(no subject)
It was damned good whiskey.
It was the single thought that could pass through Vimes alcohol soaked mind at the moment. More accurately, it was the single thought Vimes would allow to pass through his mind. Back home, before, back when he had done this sort of thing, it had never been whiskey this good. I wasn't an alcoholic, he had told someone once, for the time being he couldn't remember who. You'd have to have more money than I did to be an alcoholic. I was just a drunk. He wasn't sure what that made him now. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He didn't know what had made him do it, either. He had been tired, and there had been so much noise, so much bloody celebrating when there was nothing to celebrate. He had nothing to celebrate, nothing besides a handful of people gone forever, and road that stretched in front of him, empty and unpredictable. So on impulse he had stolen the bottle, one of dozens all neatly lined up for all to relish, and ducked out into the night, making a retreat for the quiet back side of the Compound. He just needed one drink, one that would make everything a quieter, that would make him not care so damned much. Just one.
But it was never just one. He knew that even as he had opened the bottle. One became two, then three, then four. One more, and the world would become clearer, seen through the bottom of the empty glass. One more, and he could stop. The shame would come later.
Dawn was a long way off, but like any good night watchman (and Vimes was still a night watchman in his soul, old and drunk and even knighted), he could already feel it in the soles of his feet. Dawn on New Year's Day. He'd always hated it, even back home when it had been Hogswatch, complete with the jolly man who brought presents. Carrot (he was almost sure it had been Carrot - gods, who else would it have been?) had once told him that Hogswatch had actually begun as some ancient holiday, when superstitious men of old had been afraid the sun would not rise again. No watchman who wasn't a fool didn't hope for the sunrise. But Vimes had always suspected that he fit better in the shadows.
Good cheer, reflection, resolutions. Vimes leaned back against the cold concrete of the Compound and held up the bottle of amber liquid so that it caught the moonlight. He snorted quietly. All the new year showed was that nothing ever changed. Even when you thought they had.
For the first time in seven years, Sam Vimes was drunk. Now was nothing he could do now but wait for the sun to rise.
[Timed for much later tonight, near the end of the party, but I wanted to get it up before I went off to my own New Year's-y things.]
It was the single thought that could pass through Vimes alcohol soaked mind at the moment. More accurately, it was the single thought Vimes would allow to pass through his mind. Back home, before, back when he had done this sort of thing, it had never been whiskey this good. I wasn't an alcoholic, he had told someone once, for the time being he couldn't remember who. You'd have to have more money than I did to be an alcoholic. I was just a drunk. He wasn't sure what that made him now. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He didn't know what had made him do it, either. He had been tired, and there had been so much noise, so much bloody celebrating when there was nothing to celebrate. He had nothing to celebrate, nothing besides a handful of people gone forever, and road that stretched in front of him, empty and unpredictable. So on impulse he had stolen the bottle, one of dozens all neatly lined up for all to relish, and ducked out into the night, making a retreat for the quiet back side of the Compound. He just needed one drink, one that would make everything a quieter, that would make him not care so damned much. Just one.
But it was never just one. He knew that even as he had opened the bottle. One became two, then three, then four. One more, and the world would become clearer, seen through the bottom of the empty glass. One more, and he could stop. The shame would come later.
Dawn was a long way off, but like any good night watchman (and Vimes was still a night watchman in his soul, old and drunk and even knighted), he could already feel it in the soles of his feet. Dawn on New Year's Day. He'd always hated it, even back home when it had been Hogswatch, complete with the jolly man who brought presents. Carrot (he was almost sure it had been Carrot - gods, who else would it have been?) had once told him that Hogswatch had actually begun as some ancient holiday, when superstitious men of old had been afraid the sun would not rise again. No watchman who wasn't a fool didn't hope for the sunrise. But Vimes had always suspected that he fit better in the shadows.
Good cheer, reflection, resolutions. Vimes leaned back against the cold concrete of the Compound and held up the bottle of amber liquid so that it caught the moonlight. He snorted quietly. All the new year showed was that nothing ever changed. Even when you thought they had.
For the first time in seven years, Sam Vimes was drunk. Now was nothing he could do now but wait for the sun to rise.
[Timed for much later tonight, near the end of the party, but I wanted to get it up before I went off to my own New Year's-y things.]