Archive of Our Own

Thumbs

Vimes had a callus, white as the after-image left by ghosts, or, more accurately, spirits. He could blame unskilled glass-blowers or the liquor bottlers that employed them, he could blame poor light and sleepless fumbling, but mostly he blamed himself.

There it lay, at the base of his right thumbprint, raised and hard despite the intervening years. There had always been that little flaw in the mouth of the bottle, so when you grasped the cork—which was always driven in too far, gods knew why—you could slice your thumb right open if you came at it from the wrong angle. But he'd never cared, had he? He hadn't cared when he'd bitten the corks out, either, and come away with a bleeding lip.

Vimes ran the length of the callus with the tip of his index finger when he was thinking hard. If he couldn't wrench open a bottle, he could at least ground himself by remembering what happened when he did.

Feet

He had done a lot of things in Vetinari's office, but one of the last holdouts was taking a seat when bidden to.

Vimes stood at alert attention, when such faculties were available. Vimes stood when he felt that some bizarrely merciful god had him on temporary marionette strings so he wouldn't sag forward into exhaustion on the carpet. Vimes stood at dawn, at dusk, in the middle of the night, in the baking heat of the afternoon, and in the grimy, indeterminate time when the world is grey and your eyes are gritty and you can't remember how many six o'clocks you'd lived through without a decent meal and a sleep. Vimes stood in his street uniform, in his dress uniform, in his bloody ducal regalia. By all accounts, when he was in the Oblong Office he did not own an arse to put his weight on. He would stand, damn it, because. You couldn't get too chummy with your superiors, especially when you had come storming in specifically to say to hell with your superiors and their opinions and their stupid, smug faces.

The only time Vimes had sat down, that he could recall, had been when Vetinari was laid up full of poison. That time, he had sat in Vetinari's own chair.

He had only done so because, with the office vacant, he felt very small indeed.

Back

One of the Patrician's old saws, one that had even made its way into the political cartoons of the Times, was to invite a guest to look out of one of the Oblong Office's high and imposing windows. He would then ask, 'What do you see?' This question was inevitably answered in so unimaginative a manner that even a Dwarf might tell you not to take things so literally. Then Vetinari would tell you what you ought to see.

But now, standing as always, Vimes looked not out of the window, but at the silhouette of the man in front of it. What do you see, Sir Samuel?

Oh, it had all been said before, the birdlike frame, all long bones and graceful movements, greying at the temples in the most lordly way imaginable, clothed in a shade of black that was all his own and was sometimes not black at all, quiet, tall, imposing, proud yet not prideful. Vimes knew these cheap descriptors by heart, just as he knew the city beyond the panes of glass, and the man partially blocking the view.

Vimes could tell you how the Patrician took his tea, how many buttons were on his cassock-like coats, how many times per minute he dipped his pen into the inkwell. Vimes could practically calculate how heavily Vetinari leaned upon his cane, and when he was leaning more heavily for the show of the thing—playing the tired old civil servant, slightly out of touch, seemingly easy to fool with a twist of words until you found yourself twisted into a knot of mythic complexity and wondered how you'd got there.

Yet there were so many things Vimes did not know about him. He knew Vetinari as one who looks at a map can know the land it depicts, or has perhaps spent part of a journey dozing, only seeing snippets of a place through the carriage curtains. The image was incomplete, and experience lied. There were so many things Vimes did not know about him:

A full laugh, off its tether, in the wake of a brilliant joke he didn't see coming.

The shadow nestled against a shoulder blade.

A genuine smile, without calculation. Softness, somewhere. There had to be. Because even Vimes had his moments, didn't he? Surely.

And that most heavy of the unanswered queries: If Vetinari remembered the first time they had met, not in this room on the eve of his ascension to power, but in a dirty street full of broken carts and furniture and death and crushed lilacs. How a few weeks later they had met again by chance and, between them, something had crashed and spiraled furiously and—

What do you see, Sir Samuel?

