Chapter Text
It was the kind of night to make his skin itch and his damaged leg ache. The Oblong Office radiated heat late after dark. He thought he could hear thunder. At least, when the whistles of ox-cart drivers trying to navigate packed streets, and the shrieks of drinkers carried from nearby taverns did not block it. It was there, faint and persistent, but he wasn’t sure the storm would come. There had been several nights recently when thunder broke in the distance but there was no rain. Possibly the smoke and heat of the city made it stay away. Fine particles of soot coated the windowsill, the desk, the chair. He could taste it in his throat, and it made him want to tear his skin. Usually it was in winter that the smoke was thickest, when it mixed with chill fog. But now the fumes of a hundred thousand cook fires clung close to the ground, in the hottest season the Disc had ever known. There was no wind to move it.
The priests said the gods had stretched their legs out over the city and kept the air still. The wizards had a variety of excuses, none helpful. However, Ponder Stibbons had told Vetinari that he thought aers came in several layers, and sometimes one would spread out and trap another. He had nosed out Ponder as the one wizard doing anything at the university, listened to the young man gripe anxiously because he missed his work at the HEM when he had to cover extra roles. Very unofficial quiet grants had been sent to Stibbons to keep him in Ankh Morpork. The grants were always in the names of deceased alumni if the University should ask, and the money trail for the grants would go nowhere. Stibbons was grateful for the Patrician’s hidden support, but this week he had no news about when the damn smoke would leave. Maybe he should take off his black silk shirt tomorrow--go to the Oblong Office stripped bare from the waist up. He'd be hidden by his robe. Wouldn't that be a scandal?
He was itchy tonight for other reasons, which he did not lie to himself about. His problems with Vimes had exploded today. Oh, the Commander always came promptly for his reports, and promptly when he sent messengers to tell Vimes he had an appointment right then but the second kind was getting harder to manufacture. There wasn’t that much crime in Ankh-Morpork just now, even though heat usually flared tempers. Everyone was too hot to move, he thought. Too hot to make an effort at a hold-up. They inhaled cool drinks, even disgusting cold beer, until felled, too inebriated to fight. Not the dwarfs, though. They were worse. They confined their crimes to their own bars, barely. Maybe he could call Vimes back for that tomorrow—no, not after today’s manufactured excuse.
Damn the man for being so sensual. Most of the people who’d ever encountered Vimes never thought of him that way. But he’d thought so ever since he saw Vimes-as-John-Keel. A thug, he’d told Aunt Bobbi. But a thug with a mind clever enough to divert riot away from the Treacle Mine Road Watch House, while the streets roared elsewhere. A thug who’d died, and whose death so enraged him that he’d taken up the lilac branch and killed 4 men holding a flower in his mouth. Damn Keel for dying. But how could Vetinari know that the scrawny little drip called Sam would grow into that brilliant mind covered by muscles and cynicism. He hadn’t known, even seeing Vimes every day, until he’d come back from visiting Bobbi in Quirm. As he stepped down from his carriage, Vimes strode by in the street, nodding ‘Morning, your lordship,’ with Keel’s voice. He stared after the Commander, but never knew how a mystery had occurred, until the night Vimes returned from his week in the past.
Maybe he had known. When he confronted Vimes and Carcer in the graveyard, he had never bothered to tell the commander that he’d been in the cemetery of Small Gods every night since Vimes had vanished. He'd sat with John Keel and wondered about his sudden appearance and disappearance with the lilacs. He’d never told Vimes about that, never told him that he was desperate to see him again. A few days later he'd oh-so-piously offered a revolted Sam Vimes a place for his newborn child at the Assassins’ Guild. Anything to get a reaction.
