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By the time the last of the witnesses had given their reports and Vimes had washed off the worst of the blood, it was nearing dawn. He glanced at the semi-coherent collection of scribblings he was calling the preliminary report, and considered leaving it until later. But – Vetinari had said “as soon as possible,” and for once the bastard actually did have the right to know. Besides, it wasn’t as though he ever slept; there was no chance he wasn’t waiting.
Vimes sighed and trudged into the twilight.
Vetinari was, indeed, waiting at his desk when Vimes let himself in. “Ah, Vimes,” he said, smiling wanly. Vimes’ mouth fell open.
Vetinari was – haggard. He hadn’t changed his clothes from that clusterfuck of a diplomatic reception. There was dried blood at his temple and on his sleeves. His hair was dishevelled, wisps escaping the normally immaculate braid. One of them was hanging over his eyes, and Vimes had to fight the impulse to reach over and brush it back.
There was a glass on the desk, with the remains of something amber at the bottom and a smear of blood on the brim. Vimes glanced back at Vetinari and – yes, there was a cut on his lip. Vimes hadn’t noticed that last night. Well, not surprising. Once he’d determined the patrician wasn’t seriously injured, he’d had other things on his mind.
Vimes realised he was staring. He dragged the most important bits of the report to the forefront of his mind, but what came out of his mouth was, “Sir, you look dreadful! Are you all right?”
“Surely I should be asking you that, Vimes,” said Vetinari, “You were the one arresting people who were very much resisting arrest.”
“That’s what the armour’s for, sir. And -” he broke off, unsure if he wanted to continue.
“And?” said Vetinari.
“And – maybe it makes me a coward, but I’d take an all out-fight any day when the alternative is watching good people bleed out while I’m trying to stitch them up.”
“That’s what the medical degree is for, Vimes,” said Vetinari, and – tried to raise an eyebrow, and failed, and buried his face in his hands instead.
Vimes didn’t intend to move, but suddenly he was on the other side of the desk, his hand on Vetinari’s shoulder. “Sir,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.
“Vimes,” said Vetinari. His voice was very small. With visible effort, he rallied, pulling himself up and turning to face Vimes. His eyes were glittering. “Forgive me, Commander, it’s been a long night. Your report?”
“No, hang the report,” said Vimes. “It’s nothing that can’t wait; we’ve got the surviving perpetrators in the cells and Sally had a word with them – you were right, it was that fucking Mouldavian restorationist group – Angua’s tracking the leaders now and either she’ll get them or she won’t but either way there’s nothing you can do and you look like you need to sleep for about a year. I’ll give the written report to Dru- to the clerks.” Belatedly, Vimes removed his hand from Vetinari’s shoulder. Vetinari raised his own hand slightly, reflexively, then caught himself.
Vimes tucked his own hands behind his back. They’d tried to move of their own accord.
Vetinari drained the last of the amber liquid from the glass and nodded. “I admit I don’t feel particularly impelled to argue with you today, Vimes. Miss Wiggs is responsible for the dark clerks in Drumknott's absence; give the report to her."
Vimes froze. Fuck. That had been in the report. One of the things that could wait. “She’s dead, sir. We think she interrupted the bastards when they were setting the device.”
“I see,” said Vetinari in a strangled tone. “Miss Armantrout, then; she wasn’t on duty last night and should be –” he broke off and broke into tears. It was quiet and undramatic and one of the worst things Vimes had ever seen. Vetinari cried expressionlessly and absolutely silently, in the manner of a child who had long since learned that no one was going to comfort him.
Bugger that, thought Vimes, and – awkwardly, impeded by the chair and fifty-odd years of emotional repression – slipped his arms around Vetinari and pulled him close to his chest. Vetinari leaned into him and went limp, the occasional suppressed shudder his only sign of life. Vimes held him for five minutes, or forever, and it was far too soon when Vetinari stirred, pulling away from Vimes and staring at him with blank exhaustion. “Vimes,” he said quietly. That lock of hair was still in his eyes. Vimes reached out and brushed it back, letting his hand linger on Vetinari’s cheek. Vetinari leaned slightly into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.
“Come on, sir, let’s get you to bed. You really do need to rest,” Vimes said gently.
Vetinari shook his hand off weakly and hauled himself upright, reaching for a volume on his desk. “The city doesn’t grind to a halt with every minor crisis, Vimes, so that is not a luxury afforded me.”
Vimes glanced at the – day-planner, apparently. It was terrifyingly full. “You really want to deal with... ye gods, an hour with Lord Downey? For the Guild teaching budget? In this state?”
“Of course not, Vimes but –”
“Then don’t.” His treacherous hand found its way back to Vetinari’s shoulder. His other hand removed his Dis-organiser from his pocket. Speaking to the imp, he said, “Go down to Pseudopolis Yard and tell Carrot to talk to Lord Downey about... fuck, ask him if he’s got any graduates from Mouldavia or with the alchemists or something. Tell him to just make stuff up if he has to. Downey needs to be kept tied up for at least the next two hours. Clear?”