A sharp, loose stone in the wall pressing into the small of his back but he didn't care, and yes it was dark and dirty but he was too and no one seemed to understand, not really understand the sheer oppressive weight and depth of it, he wanted to burn it away, something, anything to take the pressure off—

And there was none of the posh school affectation with this one, no pristine black, no ornately-tooled leather gloves, just this odd dusk-green color that melted seamlessly into the fog and you never saw it coming but when it came for you that was the end, he would be there and gone without a whisper unless he deemed you worthy of knowing that he had brought you swift and effortless death—

What do you see, Sir Samuel?

What should he do with his hands, limp at his sides like sails in the doldrums, the low-slung craft of his body not even drifting despite no anchor, no anchor—but he didn't have to think now, he didn't have to strain to be clever when Lock (for of course that was his name, he was closed and steel but with a tiny gateway through which you could peer and hope), Lock was clever enough for ten of him, ten of the whole world—

And Sam had felt the tumblers clicking as his rough hands at last met pampered-soft ones and fought over who got to grip the other's wrists and press them to the wall, and he felt the pins fall into every notch where they belonged, quiet and sure, the key of all keys turning, turning, Sam had bitten down so hard on his own lip just to keep quiet that his mouth tasted like pennies and dirt, and there, in the dark, had been that shard of a smile—

What do you see?

Mouth

'—extradited to Uberwald, which, of course, at this time, is not the point at issue.' Lord Vetinari paused. 'You are bleeding, Commander.'

'Doesn't matter. I should be back there, getting answers out of the bastard before—'

'I am certain your officers are up to the job.'

'But—'

'As I am sure you are aware, Vimes, we are in a state of what has been called meteorological emergency. The wizards are treating this as a Plague Fog.'

Vimes had heard. It had been splashed all over the Times for days, sometimes quite literally.

'Sir.'

'They tell me,' Vetinari continued, 'that little creatures from the river, and I dare say from Sir Harry King's compound, have taken to the air and are set to poison the unwary. Charging about the city in this deadly muck with a cut on your mouth is hardly conducive to your continued health.'

Vimes grumbled, 'I'll have Igor take a look at it.'

'I need not remind you that Igor is currently at the Second Annual International Igori Swap Meat in Quirm?'

Damn. 'All right, as soon as I've got the names out of Harkles I'll swing by the Free Hospital—'

'By which time your face will be full to brimming with microscopic invaders, I have no doubt,' Vetinari finished for him. 'Come now, Sir Samuel, what's the harm in letting us patch you up, hm?'

By 'us' Vimes had assumed he had meant 'some white-coated professional employed by the Palace to stick plasters on papercuts, to which even the best clerks are so susceptible'. Vimes had not predicted that Vetinari would touch some smooth panel in his desk and take out a glossy black first-aid kit.

'There's really no need for that,' said Vimes firmly. 'I should be going.'

'You have put your life on the line for me many times,' said Vetinari in an odd, quieter voice, 'and I cannot mend the wounds you have suffered for my sake. Might I at least have this?'

Vimes found himself standing very still as Vetinari pulled on snug black rubber gloves and attended to Vimes' cut lip with something that stung like rotgut but smelled of mint. He didn't flinch. Flinching, like sitting down, would be admitting to something.

'I advise you seek out a stitch or two,' said the Patrician, packing his little kit away and removing the gloves. 'That is, when you can make room in your effervescent schedule.'

Vimes didn't know what to say. He felt oddly light-headed, but he supposed that was from the chemical fumes that had so recently been right under his nose.

'And don't bite your lip over-much,' Vetinari added.

'Not a lip-biter, sir,' said Vimes.

'Ah,' said Lord Vetinari. 'My mistake. I must have you confused with someone else.'

Wrists

Be quiet, Vimes mouthed unnecessarily, breath shallow, chest barely moving.

Footsteps beyond the door. Two—no, three men, one with slightly ill-fitting boots.

Lord Vetinari was good at not breathing, it seemed; Vimes neither heard nor felt the Patrician's respiration, even in so tight a space. A tiny shred of light from somewhere cast a blotch of pallor against his neck, where Vimes could see at such close range that the pulse was measured, steady, unperturbed.

Outside, there was the soft, musical sound of a crossbow being primed to fire.

Vimes tried not to look at the light against Vetinari's skin.

Boots in the corridor, thud, thud.

He needed to keep his night vision.

Vimes heard, or rather felt, Vetinari whisper something.