Gods, tonight he’d been trying to control desperate thoughts. He wanted Vimes as he’d wanted so very few others. Wanted him in the worst way. And it would be the worst way. He couldn't deny or halt the images boiling inside him—Sir Samuel Vimes writhed helplessly under him, tied to the bed, ready to be fucked hard. In his darkest thoughts he wanted to have Vimes imprisoned in his dungeon. He craved the idea of Vimes on his knees in a noisome cell, he ached to press his patricianly cock against unwilling cracked lips, he fondled the image of forcing Vimes to open that stubborn mouth and pleasure him. The idea of Vimes wanting to be allowed to give his captor sweet release made his mouth dry.
No. He refused these ideas. There was plenty to think about besides lusting for a man burned bronze by the sun, who would contrast so gorgeously with his own pale skin...No. The city was his lover, what could he do for her? He picked up the top paper on his desk. Ah, let's see. The fine clothiers from the Maul's top shops wanted to kick the leather workers out of their guild. Why? Coats and gloves were luxury items. He read another paragraph. It appeared that no, it wasn't fine coats the famous designers didn't want to associate with, it was with those who crafted--oh. You couldn't call them clothes if they bared rather than covered. A lovely picture uncurled in his mind. The Duke of Ankh-Morpork exposed before him in a garment which belted at the waist and wrapped tightly down his thighs and legs, but left open the skin usually covered fore and aft. His hands lashed and fastened tightly above him, Vimes couldn't prevent Vetinari from long lazy contemplation of every desirable inch. With his eyes blindfolded he couldn’t anticipate when he’d be slapped hard on that muscular arse, beaten, or caressed, kissed from his navel down the line of brown hair, kissed down further--feel a tongue slide around him. Vetinari instantly whipped that image back to its kennel.
Why was he still here? Here in his boiling office long after even his long day ended? He needed to be in his bedroom where he could ponder these ideas. Slowly. His eyes closed.
“Hello, your lordship.”
He started, annoyed with himself, even though he’d half-hoped all day—
“Why are you here!” he asked, smelling the inevitable cigar smoke. Not even actual smoke, just the accumulated odor on the clothes.
A chuckle. “Aren’t you even going to ask how I got in?”
He refused to play the game.
“Well. In that case I won’t tell you that I told your staff you’d asked for a late meeting.”
“I’ll fire whoever—”
"No, you won't." Vimes walked casually up to Vetinari’s desk. Vetinari stood up. No one got that close to him.
Every other time the man had come in he’d stood starkly upright, across the room, stared 3 inches over Vetinari’s shoulder. Vimes eyes' had been fixed tight every other time, except today when he’d unexpectedly dropped them. Vetinari hoped Vimes hadn’t seen him other days when he’d allowed his eyes to roam, to flick down along that strong armored chest, along the strong legs. Then back up Vimes’ body, ending at the sensuous mouth which begged to be kissed. Or fucked. Or both. He never lingered, but incorporated his gaze in natural glances. Down at the papers at his desk, up to glance at the part of Vimes' frame directly ahead of him. Vimes' stubborn insistence on never sitting had worked against him, as he stretched up straight and so fine.
Today, though, dammit, Vimes had for whatever reason dropped his eyes and caught him—Perhaps he’d been a little longer than usual in his gazing, perhaps he’d been a little slower to speak. Everything moved slower in these fevered days. When he finished dragging his eyes over every inch of Vimes’ body, certain that Vimes never noticed him—when he brought his eyes up, Vimes pinned them with a narrow squint. Vetinari did not know what expression had been on his face. He had allowed extra-lascivious thoughts to take his mind off the damned smoke and heat, and now the game was up. The Commander had looked squarely at him, and Vetinari felt fear prickle his palms.
“Oh.” Vimes had said. Had breathed out, softer that Vetinari had ever heard. “I’d wondered whether I was imagining things when you had me in here so bloody often for so little reason. And I’d thought I’d seen you look at me, stare at me, but I never truly thought—” without finishing his report, without asking to be dismissed, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes had stomped out of his office.
