Trooper Station - Sheriff's Office, Saturday Morning

[solesofmyfeet]

You'd think by now, Vimes would be used to the oddities of Fandom and how they could make a man do unfortunate things. Like flirt and drinkBut no. That would have been too easy for this morning

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[colourfulscents]

That squeak was usually a comforting sound, particularly in times of stress, but Angua didn't usually have a massive headache when that squeak was produced. Nor was she typically curled up under Vimes' dress, in a state of semi-undress that would make even that most creative of people scratch their heads in befuddlement and claim, "I've got nothin'."

The first squeak woke her up, and she cracked an eye open in a reluctance to accept that she was where she thought she was. The second squeak, however, just inspired a low groan, bordering on a whimper, and she closed her eye again.

Maybe, if she went back to sleep, this could pass reality into a dream, and then she'd wake up in a different reality where this wasn't happening.

[solesofmyfeet]

The whimper was enough to get Vimes off the desk and looking for his damned shirt so he could face this nonsense properly.

With a shirt on.

And possibly his badge as well.

And not talking about anything that clearly hadn't happened.

[colourfulscents]

A hand moved out from underneath the desk, a hand looking for a very crucial part of continuing forward with the day.

Shirt. Shirt. There had to be a shirt around here--

Angua's fingers curled on fabric and dragged it under the desk. It was a shirt, but very clearly not hers. This would be a Vimes shirt.

"Bloody hell," she said before she could help it.

[solesofmyfeet]

Of course Angua had to break the careful, sanity preserving silence.

"Sergeant," Vimes said, clearing his throat.