There are lots of predictions floating around about Vetinari grooming Moist as his successor. And I love William de Worde, and wish there was more fanfiction written about him. So I cobbled a little something together :) Written from first William's perspective, and then switching to Moist's. Enjoy!

Keeping Them Honest

Samuel Vimes has been sent home by his own Watch, and even Sybil knows better than to disturb him now. She sits with Young Sam and tries to explain to him what death is.

The guild-leaders have amassed and for the first time in memorable history, sit in silence. Every possible argument seems too petty at the moment.

Lord Downey kills three dogs on sight, howling that he can't stand the idea of Dog-Botherer haunting him from beyond the grave.

There are dark-toned bells ringing in Ankh-Morpork at this moment, as the city-folk try to sort the rumors from the lies. There is talk of Patricians, of kings, and of some mediation between the two.

And Moist von Lipwig, the unlucky man in question, is sitting in the Oblong Office, crying.

Adore Belle Dearheart glared at William de Worde with a force to shatter iron presses, but the de Wordes are best known for their genetic ability to ignore all forces, and so the threat was deflected. "He's in there, is he?"

Adora took a long, cool drag from her cigarette and blew it out in his face. "Maybe."

With a curt nod, William turned and rapped sharply on the door to the Oblong Office. "Moist? Open up."

"He's not going to-"

"It's not your office just yet, Moist, you can't shut me out."

"You've got no business-"

"Madam, my business is getting involved in other people's!" William shouted. "Now open! This! Door!"

Coldly, Adora reached over and turned the handle. The door swung open. It had never been locked.

"Thank you," said William, without a trace of sheepishness.

Moist was sitting at the desk, head cradled in his arms, shoulders heaving up and down as he sobbed. Even after all that had happened-political intrigue, war correspondence, foot-the-ball for crying out loud-William had not quite learned how to handle the sight of a grown man crying. He heard himself saying something awkward, around the lines of "There, there."

"He," Moist gasped. "He's not dead."

"Moist-"

"It's a trick. I'll fuh-fill in for a c-couple days-"

"Moist, please-"

"And then h-he'll turn up again when it all guh-goes to shit, and then everyone will reme-member how much we need him-"

"Moist!" William snapped. "Vetinari is dead. Vimes declared the time of death himself."

Forensics were still quadruple checking their results because no one wanted to believe it, but that wasn't what Moist needed to hear so William didn't mention it.

"Then Vimes should be in charge!" Moist cried. "He's the Duke, he's got the brass, he should-"

"Vetinari didn't name Vimes as his successor. He named you," William said calmly. And for good reason, William thought. Leadership under Vimes would be a militant dictatorship, with Sammies micromanaging the law at every corner. Ankh-Morpork couldn't handle that level of scrutiny. Even at his new status, Vimes still required a leash.

Moist's sobs were beginning to abet. A man only has so much room in his body for tears, and Moist was getting dehydrated. He propped himself up on his elbows. "Then my first order is that a council should be put together-"

"A council is the last thing we need," William growled. "If you put together a council of limp, petty, privileged little peons, all of Vetinari's work will follow him straight to hell, and what's the point of that? A council is what the nobles want," William adjusted his collar self-consciously. "I should know."

Moist shook his head. "I don't want this job. I can't."

"Everyone who wants this job is wrong for it," said William. "You don't want it. That's why you're right for it."

"Says who?"

"Says me! Moist, you…you…" William searched for a metaphor, and, finding none, decided to try his hand at inventing one. "Sometimes you can't see the gutter for the abundance of street."

Moist gazed blankly at him. "What?"

"I mean, you can't see the rat for the infestation…or the bad apple for the…barrel…"

The puzzlement was drifting away, replaced by Moist's more typical look he kept specially for the editor of The Times, the look of badly tried patience and contempt. "You couldn't say a straight sentence if the gods asked you a yes or no question-"

"Look, I keep my distance from everything so that I can see the big picture, alright? And I have been watching you for years, Moist von Lipwig, and you are the best thing that has happened to Ankh-Morpork since Vetinari took over!"

Moist looked glumly at the ground. "I'm a crook."

William rolled his eyes. "Yes, we know."

"No, but I don't think any of you understand," Moist dribbled miserably. "I'm really a crook."

"You made that very public not too long ago."

"Your article about it was shite."

William bristled, and drew himself up to his full height. There were bits of nobility that always stuck to your spine, no matter how much you slouched. "Excuse me?"

"Brushed everything off. Hand-waved a bunch of details. Technically I've killed people. And you, you write about me like I'm some kind of-I don't even know what-it's ridiculous! You're ridiculous, Mr. de Worde!"

"There's no need to make this about me -"

"You write like you're recording history in the making!"

"I am!"

"I've seen beggars wipe their arses with your newspaper!"

"That's fine! We keep hard copies for our own records anyway!"

Moist glared up at him suspiciously. "You're only here so you can say you were here to see it. So you can get my quote, get my number-"

Moist suddenly found himself dangling by the collar, which William had gripped in his fists, and found himself noticing for the first time that William was rather a bit taller than him, and much stronger.