In the hour of darkness my foundation is strong.

Was he... praying?

The footsteps passed, then stopped. Their pursuers were arguing in hushed voices. Vimes watched Vetinari's lips move in the shadows, inches from Vimes' face.

I train my hands for peace, my mind for battle.

I carry no shield, for he in whom I take refuge is my sword-brother, who subdues the peoples under me.

Vimes, who was crowded against a corner uncomfortably with arms tucked to his sides, felt Vetinari move in such a way as to allow Vimes a little more freedom, then swiftly took it away again by pinning Vimes' wrists to the wall in one long-fingered hand. The move was executed with the silence of a master.

We turn our faces from the sun, Vetinari continued, lips close to Vimes' ear now, the faintest of whispers, barely a breath, for our days are like the shadows, fleeing on swift feet from the dome of heaven.

The argument in the corridor had gotten louder, and now featured some adamant curses. The crossbow fired.

The deceitful hand of the enemy cannot touch him, for he is mine and I am his. The parts that form him make my body also, our strength coiled together unto double its power.

A body fell to the ground, out there. More cursing, laying blame, threats. Footsteps past them again, stopping, turning, stopping.

Vimes had trouble catching his breath.

There will be no breach of the fortress, Vetinari whispered, so softly against his neck.

The footsteps turned away at last.

No captivity, no famine, no cry of distress in our streets—

Vetinari's free hand went round to the small of Vimes' back, and that combined with where his hands were pinned made Vimes arch forward just so.

For he rises from the dark like a blade of anger, eager in my hand, and none who seek to harm him shall meet the dawn.

There was a loud crack! from the corridor, followed by several thumps like arrows connecting with soft wood.

They listened hard, Vimes practically trembling where he stood, arched and pinned.

'Ah,' said Vetinari at conversational volume, releasing Vimes fully in one movement, and Vimes sagged against the corner once more. 'I've not had the chance to use that trap since I first tested it. Impeccable timing. Multi-step synchronized sound-pressure activation is the new trend to watch in evasive traps, so I hear.'

Vetinari pressed another spot on the wall, and the little hidden panel they had come through sprung open again. He emerged. 'Ye-es, quite dead, these two. And their unlucky friend over there who thought they ought to “call it a night and forget the money”—are you quite well, Sir Samuel? You seem somewhat... discomposed.'

'What was that?' said Vimes, clambering out into the hall. He sounded strained, which is understandable coming from someone who just spent half an hour inside a two-foot space with, essentially, one's boss.

'Sound-pressure activated trap, as I say.'

'No, I mean,' Vimes hesitated, scrubbing absentmindedly at his neck with his palm. 'The thing that activated it.'

For he is mine and I am his—

'Exultation 859 of the prophet Obed Rix. I memorized it from a very pretty illuminated page in one of my textbooks at school.' People often forgot that he had studied languages. 'I assume you have not heard it before?'

'Not really a big poetry reader,' said Vimes, which was far from the point he'd been wanting to make, but it didn't seem to matter much now.

Our strength coiled together—

'I ought to lend you a little volume of my favorites sometime, they can be very... diverting.'

He rises from the dark like a blade of anger, eager in my hand—

'I don't doubt it.'

Eager—

They stood looking at each other for a moment, then Vetinari gave Vimes a level gaze and said, 'I would be obliged if you might summon a few of the palace guards? Bodies do tend to clutter up the place.'

For he is mine and I am his—

'Right. Of course.'

Vetinari turned and strode back to his office.

Knees

This was not the same thing, Vimes told himself.

The room was darkly furnished and, at the moment, not thoroughly lit, so that much of the light came from the fog-muddied flashes against the far wall, courtesy of the nearby clacks tower just visible through the tall windows. The coded squares cast long shadows as they encountered the two occupants of the room.

This was not admitting to anything, Vimes reassured himself. He was on his feet. He was definitely not sitting down. He just happened to be in a different room, having somehow ended up there in the course of a tense conversation that didn't seem to be getting any easier, but was getting more personal by the minute.

Vetinari's shadow flickered over him like an uneasy apparition, angle shifted every other heartbeat by the changing of the lights.

'What did she tell you?'

