The Man in the Golden Suit does not slow down. He does not yawn, he does not stumble, he does not ask people to repeat themselves as exhaustion wraps a thick cloak around his brain.
The Man in the Golden Suit does not tire.
Moist von Lipwig's eye is beginning to twitch.
He has been awake for – not even a particularly long stretch of time, which is the worst part. He hates days like this. Not busy days, no, busy is good, busy is essential, busy keeps him – relatively speaking – out of trouble.
No, what he hates are the days that his body decides would be better spent in bed. And to add insult to injury, by the time he gets to the end of most of those days, his body seems to have changed its mind, and then it's a solid hour or two of resolutely not tossing or turning, especially on the nights when his and Adora's schedules have allowed for her to be sleeping peacefully beside him.
And that's not even touching on the damned nightmares.
He's spent too much time training himself to sleep in odd circumstances, is the thing. Has to be the thing. Dire straits are a speciality; he can sleep particularly well in those. Sometimes, as he lies awake staring up at the ceiling, he catches himself thinking fondly back on his old bed of undelivered letters.
Currently he is thinking, less than fondly, that he could probably fall asleep on just about anything, including his feet. Or even a bed. He has been all over both halves of the city, getting things done for the various institutions he seems to be collecting. Not an unusual way for his days to go, lately, but right now he can't concretely remember exactly how any of the things he's been doing relate back to the Mint, the Bank, or the Post Office. Surely today started out as a Post Office day? He's wearing the winged hat.
On a bridge over the river, Moist stumbles, stops, and realizes he has no idea which bridge it is or where he's going.
Home, he decides, and turns around to un-cross the river. He has just nearly tripped over his own feet while wearing The Suit, and that's no way to let an evening in public begin. Strategically speaking the only workable recovery is to go to bed now and start over tomorrow.
He realizes he was in fact already on his way to the correct side of the river before he turned, and turns again, giggling helplessly and shoving his hands in his pockets to stop himself covering his face. He flashes a grin at nobody in particular, in a well-practiced manner that he knows will evoke, in whoever happens to see it, a feeling that it was meant specifically for them, aren't they lucky. A few people smile back at him as they pass. His mind whirs, and threatens to spin.
What else was he supposed to do today? Does it matter? It'll all still be there tomorrow. People might be angry, but if there is one thing he very definitively(1) knows how to deal with, it's angry people. Tomorrow he'll remember all the things he's currently forgetting to do and then he can make his excuses and apologies and get everything done in plenty of time to do tomorrow's tasks too, and probably get a decent start on the next day's.
The Moist of tomorrow will likely relish the rush of work. The Moist of this instant is so exhausted the very thought is almost enough to make him cry, which is another thing The Man in the Golden Suit very definitely does not do. And not generally a thing Moist von Lipwig does, come to that.(4)
Home, he reminds himself, and picks up his pace. He remembers the stumble and keeps his hands in his pockets, because, well, you have to live a little, don't you?
(1)And sometimes, very non-definitively. He is almost out of rare stamps; must remember to ask Stanley about a new limited run.(2)
(2)Definitive:
de·fin·i·tive
dəˈfinədiv/
adjective
1.
(of a conclusion or agreement) done or reached decisively and with authority.
"a definitive diagnosis"
synonyms: conclusive, final, ultimate
2.
(of a postage stamp) for general use and typically of standard design, not special or commemorative.(3)
(3)This author will not apologize for art.
(4)There are a lot of things both Moist von Lipwig and The Man in the Golden Suit don't do, and as Vetinari's spontaneous "appointments" continue and these inexplicably Tired days begin to crop up less and less sporadically, Moist suspects – knows, with a sense of dulled horror – that he is drawing nearer and nearer the moment he will have to cross "punching out a palace guard at three in the morning" off of that list. Oh, well. Make a show of it.