The man would probably quit, Vetinari thought, disgusted with himself. How could any man not quit when he saw his boss eye him. No, stare at him. No, drag his eyes over every inch of him like he was some damn Seamstress to be lazily viewed.
Now he waited for Vimes' fury to sweep over him. Commander Vimes’ anger was legendary in Ankh-Morpork, monumental. Over the years the man had shouted at him about many things; this surely would be the loudest time, and the most justified.
“You know,” Vimes said thoughtfully, “I know so much about you that I thought I knew everything important.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“You came here from Genua, you weren’t born here. You’d been living with your aunt for quite some time, possibly your entire life. Possibly before you were born, but I haven’t been able to confirm the rumor that she was your mother. You had few friends at the Assassins’ Guild, but of the two you had, one was older and had some type of close relationship with you. How close, I’m not totally sure, but you were often seen leaving his rooms late at night.”
“No, I did not!”
“Yes, you did.” A pause. "You loved my wife, but then that wasn’t hard to tell, “ he said, not pleasantly.
He didn't answer.
*** Neither spoke for a long dark minute. Sybil Ramkin-Vimes had been killed a year ago this week, by the godsdamned dragons she loved. Not even by their flames, but when she tripped on a stupid loose piece of coal while feeding them, the little bastards, and couldn’t catch her balance because she was holding full buckets. She slammed her head on the cement walkway and died instantly. Sam could never forget he hadn't been there. He’d rushed back to work after he read to Young Sam (he couldn't even remember now what they'd called him for), raced away and not even stopped to taste the bacon-wrapped steak she'd cooked especially for him. Later that night he saw the unscraped plates in the kitchen and it nearly broke him. At least he had taken time to kiss her cheek and rub her shoulder. At least he'd whispered a promise to her for later, felt her chuckle. It was a moment to cling to--the very last memory of his wife was a loving moment. But his butler had been the one to hear the dragons keening and check the pen.***
Vetinari had thought—had been almost sure—that Vimes would start drinking again. He hadn’t, apparently driven by the love of the one dear thing Sybil left him—their two-year old child. Sam had gone back to work the day after he buried Sybil, but shocked everyone when he went home at 5 o ‘clock to be with Young Sam. He kept going home at 5. He often left again after a few hours, when he was called for a real emergency. But Captain Carrot and Captain Angua, and everyone else, worked as hard as they could to avoid calling him back.
After a bit Vimes continued.
“You lie to everyone about your diet.”
Vetinari snorted internally. Ah, a game now.
“No.”
Vimes snorted. “You let everyone assume that all the meat you order goes to your little dog.”
“It—”
“You don’t eat much at a time, true, and not every day, but you enjoy your steak and chops and roast.”
Vetinari laughed. “Got me there, copper. Yes, I like meat.” And had he, had his traitorous mouth, spoken those words in a suggestive way? He had done no such thing.
“Oh, Havelock Vetinari, you are a big, big liar,” Vimes laughed.
He laughed a little also. “What mystery do you imagine you know about me now, copper?” Dammit, did his treacherous voice have to drop an octave on the last word?
“You have a secret. Another secret.”
He tensed and stood as still as possible, didn't breathe. What now? Vimes had given him far too little trouble about his “friend at the guild,” which suggested that he didn’t know details at all. His jaw clenched involuntarily.
“You have a sweet tooth.”
“What! I have no such thing!”
“And not such an educated sweet tooth, either. I hear you love Distressed Pudding. Jelly cakes. Also, the baklava that Mundane Meals bakes isn’t the best in the city, but it has, one assumes, nostalgic value. It was the only baklava in the city when you were at the Guild.”
Vetinari chuckled. Oh, that secret.
“You eat soup so often because you’re dieting from all those sweets,” Vimes went on cheerfully, and Vetinari, caught out once more, shook his head and chuckled.
“Macaroons with your tea, and cream cakes, although those you do let Wuffles eat almost all of those, not good for him, you know. Profiteroles."