Vimes stalled for time, looking away, but then looking back so the man in front of him wouldn't think he was angry, or disappointed, or worse, dismissive.

'She said I was a fool and a coward,' said Vimes. 'Nice home truths to hear from the wife, eh?' He trailed off, not sure where to put his hands. He was just standing there, after all, it shouldn't matter where his hands were, but something about Vetinari always made him aware of it, always made him want to punch something, or cradle something gently until it hatched and sang.

'She meant no malice,' said Vetinari. 'Sybil is a kind person. She loves you fiercely.'

Vimes cleared his throat. 'I know that.' Oh, did he know that. Terrible thing, sometimes, kindness. It often led people to want what was best for you, even when what was apparently best scared ten leagues of hell out of you.

And what were you supposed to do when someone who loves you fiercely—and he was right, Sybil was fierce about it, and determined, and wouldn't take any nonsense—when that person to whom you have sworn your life tells you that you should pursue someone else, without any suggestion of guilt-laden phrases like 'there are things I cannot provide as your wife', without unleashing any of the earth-shattering words like Infidelity or Betrayal or Untrustworthy... well, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Of course Sybil meant it, she wouldn't lie to him, but... why?

Because in some way, Sybil must have wanted this to happen. She was the sort of person who put in a frank word at the appropriate time and kept the matter trundling along in the direction she felt it ought. It was that unshakeable inborn confidence that any idea she had would work out. (Besides, Sybil had insisted that he tell her all about it when he got home, a thought which almost made Vimes blush. He was going to enjoy that, despite himself.)

And, well, the strangely accepting conversation they had had was also because she was kind, and loved him, and wanted him to be happy. And she knew Vimes well enough to understand that anything that made him truly happy was terrifying, at first.

'How,' said Vetinari softly, looking at his hands, 'shall we proceed?'

Vimes considered this, while his mind screamed from all sides to get the hell out, what are you doing, you can't!

'On your knees,' he said. 'If we do this now, I want to know you'll listen to me. This isn't your office and we're not the people we are out there. This is personal.'

Vetinari folded to the floor, his movements graceful yet syncopated in the flicker of light. He was kneeling, and then, to Vimes' surprise, Vetinari leaned forward and placed his hands at Vimes' feet, bowing low.

Vimes couldn't help remembering the last sequence of events that had brought him to this room—Vetinari crumpled and curled-in on the floor of the Oblong Office, Vimes carrying him to bed and what he thought might be relative safety. Kneeling beside the bed for an hour, holding one bony hand in his, before he came to his senses and berated himself for being so bloody sentimental, for gods' sake, the man could have woken up at any time.

'You don't have to—' Vimes started.

'But I do. Please.'

Vimes felt a little shiver at that last word, spoken so softly, so imploringly.

Now that he'd been listened to, he didn't quite know how to continue.

'Do you remember?' he found himself saying, entirely without context, and yet—

'Yes.'

Vimes' mouth seemed to go dry. Nerves, probably. 'Describe it to me. And sit up, would you.'

Vetinari sat back on his heels, looking up into Vimes' face. 'It was a half-moon that night. You were off-duty and seemed eager to mention that you hadn't been keeping an eye out for me or anything.' He smiled a little, and the lines of his face were somehow younger in the dim light. 'You asked why the bandage on my hand was navy blue, and I told you—against my better judgment—about how black doesn't let you blend in at night.'

Vimes closed his eyes, imagining the decades-old feel of the cobbles underfoot. 'How did we get there?'

'I don't recall. You knew the way.' Vetinari looked down at his hands once more, for a moment. 'I confess I could never quite locate it when I went back, hoping to meet you again.'

Vimes nodded. The alley had been one of those narrow spaces barely wide enough for one person to walk without turning sideways, and shortly after their—encounter—it had been filled up with metal scrap and rubbish.

He got to his knees in front of Vetinari. They knelt together, both uncharacteristically humbled. For the moment.

'I looked for you,' said Vimes. 'I asked around, even at the guild school. But they said you had gone.'

Vetinari sighed. 'I had certain... responsibilities to avoid, at that time. Social burdens I preferred not to carry.'

'Damn you,' said Vimes, almost with fondness. He rested his forehead against Vetinari's and sighed a weighty sigh. 'Damn you.'

