Scoring Points: Vetinari/Vimes implied, PG
Scoring points
“Ah, Sir Samuel.”
Damndamndamn! Vimes froze halfway through the window, then sighed and slithered back into the room, managing to bark his shin painfully on the edge of the chair he had been standing on as he did so. Lord Vetinari was standing- leaning- in the doorway, smiling faintly. “Were you going somewhere? In hot pursuit of the criminal element, perhaps?”
He started to attempt to come up with a reasonable excuse, some kind of valid reason why he would be climbing out of a ground floor window to escape a party, then decided to hell with it.
“It’s the sandwiches, sir.” He smiled a little in satisfaction when he saw the slightest flicker of surprise on Vetinari’s face- he was pretty sure he hadn’t been meant to see that, and it was always satisfying to get past his guard in some way.
“The… sandwiches, your Grace?” He couldn’t prevent a brief wince at the honorific, and this time it was Vetinari looking ever so slightly triumphant and he realised it’s a game, it’s always been a game, really, only I never knew him well enough to realise it…
“The sandwiches, sir.” He fell into old habits, standing at parade rest- feet apart, hands behind back- and stared at a point above Vetinari’s head and slightly to the right. No eye contact, that was key, but still easy enough to see the expression on his face, to see whether you were winning.
Something inside him cheered as the silence was eventually broken.
“Are you going to explain that statement further, Vimes?” the Patrician snapped. Two points scored- getting him to use a tone of voice that was anything other than calm, and the lack of a title; Vetinari knew he hated being a member of the aristocracy, and therefore reminded him of his status as often as was humanly possible.
“They’re too small, sir.”
“The sandwiches. Are too small.” He heard the steadying breath Vetinari drew in, and kept his face completely straight as he fought down a grin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you drunk, man?” Ouch. Even without the Marquis of Fantailler’s rules, that was a low blow that would’ve been outlawed in any vaguely fair fight. Vimes clenched his teeth for a moment, unaccountably hurt, then answered steadily.
“No, sir.”
Vetinari took a few steps toward him then cocked his head to one side, something strangely like sympathy in his pale blue eyes.
“I…”
Vimes glared at him. Don’t apologise, don’t you dare bloody apologise. That’s not in the rules and you know it…
The Patrician returned his glare steadily, and for an instant there was an answering flicker of heat. It was quickly banked, almost too quickly to be noticed; but Vimes was a policeman, and noticing things was his job. He frowned a little.
“Is there any particular issue you take with small sandwiches, Sir Samuel?” Vetinari’s voice was too carefully neutral. He wondered what emotion exactly it was that he hadn’t been supposed to see.
“Can’t get used to this nobby food, sir. I like a sandwich with the crusts still on, the kind you can’t fit in your mouth in one go, sir.” Vetinari covered his mouth with one long-fingered hand, and Vimes crowed silently as another point was scored. “Haven’t got the right kind of hands, sir.”
“The right kind of hands, Vimes?” And that wasn’t an expression he’d seen on the Patrician’s face, before. Something like he’d imagine a hunter would look, when it’d eventually found its prey. The other man stepped forward again, close enough to touch even though that was unimaginable and then it wasn’t because Vetinari was touching him, pulling his arm up until his hand was positioned, palm out, in front of his shoulder. He felt like a recruit taking the oath, and there was a bizarre urge to laugh that suddenly disappeared as Vetinari placed his palm against Vimes’s and looked at their hands consideringly.
The fact that Vetinari’s hands were cold wasn’t a surprise, but it was almost like his own body was trying to compensate and going far overboard. Heat spread through him, moving outward from the simple contact of hand against hand, upward to his face and he could feel himself flush, downward to his stomach where it felt like a nest of snakes were fighting, down still further…
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Do stand still, Vimes.” Vetinari didn’t even bother to hide the amusement in his voice as he curled the tips of his long fingers over Vimes’s blunt digits, his hands looking impossibly thin and elegant against Vimes’s but you know that he could kill you with them in a minute and that’s a part of it, isn’t it? “Perhaps you’re right.” Pale blue eyes raised to meet his, and the blazing heat in them made him realise that even if this was a game the points he scored meant nothing because he had already lost- it had taken him far too long to realise precisely what the stakes were.
“Right, sir?” He almost managed to keep his voice steady.
“Yes, Vimes. You were right.” The heat in his eyes gradually faded, replaced with a blank look that almost hid the sadness there. “You win.”
Vimes was lost as the Patrician stepped back; completely confused, mouth gaping as he attempted to work out exactly what had happened.
“Sam?”
“Lady Sybil.” The Patrician nodded graciously at the woman in the doorway, then shot a glance at Vimes and left the room. And the look in his eyes…
Sybil looked at him, confusion on her face, and he smiled at her reassuringly, relieved and bolstered and reassured by her presence as always.
Perhaps Vetinari was right, he decided, taking his wife’s arm and not-quite-listening to her as she guided him back to the Ballroom. Perhaps I do win.
