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“So, dear,” Sybil said lightly, from her seat beside him in the smaller of her two dining rooms. “What are your plans for your birthday next week?”
Vimes blinked, and took a self-conscious sip of his water. He’d eaten his body weight in rich food this evening and could frankly have killed for a glass of wine or, more accurately, a bottle of whisky. But he knew that sort of thing worried Sybil, and since they’d been spending a lot more time together recently he had found he really didn’t want to worry her.
In fact he had fallen into caring about her a fair bit more than he’d expected to, and he realised with a pang that it had left him with an odd desire to somehow be a better man. Unfortunately, not having had much in the way of role models growing up, Vimes had no idea precisely how he might accomplish that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it started with not getting plastered every night.
“Plans? How do you mean?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “How will you be celebrating?” He stared at her blankly, until she took pity on him and added, “Would you like a party, perhaps?”
“Oh good gods, no.” The words spilled out of him before he could check his tone, but thankfully Sybil just chuckled.
“Well, what do you usually do for it?”
He considered the question, and frowned. “I go to work.”
“Oh? So you celebrate with the men?”
His frown deepened. “No. I don’t usually mention it to them.” He suspected he’d probably told Fred and Nobby when his birthday was – he’d spent enough time drunk with them for that kind of thing to have slipped out unintentionally, at least, although he couldn’t be entirely sure – but the idea that they might do something to celebrate it seemed about as ridiculous as Vetinari’s new notion of having a werewolf in the Watch.
Sybil was peering at him as she cut a thin slice from her meat. “What did you do for it when you were growing up?”
He thought back. “Well, my mother usually made a Distressed Pudding and would let me eat it until I felt sick. And once she managed to save up for a new pair of shoes that I didn’t have to share with the neighbours, so that was a good year.” His eye drifted down to the empty plate before him; until a few minutes ago it had held a steak that had probably cost more than Mrs Vimes would have earned in a month of cleaning, and he stomped down on the accusatory little voice in his head that tried to call him a traitor.
Sybil swallowed the last mouthful of her food and washed it down with a sip of her drink. “Did you never invite any of your little pals around? Play party games?”
It was at this point that he realised they might as well be speaking two very different languages, because Vimes did not live in the kind of world where any of his childhood friends – who used to pass the time by kicking the shit out of each other for fun – could ever be referred to as little pals. Moreover, he was dead certain that if you’d tried to get Demented Duncan to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you’d have immediately lost an eye.
“Er, no,” he said carefully. “It wasn’t really the done thing.” He paused, then added, “Anyway, no point celebrating when it's just me. What am I going to do? Toast myself for surviving another year?”
She proffered a hesitant smile. “Well, it isn’t just you anymore, really, is it?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean that it might be nice for me to celebrate with you, Sam.” Sybil reached out and covered his hand with her own, and he stared down at it. She hesitated a second, and then continued. “That does bring me to something else I wanted to talk to you about. Because we’ve been spending an awful lot of time together over the last few months, and certainly it seems to be going very well from my perspective, and I think you might feel the same…not that you really say much, but you do keep coming around, and we always have a very pleasant time together…and I care about you a great deal, and we’re neither of us getting any younger…so I was thinking perhaps…” Sybil took a deep breath, and gave him a hopeful look. “I was thinking perhaps we could consider making things official.”
“Official?” Vimes replayed the speech over in his head again. “Wait, hang on, are you suggesting…? What are you suggesting?”
She laughed softly. “I suppose I’m suggesting we get married, Sam. And then,” she added quietly, “you wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.”
Vimes realised he had just been proposed to. He had the vague idea that it had happened somewhat the wrong way around; his knowledge of romantic traditions was patchy at best, but he was reasonably sure that the bloke was supposed to be the one doing the asking.
Still, he found he didn’t really care. There was no way in hell he, Sam Vimes, would have ever worked up the confidence to ask Lady Sybil Ramkin for her hand in marriage, nevermind the rest of her. The idea to ask probably wouldn’t have even occurred to him, because the thought that she might say yes was ludicrous.
In any event, the fact that she had asked him was doing odd things to his insides, and he was acutely aware that she was waiting patiently for an answer while he sat and stared dumbly at their entwined hands.
So; did he want to be married?
He wasn’t actually sure. The only person he knew who was happily married was Fred, and that was probably at least partly because he and Mrs Colon saw each other for an average of six minutes a day, if you worked it out across the year. Vimes didn’t think Sybil would stand for that kind of arrangement, though, because for some unfathomable reason she seemed to enjoy his company.
As he considered it, he realised dully that he had never imagined himself being married at all, because it was too bloody hard to believe anyone would be willing to put up with him.
He forced himself to imagine it.
You wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, Sybil had said, and Vimes’ belly churned again as he thought about what that meant.
To not have to go to sleep in an empty bed every night and wake up alone every morning.
To have someone there to ask about his day when he came home after a hard, bloody shift.
To have someone who might actually miss him if he didn’t come home.
To have somebody love him.
“Really?” he asked, finally. “You, er, think that's a good idea? Marrying me, I mean.”
“I think it is an excellent idea, Sam, which is why I asked. I know you’re probably used to living on your own, after all this time, and obviously your work has always been your priority, so I understand if you need to take some time to think about it –”
“No.”
Her face crumpled. “Oh…”
Vimes realised what he had said, and waved his hands desperately. “No, no, I mean – I don’t need any more time to think about it! Its...Gods. I mean, yes. Of course I’ll marry you, if you’re sure you want me.”
“Oh! Sam, that’s wonderful!” A delighted smile appeared on her face like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, and Vimes tried to erase the memory of it ever having been hidden, because it stung to know he’d caused it, even accidentally.
Yes; definitely going to have to work on being better, he had time to think, and then Sybil was leaning over and kissing him sweetly and any further worries were quickly buried under her comforting embrace.
Then, since they were going to be married anyway she let him stay over, and they celebrated again in the morning.