'I'm certain it was for the best.'

Vimes laughed, short and derisive. 'Right.'

'We have no way of knowing what might have happened if I had stayed, as I'm sure you are aware.'

Vimes sat back and ran his index finger along his own calloused thumb. He already knew too well what had happened when Vetinari had left.

'It's over and done,' said Vimes. 'Can we agree that we were both stupid? Because gods know you were damned stupid! All this time you didn't even tell me that you remembered, you didn't tell me that y—'

'It seemed unwise to mention it, as time went on,' said Vetinari. 'You advanced in the ranks so quickly, after all, and there I was, well, where I am. It would have made things... complicated.'

Vimes scowled. 'Complicated.' His hands threatened to curl into fists at his sides. 'Would have been complicated, would it? You mean more complicated than this yes-sir-no-sir, thank you very much for the twelfth unnecessary title sir, I can't stop thinking about how nicely you can growl the word “fuck” when you put your mind to it dance we've been doing? Gods, you're thick.'

Vimes found an outlet for his fists, and that was in Vetinari's hair, pulling him forward, the kiss like a vengeful act. Vetinari tried to get Vimes to let go—a mere token protest—but Vimes snarled into his mouth and shoved his interfering hands away. Rising up on his knees, hauling Vetinari up with him, Vimes nudged forward and slid his thigh between Vetinari's, then released his grip and relocated it to Vetinari's hips, which he pulled relentlessly forward. They were snugly locked together now, there on their knees in the darkly-paneled bedroom, and every move Vimes made pressed Vetinari down against his thigh.

'Oh, wasted youth,' Vetinari murmured when Vimes moved to kissing fervently down his neck.

'Don't you start—' kiss, kiss, 'with the poetry again, that nearly made me get us—' kiss, 'killed.'

Vetinari chuckled. 'Did it? That certainly wasn't my intention. Was it difficult to keep quiet, arching against me like that—'

'Shut up,' Vimes grumbled irritably against his neck.

'—where I had you pinned against the wall in that dark, tight space? Why, if I remember correctly, you bucked against me just a little when I said the word,' he purred in Vimes' ear, 'eager.'

Vimes bit him, hard, because simply telling Vetinari to shut up did very little. He was elated to hear Vetinari make a soft, velvet sound in his throat, and Vimes felt Vetinari's hips roll forward against him, then back again, clothed thighs dragging and sliding with a fwsh.

'As I was... saying,' Vetinari murmured, 'about wasted youth...' (Here Vimes bit him again, but the bastard kept talking.) 'It seems we might indeed have... fared better, in this, at the time.'

'Don't be maudlin,' Vimes said as he undid some of the small buttons at Vetinari's collar.

'I mean to say,' Vetinari went on, a little short of breath as Vimes' rough fingers skimmed along his collarbone, 'look at the pair of us. Both going grey, I walk with a limp for reasons other than looking dashingly mysterious, you're married, and a father. It all seems somewhat... late.'

Vimes put a hand on the back of Vetinari's neck and held him in place, firmly frotting his thigh between the Patrician's for emphasis. 'Listen to me,' Vimes growled, all rasp and rattle like a snake about to strike, 'I creak when I get out of a chair just as much as you do, I'm sure, but that's a bloody useless reason to not fuck you within an inch of your life.' One hand was still making its way through the buttons with the same ease with which it could break out of handcuffs. 'You can't sit there bold as brass and tell me you haven't been wanting this,' he was at last able to push Vetinari's long coat completely aside, 'for as long as I have.'

Vetinari moved as if to kiss him, but Vimes feinted out of reach just to see the look on his face. Pupils blown wide with hunger, face flushed, breath coming in something just shy of gasps. Good.

Vimes leaned closer once more, now working free the laces of Vetinari's breeches. 'Every time I disobey you just when you want me to.'

The noise Vetinari made couldn't have been intentional, a drawn-out, shuddering sound as his eyes fell closed. Vimes' own breath caught when he heard it, and he moved his hips forward just a touch, adjusting his stance, enjoying the steady, gentle, controlled pressure of Vetinari's knee in just the right place at the right time.