“Ah, Sir Samuel.”
Damndamndamn! Vimes froze halfway through the window, then sighed and slithered back into the room, managing to bark his shin painfully on the edge of the chair he had been standing on as he did so. Lord Vetinari was standing- leaning- in the doorway, smiling faintly. “Were you going somewhere? In hot pursuit of the criminal element, perhaps?”
He started to attempt to come up with a reasonable excuse, some kind of valid reason why he would be climbing out of a ground floor window to escape a party, then decided to hell with it.
“It’s the sandwiches, sir.” He smiled a little in satisfaction when he saw the slightest flicker of surprise on Vetinari’s face- he was pretty sure he hadn’t been meant to see that, and it was always satisfying to get past his guard in some way.
“The… sandwiches, your Grace?” He couldn’t prevent a brief wince at the honorific, and this time it was Vetinari looking ever so slightly triumphant and he realised it’s a game, it’s always been a game, really, only I never knew him well enough to realise it…
“The sandwiches, sir.” He fell into old habits, standing at parade rest- feet apart, hands behind back- and stared at a point above Vetinari’s head and slightly to the right. No eye contact, that was key, but still easy enough to see the expression on his face, to see whether you were winning.
Something inside him cheered as the silence was eventually broken.
“Are you going to explain that statement further, Vimes?” the Patrician snapped. Two points scored- getting him to use a tone of voice that was anything other than calm, and the lack of a title; Vetinari knew he hated being a member of the aristocracy, and therefore reminded him of his status as often as was humanly possible.
“They’re too small, sir.”
“The sandwiches. Are too small.” He heard the steadying breath Vetinari drew in, and kept his face completely straight as he fought down a grin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you drunk, man?” Ouch. Even without the Marquis of Fantailler’s rules, that was a low blow that would’ve been outlawed in any vaguely fair fight. Vimes clenched his teeth for a moment, unaccountably hurt, then answered steadily.
“No, sir.”
Vetinari took a few steps toward him then cocked his head to one side, something strangely like sympathy in his pale blue eyes.
“I…”
Vimes glared at him. Don’t apologise, don’t you dare bloody apologise. That’s not in the rules and you know it…
The Patrician returned his glare steadily, and for an instant there was an answering flicker of heat. It was quickly banked, almost too quickly to be noticed; but Vimes was a policeman, and noticing things was his job. He frowned a little.
“Is there any particular issue you take with small sandwiches, Sir Samuel?” Vetinari’s voice was too carefully neutral. He wondered what emotion exactly it was that he hadn’t been supposed to see.
“Can’t get used to this nobby food, sir. I like a sandwich with the crusts still on, the kind you can’t fit in your mouth in one go, sir.” Vetinari covered his mouth with one long-fingered hand, and Vimes crowed silently as another point was scored. “Haven’t got the right kind of hands, sir.”
“The right kind of hands, Vimes?” And that wasn’t an expression he’d seen on the Patrician’s face, before. Something like he’d imagine a hunter would look, when it’d eventually found its prey. The other man stepped forward again, close enough to touch even though that was unimaginable and then it wasn’t because Vetinari was touching him, pulling his arm up until his hand was positioned, palm out, in front of his shoulder. He felt like a recruit taking the oath, and there was a bizarre urge to laugh that suddenly disappeared as Vetinari placed his palm against Vimes’s and looked at their hands consideringly.
The fact that Vetinari’s hands were cold wasn’t a surprise, but it was almost like his own body was trying to compensate and going far overboard. Heat spread through him, moving outward from the simple contact of hand against hand, upward to his face and he could feel himself flush, downward to his stomach where it felt like a nest of snakes were fighting, down still further…
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Do stand still, Vimes.” Vetinari didn’t even bother to hide the amusement in his voice as he curled the tips of his long fingers over Vimes’s blunt digits, his hands looking impossibly thin and elegant against Vimes’s but you know that he could kill you with them in a minute and that’s a part of it, isn’t it? “Perhaps you’re right.” Pale blue eyes raised to meet his, and the blazing heat in them made him realise that even if this was a game the points he scored meant nothing because he had already lost- it had taken him far too long to realise precisely what the stakes were.
“Right, sir?” He almost managed to keep his voice steady.
“Yes, Vimes. You were right.” The heat in his eyes gradually faded, replaced with a blank look that almost hid the sadness there. “You win.”
Vimes was lost as the Patrician stepped back; completely confused, mouth gaping as he attempted to work out exactly what had happened.
“Sam?”
“Lady Sybil.” The Patrician nodded graciously at the woman in the doorway, then shot a glance at Vimes and left the room. And the look in his eyes…
Sybil looked at him, confusion on her face, and he smiled at her reassuringly, relieved and bolstered and reassured by her presence as always.
Perhaps Vetinari was right, he decided, taking his wife’s arm and not-quite-listening to her as she guided him back to the Ballroom. Perhaps I do win.