more raw, muffled sounds out of the patrician.
“Alright, you want pillow talk?” he asked and started unbuckling his pants. “You want something romantic, fine, why did you bloody kiss me then? A year ago, you remember.”
“I fear the interrogatory approach you’re going for is also not the most conventional method,” Havelock rasped out.
Clothes already thrown and rumpled on the floor, Vimes slicked his cock in the oil and adjusted the angle. He pushed himself in slowly, drowning in the new sensation, then pulled almost all the way out and slammed into the man.
Vetinari cursed, loudly, and Sam reached forward to grab his hair and pull his head back.
“That was not an answer.”
“I had misunderstood you, Sir Samuel,” the man breathed in the hold, “and I believe I had apologized for that already.”
“That doesn’t explain why you wanted to do it. And why me, out of all the other guards there.”
The patrician simply smiled and the sight alone paired with a bloody lip and nose made his cock swell. He let go of the smooth black hair and used a hand on the chain and the other on the Vetinari’s hip to pick up a harsh rhythm, rejoicing in the sounds he pulled out of the man.
“What do I have to do for you to answer one damned question?” he asked through his own panted breath.
“It had been a long night,” Vetinari managed through his cries, “I was tired… wasn’t thinking straight.”
“So that’s all it was? Just an impulse?”
“Oh no… not at all… I can’t tell you, captain, not in my position.”
Sam swallowed a riposte and felt something crush inside his chest, inside his lungs. He let go of the chain and took both the patrician’s hips in his hands, pressing his fingers in the flesh hard enough to bruise, then pulled all the way out and shoved back in as hard as he could, over and over again.
Vetinari bit his lip not to scream as he couldn’t bite his arm, and the irony taste in his mouth didn’t help at all with keeping his composure. He lost track of all his thoughts, the fear of having guards hear him through the walls being all that remained of his sanity.
Vimes grabbed the handcuff chain again as he used all the leverage he had to ram into the man.
Vetinari breathed out, ragged, and was soon too drowned in sensation not to cry. The rhythm was too much, so was the texture of calloused fingers on his bare skin and the metal digging, cutting into his wrists was too clear. He couldn’t even pay attention to the blood trickling down his leg as his entire mind, his whole body, was both too loud and completely blank.
“V- Vimes…” he tried to speak through the panting, tears staining the already bloodied sheets.
Sam only tightened his grip and pushed in faster. “Why did you kiss me?”
“I’m sorry,” Vetinari gasped out, the shivers from his body translating to his voice, “I hadn’t thought… ggh Vimes…”
He bit his lip again, crushing the already raw flesh with his teeth, as he decided it better to keep quiet than speak without the input from his mind.
Sam noticed he was getting close too as his rhythm faltered and his knees weakened and threatened to give in. As a final act of mercy, he took hold of the man’s cock and moved his fist up and down, then shoved his fingers into the wound on his thigh as he did so.
That really made the patrician scream and writhe helplessly underneath him, but Vimes only kept going faster and dug his nails into the raw flesh until Vetinari came in his hand, crying.
He then took hold of both his hips and thrust desperately until he reached his own climax and collapsed over the body beneath him as he spilled inside.
“Fuck,” Sam muttered and rocked his hips weakly while waiting for his own body to stop trembling.
Eventually he stilled. He pulled himself out slowly, wincing at the wet feeling, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Havelock still had his face buried in the rumpled sheets, now stained in crimson smears, and panted raggedly with mild shivers as the only movement he was still capable of.
Vimes felt a wave of disgust and regret wash over him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then grabbed a corner of the blanket to wipe himself clean.
He got up to fish for his pants when his mind refused to clear and found them discarded somewhere on the rug. Sam fought a losing battle to ignore the discrepancy of his own soul; how he wished to forget any of this ever happened; how he hoped to have every moment etched in his memory forever. When he finished pulling every garment back into place and buckling up his belt and boots, he looked back to the bed only to find that Vetinari had propped his head on the pillow and stared at him as much as the angle allowed him to. He had blood running from his lips and nose, together with an angry red seared around his wrists, but he didn’t say a single word.
Vimes remained frozen in place for a while, the idea of just leaving the room and letting the patrician figure himself out making his belly swell with a strange sort of sentiment. He thought it pride but then it twisted into something darker and Sam looked away from the man with a curse.
Well, maybe he was not that much of a bastard…
He picked the small key for the handcuffs and set it on the nightstand without daring to speak or meet the patrician’s gaze in any way. He did look at his thigh though, spreading a circle of red on the blanket as Vetinari still refused to move or dress it. Why was everything about them always drowned in blood, Vimes thought as memories of the gonne wrapped around his mind?
Why was everything about them always about death? He shuddered at the thought, cold shivers cutting through his spine. Maybe one of them had to die, Sam thought against his will, maybe Vetinari was right…
“Fuck!” he snapped and spun on his heels to head for the door. He heard the patrician shift behind him but didn’t – couldn’t – turn around to look.
“I don’t bloody hate you,” he said when he passed the threshold then slammed the door loudly behind himself.
Vimes hadn’t had a sip of alcohol since his first weeks of dating Lady Ramkin. Now, for the first time in eight months, he headed for the tavern with the sole intention of getting drunk enough to forget even his own name.
Vetinari himself would spend the night scrubbing blood out of the once cream sheets and pressing on his bruises to count them for the tenth time.