'We could have got here years ago, you realize.' Vimes still had a harsh edge to his voice, and Vetinari seemed to like it. 'You could've had my cock in your mouth on the night you took over, if you'd thought to ask. Could have given that desk a good breaking-in, I'd've loved that, wouldn't you?'

Laces undone, Vimes was able to take Vetinari's cock in his hand, and instead of the quick, furtive tugs of youth, he simply encircled it with a steady hand. Comfortably. Patiently.

'I wouldn't have asked that of you,' said Vetinari in a hushed voice. It was rough around the edges, his usual calm shifting into something molten. 'I don't even ask it of you now.'

'It's not as fun if you ask me directly, is it?' said Vimes. 'Because I always seem to do what you want, either way. I just go about it differently.'

'Please.' Vetinari's mask had utterly fallen, now, and here was the look of that avid, lustful boy young Vimes had led to a semi-secret place, so long ago, just long ago enough.

'Now,' said Vimes good-naturedly, 'my knees can't take much more of this floor. Bed?'

They both stood, stretched, and made their way to the massive bed that occupied one end of the room. Several articles of clothing, armor, and four shoes littered the floor behind them.

'Do you, ah,' Vetinari paused, 'have some idea of what you're doing, at the very least?'

'Hmm?' Vimes was fascinated with Vetinari's hipbone and hadn't been listening. He licked the hollow experimentally, and was pleased to note that he was rewarded with a shaky intake of breath. He was really rather surprised that Vetinari made so much noise, but then he recalled a conversation he'd had with Sybil about this sort of thing. What role one plays in the majority of their life, often the opposite is the case when it comes to matters of desire. She'd said it with so little fuss that it could almost have been something completely ordinary, like Really, Sam, must you keep this many weapons in the dressing table?

Vimes kissed his way across Vetinari's abdomen to the other little dip, then licked that one to similar results as before. Interesting.

'I said, do you know what you're doing, at all?' Vetinari repeated, though he didn't sound too urgent about it.

'Not had much in the way of practical experience, recently,' said Vimes, slightly muffled, now working his way down where hip met thigh, 'and I don't go in for anything complicated. Work with my hands, mostly, if it's all the same to you.'

Vetinari eyed Vimes' broad, blunt fingers and, relishing the possibilities thereof, let his head fall back against the pillows and made a needy sound.

'Be patient,' said Vimes, who was trying to be patient, himself.

'But I want you,' said Vetinari, matter-of-factly, and Vimes felt his own cock twitch heavily against his thigh. There was something different about this, different from when they were young, and certainly very different from Sybil's confident, disarming now be a good boy and lick up every last drop! Just being told, as a stated fact, that he was wanted, he, Vimes, was wanted and that was making someone as powerful and clever and bloody infuriating as Vetinari make keening noises and clutch and the sheets under him, well. This was something he could get used to. Gods help him the next time he was summoned to the Patrician's Palace—nobody would get anything done.

That calm, conversational voice was back, somehow, like Vetinari could simply switch it on whenever he wanted. (Typical.) 'I want you so badly, you know, I struggle to keep quiet about it at times. Sybil and I have had some wonderful talks.'

Vimes nipped Vetinari on the inner thigh as if to say, I know you and my wife are old friends, but if you've been wheedling information out of her, you've got another thing coming.

'Mmm. I made her swear not to break any confidences, of course.'

Vimes nipped again.

'Ahh-h! That was a bit sharp—please do it again.' Vetinari rolled his hips luxuriously, the head of his cock slick and inviting. Vimes resisted. 'As I say, Sybil only gave me what information she felt would be... appropriate for personal use.'

Vimes looked up at Vetinari's face from his position lying between the man's thighs. 'And what could she possibly have thought was appropriate to tell you?'

His voice went low and sultry, that purr from earlier that made Vimes want to bend him in half. 'Sybil and I are, after all, bosom friends. Things always come up over tea, you know how it is. She happened to mention a number of things that only in extreme circumstances could I use against you.' He cracked a smile, propping himself up on his elbows to better look at Vimes. 'For instance, how your nipples are so sensitive, sometimes she has you positively crying from a mere careful application of a few,' his hand slid down Vimes' neck, 'gentle,' and to his chest, 'twists.'