“I do not eat profit—"
“Maybe I just smelled it,” Vimes leaned back from a kiss to inhale deeply. “No,” he said quietly, “It’s because I can taste this tiny bit of chocolate right…here…” and kissed the side of Havelock’s mouth, then along his jaw to the ear. Vimes' exhalation was a warm slow puff.
“Mmm. I never thought I’d like kissing your beard, but I do.” Vimes’ mouth dropped lower, onto his neck, kissed down more til it reached his collar, then pressed in hard.
“My lord, I think you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow, and your robe isn’t going to cover it. You’ll have to wear a scarf. In this heat. Everyone will wonder, and what will you say? And what if the scarf slips a bit? Or If I bite you over…here?” Of course, done now on the other side of his neck and higher. He might have to use makeup, and would it cover completely? The voice was velvet, richly delighted, and how in the world had he not known Vimes could sound like this? But he’d never been in bed with him. Had not yet been in bed with him, but he was certainly going to be, and certainly going to do all those terrible things to Vimes, yes, tie him up and gag him because the man just would not stop talking. Why the hell had he not even stabbed Vimes, just because Vimes had him by the upper arms, hands biting in tightly. This was a ridiculously simple hold, he had barely to shrug and break it, except that shockingly, Vimes was beside his desk, not in front of it. Vimes dragged him out of his chair and shoved him into the wall so hard his head bounced back.
“And I’ve even heard,” Vimes said thoughtfully, still velvet, “that you like… tuppenny--uprights.” Vimes yanked his arms over his head and pinned him there. Oh by all the gods, how had he not realized those muscles were stronger than they even looked.
Now Havelock was enraged. Enough, this haze of strange, slowly increasing entrapment was ending now. If this was going to happen, it was going to happen on his terms. Except it wasn’t, because when he went to knee Vimes away, Vimes had stepped out of range. He stumbled, and for some unknown reason…couldn’t lash out again. He didn’t move, kept himself splayed against the wall. His nose flared and he collected himself, but then Vimes, Sir Samuel, Duke of Ankh-Morpork, and Commander of the Night Watch, pushed his knee between Havelock’s legs, shoved his legs far apart. He could feel the long line of Samuel’s pleasure against him.
“Keep your hands there.”
He didn't have to. Samuel had caught him off-guard, but it would be a moment's play to snap his head forward, bash Samuel's nose, and as he startled, yank a hand free and down to a knife in the other sleeve inches away. He could could rip it out and have it at Samuel's throat in seconds. He could kill Samuel in seconds. He'd practiced this move since he was in his first year at the Assassin's Guild. No, he thought, I won’t, but Samuel continued, “because I’m taking every scrap of your clothes off and it will take me two hands.”
It was unexpected and he closed his eyes. Standing before Samuel, himself naked, had also been one of his mental pictures today, almost not admitted to his awareness. Almost not. It would be cooler to be unclothed, his mind helpfully added. Cooler to be out of his robe, his shirt...his trousers. But, no, he wouldn't disrobe.
“You can’t get them off.”
“I will, even if I have to tear them.” Conviction and command in that new voice.
“DON’T tear my clothes!"
“Then strip. Keep one hand on the wall. I want to watch you strip.” Samuel let go his hands.
Havelock freed his hand (freed from what? How was he being tied without a single inch of rope?) Because you want it, his mind answered, and will you shut the fuck up and let him take us wherever this goes?
He gave his mind a rest, its first rest in far too long, took a deep breath of the smoky heat. Then his hand fell to the buttons of his robe. He let Samuel drag it off slowly, and put it neatly around the back of his chair.
"Thank you for taking care of my property."
A quiet snort. "Unbutton your shirt. Then put your hands back up."