“Right away, Insert-Name-Here!” said the imp as it sped off.
“Right, that’s Downey’s appointment cancelled,” said Vimes, feeling Vetinari laugh silently under his hand. “Come on. Bed.”
Vetinari stood slowly, leaning heavily on the arms of his chair. He stumbled as he turned to reach for his cane, falling into Vimes’ chest. He made no effort to move. Vimes shrugged mentally and picked him up. Vetinari laughed silently again, his breath warm against Vimes’ neck. Vimes resolutely ignored this as he carried Vetinari through the (mercifully empty) corridors to his rooms and lowered him gently onto the narrow bed.
Vimes filled a bowl at the washstand and carried it over, began gently wiping blood from Vetinari’s face. Vetinari was oddly still beneath his hands, watching him with half-lidded eyes. There was blood in his hair too, so Vimes undid the braid, brushed it out, because Vetinari was always so fastidious, he wouldn’t like his hair being messy, that was the only reason. Nothing to do with the feel of the smooth locks in his hands, with the way Vetinari shivered slightly under his touch. He was just – helping, that was all. Helping Vetinari out of the blood stained shirt – surely the man could undo his own buttons, but he hadn’t objected when Vimes started on them, hadn’t objected as he worked his way down, gradually revealing a pale chest with graying hair broken in places by old scars, hadn’t objected when Vimes’ hand brushed Vetinari’s trousers as he undid the lowest button.
Vimes ignored the fluttering in his chest and turned away as Vetinari out of the shirt, muttering, “Right, where do you keep the clean –”
“Vimes,” Vetinari interrupted, grasping his wrist. Vimes turned back towards him. “You’ve got blood on your face, let me get it off.”
Mutely, Vimes let Vetinari pull him onto the edge of the bed, let him wipe the blood from his brow with those beautiful slender hands, let the hands cradle his face as Vetinari, lips slightly parted, gazed at him with something approaching wonder.
Well. After all that, it would have been just plain impolite not to kiss him.
Vetinari tasted of brandy and blood, and he made a very soft noise as Vimes’ lips touched his. Vimes pulled away slightly, unsure if he’d misread things, but Vetinari made a sound that was definitely protest, grasped his hands and pulled him firmly back onto the bed, and, surely not coincidentally, onto Vetinari.
Vimes, in the microsecond that he’d had to think about this, had thought he would be gentle. Vetinari clearly had other ideas, because he clung to Vimes like he was a liferaft and kissed him like a drowning man coming up for air.
Vimes relaxed into it, into the part of him that felt like finally coming home, and he slipped his tongue between Vetinari’s lips, tasted more blood – that cut had reopened but Vetinari didn’t seem to care, or even to have noticed. Vimes trailed a hand down Vetinari’s chest, stroking that soft hair, running his thumb over a nipple –
Vetinari whimpered.The sound went straight to Vimes’ groin and he moaned into Vetinari’s mouth, vaguely aware he was rutting on his leg and oh gods, Vetinari had slipped a hand inside his trousers, oh gods, those beautiful fingers were wrapped around his cock, the thumb brushing lightly against his scrotum as they worked, assuredly and gracefully as Vetinari did everything.
Vimes bit his own lip as he struggled not to come there and then. Vetinari smiled with wicked glee. “Do I have your attention, Your Grace?” he asked, blue eyes blazing, fingers not ceasing their movement.
“Don’t – don’t bloody call me that,” gasped Vimes. “Especially not now.”
There was that raised eyebrow. “Are you really in a position to be making demands right now, Your Grace?”
“Glad you’re feeling better,” said Vimes, thrusting his own hand into Vetinari’s trousers. Vetinari’s cock was as slender as the rest of him and slick with pre-cum, and his breath hitched gratifyingly as Vimes ran his fingers along its length, exploring. He brushed gently against the tip. Vetinari’s rhythm against Vimes faltered, and Vimes felt himself smile even as he thrust involuntarily against against Vetinari’s fingers. “You were saying about being in a position to make demands, sir?” he asked, tightening his grip. Vetinari moaned softly. Vimes rubbed a little faster. “Vimes,” Vetinari whimpered, and the sound pushed him over the edge, coming into Vetinari’s shaking hand.
He fought to keep his own grip firm even as he heard himself moaning Havelock’s name.
Vetinari’s entire body stilled at the sound, and his orgasm was an almost gentle thing, his eyes slipping closed and a faint, ecstatic smile on his lips.
Vimes rolled off him, ending up wedged somewhat awkwardly between Vetinari and the wall – it really was a very narrow bed. He made an exploratory movement towards extricating himself.
Vetinari, eyes still closed, grasped Vimes’ shirt in his fist and pulled himself against him, nestled his head under Vimes’ chin and, to all appearances, fell instantly asleep.
Well, there were worse ways to spend a morning, reflected Vimes. He wrapped his arms around Vetinari and he, too, slept.