(Vimes almost moved so that Vetinari's fingers would be perfectly placed to do just that, but he restrained himself.)

'How, when you frig her with your hands,' and the word sounded far and away more obscene from his lips than it should ever be able to sound, with that slight rolling of the R, 'she feels so very full, and you can reach so deep and find that perfect little spot, and your hands are so strong that—so she says—they're even better than your cock. Which, she assures me, is a darling little thing and quite comfortable to sit on.'

Vimes didn't know whether to be flattered or to jump to his own defense. It was one thing to be told that stuff by your wife, but entirely another thing for Vetinari to know that apparently your manual dexterity is more pleasing than your pelvic abilities.

'Oh, don't be shy about it,' said Vetinari. 'I've always liked how you're proportioned, or rather how you were when we last... well. I'm quite pleased that didn't change much as you reached adulthood, I must say.'

Vimes had had enough of conversation for awhile, and effectively put a stop to the train of thought by closing his lips round Vetinari's cock, at last, and sliding down, down, wanting it all, until the back of his throat ached from it.

'Dear gods,' said Vetinari, though it was less speaking and more drawn-out moaning from deep in his chest, all velvety-dark and with just that little edge of danger.

He's wondering where I learned that, thought Vimes, because Sybil won't have told him about how... instructive it is to have Willikins round the house. She wouldn't have mentioned her little enthusiasm for teaching me so-called 'practical skills you would have picked up at any decent boarding school, Sam, trust me, it's part of being a well-rounded man of the world'...

When Vimes came up for a few deep breaths, Vetinari pressed a decorative carving in the headboard, took something out of a compartment and handed it to him.

'Can't you just keep things in drawers, like regular people?' Vimes asked, inspecting the bottle.

'Not since the poisoning, no, now that you mention it—'

Vimes seemed not to be listening, instead applying a few drops of the stuff from the bottle to his index, middle, and ring fingers, smoothing it around with his thumb.

'Oh-hh, please,' Vetinari breathed, barely above a whisper. 'Please.'

'Please what?' Vimes goaded him. 'Tell me what you want.' He hoped to gods that it might be even the slightest bit embarrassing for Vetinari to say, after the last few turns the conversation had taken.

But there was that calmness again; under the shaky breaths, under the subtle wavelike motion of his hips that went on even now, Vetinari was still in control of himself. It was unspeakably arousing.

'I want your fingers inside me,' he said, and once again there was something about the sheer directness of it that made Vimes ache. 'I want to be full of you, but not your cock, because it would be a shame if I wasn't able to look at it. It is very pretty, you know.'

'Not meant to be pretty, is it,' Vimes said gruffly, but he was secretly pleased.

The first finger went in smooth as a dream. Vetinari gained purchase on the mattress by angling his arms just so, and slid himself down onto Vimes' waiting hand. Surprisingly simple, that. Vimes had thought there was a lot more work involved—it seemed that way when somebody else was doing it, after all.

The second finger, though, that was when the desperation really started in earnest.

Vetinari growled, well and truly bared his teeth in what could have been a smile, to someone who had a death wish. The growl then dissolved into a low, humming moan as he shifted his hips and bore down on Vimes' fingers, urging them deeper.

Vimes was frotting against the sheets as he worked, without meaning to, hungry for contact, until Vetinari pulled him into a different position and coiled long fingers round Vimes' cock. When he began to stroke with graceful, cyclic motions of his wrist, Vimes cried out a little from the sensation and, again without entirely meaning to, curled his fingers.

Vetinari's eyes were open and admiring as he rocked against Vimes' hand, little gasps accompanying every upward crook of Vimes' broad fingers.

'Gods, you're delicious,' said Vetinari. 'You have no idea what you do to me.'

'I think I've got a pretty good idea what I'm doing at the moment,' said Vimes, still able to be contrary even with those sinuous, silken hands stroking him.

'Never would have said yes to this, back then.' Vetinari tensed around him, and moaned a little. 'I was too determined to be the best—I thought that meant always being in charge, no matter what. Always being on top, as it were. Petty misconceptions.'

'I for one wouldn't have lasted this long, back in the day,' said Vimes agreeably. 'Or even cared to.'