He did. He imagined the wall closing tightly around his wrists, as in a spell, and couldn’t move. He watched Samuel slip his hand inside his shirt, rest it on his chest. Havelock's pale skin was a perfect frame for the brown fingers. "Silk. I should have known. You know, they make fine cotton which would have been cooler. He pulled Havelock's shirt all the way out of his trousers. The first touch of air on his skin, even though still warm, made him shudder, and Samuel laughed.
He stroked Havelock's chest, and up all the way to his neck, then dragged his hand back down and pinched his nipple. Then again, and then the other one, and then Samuel put his mouth down to his nipple, licked it once, then bit, sucked. Havelock let his neck fall against the wall, and left his mind open to sensation. Why he loved this so much he could not say. Women liked their breasts stirred, he knew, but as far as he'd heard, other men didn't often enjoy this pleasure. Warm mouth, slow cool licks and puffs of air, bites a short sharp twinge, first one nipple, then the other, while he hung by his own hands. It went on some time.
"Take your boots off."
"I'll need both hands."
"Use them. Then put them back up and keep them there."
Once he had his boots off, Samuel pulled down his trousers, and his undergarments, and, oh gods, he was arse to the wall, balls out, and now Samuel controlled his hands with one arm, stretched him high against the wall again.
“Keep your legs apart. Further apart." The tendons of his thighs trembled.
“Don't move."
Samuel’s hands roved over him, and his mouth roved as well. Now a tongue shoved between his lips (he opened them.) Now it thrust over his tongue and down (he opened his mouth further.)
Samuel’s hand squeezed his arse again and again, too much, then his very taut thighs. Havelock’s prick had signaled for some time that it was annoyed at not being touched, very annoyed, and it rutted up against Samuel to get some attention—against Samuel’s armor, and that wasn’t fair.
He said so.
“Oh, but this is a tuppenny-upright, my lord." The voice was rich and filthy. "You're mine for now. Stand still." The voice had become a calm threat, and now Samuel slapped his thigh, hard. Slapped it again, twice, twice more. He winced away.
“I’ll be bruised tomorrow.”
"Too fucking bad,” Vimes' voice was now completely indifferent and now skin was pinched tighter as Samuel pushed his legs apart even a bit further. He pressed Havelock harder into the wall until he could not breathe, and then an inch further. Kept pressing his weight in all along Havelock's body and did not release him.
“No, stop.” he choked. “I can't breathe! Your sword is hurting me—”
“Not yet! And why should I care?” Samuel whispered with a thick velvet voice. He eased back a step, releasing Havelock fractionally and slowly twisted the rough leather sheath of his sword against the stretched inner thighs. It scraped the soft inner skin.
“Don’t move.” He twisted the sheath against the other thigh.
Finally he stepped away, and Samuel’s armor shifted away with a clink, and then his sword belt dropped. Havelock felt Samuel hesitate, and then slip off the ridiculous leather skirt which was all the watchmen wore in summer. Although it wasn’t as ridiculous in all this heat and haze, was it?
Samuel stepped away from him, hesitated, then—he should have realized what was coming next.
"Get on your knees.”
"...No," he whispered hoarsely.
"Yes." Samuel's voice was slow and insistent.
"No, I won't."
"Yes, you will." There was calmness and certainty. "You are going to do it right now. You are going to put your mouth on me before I have to tell you again." There was no pity. He was hot, he was cold. He shivered at the mental image, inhaled with a gasp.
He had a choice. It was still his office, and even though he was unclothed and without the weapons there, he had others. There was a book case not a foot away where the end book was dense wood, a perfect blunt object. He imagined crushing Samuel's skull, knew he could. He let his arms fall to his sides as he slipped to the floor. Samuel didn’t speak again. He wound one hand into Havelock's hair and braced the other on the wall.
He had a thick cock, (not as long as Havelock’s, ha!) but thick and full, and ready. Havelock put his hands on Samuel’s hips, tugged him closer. He inhaled the dark odors, felt the sweat which matted Samuel's thighs. He ghosted a breath across, kissed the upraised cock, opened his mouth and began.