'I suppose it's for the best that time marches on.'

Vimes tried for a third finger, and Vetinari gasped in a different way, ragged desperation arching his back, hands clawing at the sheets.

'Ahh, Sam—!'

Vimes decided to be thoroughly contrary, and withdrew. Entirely.

Vetinari writhed—there was no other word for it—and Vimes took a moment to appreciate the full scope of this evening's unexpected turn of events.

'Once you're done mewling like that,' said Vimes, 'you're going to suck me off.'

'Oh gods, please, yes.'

Vimes did not quite know how to approach this response, so he didn't.

Vetinari seemed to pull himself together quickly, sat up, kissed Vimes for a good two minutes while delicately caressing the very tip of Vimes' cock (where the hell had he learned that? It was fantastic). Then, pulling away with a little tug at Vimes' lower lip, Vetinari sat back.

'Where do you want me?'

'Where I can reach you,' said Vimes, finding the little bottle amid the sheets and applying more to his fingers.

They moved.

'Don't start, not yet,' said Vimes. 'I want you to really... want it, first.'

'Do you not believe that I want this already?' Vetinari sounded a little hurt, but it passed quickly, turning sultry in a flash. 'Because I do want this, and after so long with only fantasy, here you are. And I hunger for you.' Vimes felt Vetinari's thighs trembling as he slid the first and then the second finger back into him. 'I need this. Please, Sam. Please let me taste you.'

With a quick press and crook of his fingers Vimes was back against that spot that had made Vetinari cry out his name so appealingly before. 'Go on, then.'

Moaning around him, Vetinari took Vimes' cock into his mouth with practiced ease, but beyond that there was little grace left in him. This wasn't a style Vimes was used to, if you could call it that. The fundamental difference was that Vetinari, fueled by years of what-ifs and tantalizing hints, was ravenous.

Vimes focused on keeping his fingers centered where they ought to be, each little push against that spot sending electric shivers through Vetinari, which looped back around to stuttering moans around Vimes' cock, which encouraged him to delve still further.

'Fuck,' Vimes ground out through clenched teeth, hips moving of their own accord now, Vetinari so eagerly devouring every little buck and thrust. Vimes fluttered his fingers inside Vetinari, a rapid taptaptaptaptap followed by a shallow thrust, and again, and—

All was warmth and light for an instant, and then the world crashed back, and the working of his hand was all that was important to Vimes now, erratic though it had become, taptaptaptaptap, thrust, thrust, taptap, tap, thrust—

Vetinari's long, low moan dropped into a gravelly register before becoming a truly wicked laugh, deep and unhurried and wholly satisfied with itself. Vimes managed to sit up a bit without withdrawing his fingers, but then he did because he had noticed what had pooled pearl-white in the dip of one fascinating hipbone.

'Hnmm... what are you doing?' Vetinari said, sounding like how a cat sleeping in the very best sunbeam must feel.

'This is mine,' said Vimes, before one long, flat stroke of his tongue made Vetinari squirm a little. 'I earned it, didn't I?'

Hearts

'Did your meeting go well?' Sybil called from the library as she heard Vimes approach on the stairs.

'You know how it went,' he said as he strolled in.

Sybil huffed a little laugh, looking up from her sorting her correspondence. 'I honestly don't, Sam. I can't read your mind, however much I try to make it appear as if I can. That's just part of being a wife. Comes with the territory.'

'About that.'

'Ye-es?'

'Er, it looks like something else comes with the territory now.'

Sybil's eyes lit up with hope, just as Vetinari stepped in from the hall.

'Oh, thank goodness, I thought I was going to have to chain you two up in the same kennel until you sorted out your differences! I'm glad my boys have come to an agreement.'

'Arrangement,' said Vimes, but tentatively. He didn't want to overstep, and yet...

'No, it's obviously an agreement, dear, otherwise Havelock wouldn't have come with you bearing the news. Don't be such a stick in the mud, Sam, we're all consenting adults. Now, was there plenty of aftercare?'

'Yes, Mistress,' Vimes murmured, staring at the floor.

'I didn't hear you, darling.'

Vetinari casually, as if he had always done it, tucked an errant lock of hair behind Sam's ear. 'He said yes, Mistress.'