He didn’t think, put all the thoughts away, put the Patrician away, and poured all his being into the next moments. Now that he was here, he made it as good as he could. Made it last. Not only because he’d had to before, no matter how much his jaw ached, but—because he truly wanted to make it last. To please a man who normally saluted him. He should be enraged that Samuel wasn’t the one on his knees, that had been his plan…how long ago? He should be angry that it wasn’t Samuel’s mouth open, but he didn’t care. This seemed right for the first time, and what was he thinking, the first time? Samuel would certainly never come back, once he’d made Havelock service him. Shhh. Shhh. Use your mouth and your tongue in the dark. You know how. He did know how. He had done it before. He had enjoyed it then. He was even beginning to now, down between his dearest enemy's legs. Samuel started to tense and jerk a little, but did not fuck his mouth.
“Wait, I’m close, you don’t have to sw—” but of course he did. He’d always been told to. But maybe, he thought, this man was different?
When Samuel came, Havelock sat back on his heels, swallowed again.
He was startled when Samuel reach down a handkerchief to him, his very own handkerchief from his trousers, and when Samuel thought of that? He eased back against the wall. The backs of his thighs felt the scratchy carpet. He stretched out his knees, feeling their pops, and slowly wiped his mouth.
"Thank you for not killing me." Samuel settled down on the floor beside him, stretched out his own legs.
“What?"
"I was pretty sure I hadn't misread you, but it was concerning me."
He slipped back into the Patrician again. "Ah, Sir Samuel. I did think about it."
"Come on, invite me to your bed now."
He was too tired, and he wanted to think.
"No."
"No, that's all you're going to say?" It was a threat again.
"No, sir." It was a slip, an automatic response, and he cursed himself. That had been something he'd allowed a long, long time ago, and it wouldn't begin again now.
Samuel laughed. "That's the game they play at the Guild? Augh, nobs. Come on, Havelock, don't you want your turn?"
This was entirely confusing. The man had threatened him to his knees not twenty minutes ago and now? Were they going to spend their precious time in whats and sirs, if things could be different in a moment? “Certainly, it’s—you know already.”
“I do know where your bedchamber is. But it’s better if you invite me, then we can look each other in the eye the next time we have a meeting. A regular meeting. Or maybe this will become more regular.”
“Possibly, but I’m not playing tuppenny-upright again. I’m bruised and you’ve scraped my thighs. Gods, I thought you were going to break me open.” He glared at Samuel. He’d been ordered around like a Seamstress. Ah, that was unforgettable, terrible—wonderful? It would be a nighttime memory.
Samuel let out a huge sigh. ‘’Can’t do it again this way, it had to be a surprise. I had to push you to beyond what you thought your limits were, didn’t I? Had to push you fast, or you’d never let me come back. Though I was surprised that you let me get away with it," He actually laughed. "I was hoping not to be stabbed any minute I took my hands off you. The armor would have been a fat lot of good if you’d gone for my throat. Arm or thigh, that’s bad too, can bleed out from both, I’ve seen a lot, bad business. Glad you didn’t go for my throat.” Samuel arched his back, stretching, then stood up and pulled Havelock to his feet.
His voice was rough, teasing, loquacious, not like the dark velvet of his commands, or his pitiless calm. It was the same now as Havelock had ever heard it, but not the same. This Samuel was chattering to a—conquest? A comrade? Did Samuel have any friends this last year, anyone not under his command? Did he always chatter after sex? He was supposed to shut up and go to sleep.
“Shut up, Samuel, or I'll fill your mouth tonight."
“Oh, that will happen. Keep moving.” The low rich velvet voice was back again, and it made him shiver as he realized what he’d been promised. He shivered a second time as they hustled by the open window and he realized that wind rushed over the city. The smoke was clearing, and the thunder was accompanied by pounding sweet rain.