"Moist, you know where I come from," William said quietly. "The de Wordes are famous. There was a time when our word truly counted for something, when we made the political wheels around here spin. And I have been working so hard to make sure that never happens again."

William dropped Moist back into Vetinari's old chair.

"There are going to be a lot of people, people like my father, who are going to try and come in here and take this job from you, and I need you to pull yourself together now. I'm begging you," William couldn't keep his shoulders from shaking. "Moist, we're counting on you. Please. I know it's hard, but please."

Moist's gaze turned away to the window Vetinari had glared out of for years. Ankh-Morpork spread out before him.

"You don't get it," he said softly. "It's not hard. It's easy. Running a city is the easiest swindle I can imagine."

"Yes!" William crowed. "And you're a crook, so it's natural, it's right-"

"It runs by itself," Moist continued, as if William had not interrupted. "Ankh-Morpork has always run itself. It just took the right person to step up and let it. Vetinari was a genius. No one ever caught on. He had to do so little to make it work. And he's left it so I'll have to do even less. I'm going to be so bored, Mr. de Worde. And that's dangerous for someone like me. When I'm bored, I'm dangerous." An edge began to creep into his voice, a sly, wheedling, petty voice Moist hadn't used in years. "I could take you for so much. You with your ideals about the nice young man at the helm. I'll take you for everything you've got, and leave you high and dry. Get my fix and go. The crime of the century." Moist turned to William and grinned horribly. "Will you write about me, Mr. de Worde? Are you going to make me famous?"

Before he knew what he was doing, William punched the new Patrician in the face.

Moist fell back, clutching his face as William fell back, clutching his hand.

"If it's any consolation," William gasped, "I think that actually hurt me more than it hurt you."

Moist massaged his jaw. Maybe it was just the swelling, but he looked somewhat back to his usual self. "No, I needed that."

With his hand in this condition, William couldn't write. But he could always use Words. "You won't get away with anything, Moist," He said solemnly. "I'll keep you honest, I swear."

"All that crap you spew about keeping out of politics," said Moist, "And you're still knee deep in shit."

William was too tired to rise to it. "As long as I'm not the one holding the shovel, Moist."

Moist's eyes flickered up at down William, as if re-appraising a glass diamond ring that might actually have some worth after all. "It's going to take a lot more than one lousy article to keep that from happening," said Moist slowly.

"Of course," said William. "That's why you need to get started on your life-story."

"My what?"

"A book detailing your life up until this point," said William. "It's the greatest kind of accountability I can think of."

Moist gaped at him. "I can't write a book. I have to be the patrician."

William shrugged. "Figure it out. I'm not doing it for you."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," A rich voice said from the door.

There's a certain tone of voice used by those with privilege to announce their presence, and it never failed to make the hair on the back of Moist's neck stand up on end. The prospect of a high-end swindle will always do that to a crook. It was a tone of voice which William had not quite lost yet, Moist thought as he snuck a look at the dumbstruck editor, and probably never would, no matter how hard he tried.

Moist rubbed his eyes quickly in what he hoped would pass for a weary migraine-massage rather than a shield to obscure his tears. "Good evening, Lord de Worde."

Lord de Worde indicated with his head that he had heard the greeting, because nobles never nod. "And to you, Mr. von Lipwig. And," he said, with only the slightest hesitation, "To our editor of The Times."

William gave him a stony look, his jaw apparently locked. Moist reveled for a quick moment in the delightful knowledge that there was someone out there who could make the verbose editor shut his yap.

Lord de Worde focused his attention on Moist von Lipwig. "I am truly sorry that Vetinari has managed, even from beyond the grave, to tangle you up in yet another farce. In light of the circumstances, I would like to offer my assistance."

"Your assistance in what?" Moist heard himself garble.

Lord de Worde raised a perfect eyebrow. "Obviously, a council must be put together-"

" 'Council' is such a large word for a garden party in Park Lane," William snapped suddenly, in an authoritarian voice Moist had never heard him use. Even his most hard-hitting interviews never carried this much iron, or pure, blinding hatred.

Lord de Worde did not even turn to look at his son, but he said quietly, "That's quite a conclusion you have leapt to. But naturally, a council must be selected from the right people in order to secure the people's faith and trust in this foreigner."

Moist blinked. He had rapidly come up with several options for how that sentence was going to end, and none had ended up being correct. "Foreigner?"

"I was given to understand, by the articles published in The Times, that you, Mr. von Lipwig, are a native of Uberwald?" There was a barely suppressed sneer twitching at the corners of the nobleman's mouth.

"That's low," William muttered.

"Indeed! I felt rather sullied picking up a copy of The Times myself," Lord de Worde agreed cheerfully. "And as you have observed in many an article, negotiations with Uberwald remain ever-tentative. Mr. von Lipwig is a liability to this fine city."

"No," William said firmly. "Moist has lived here for years. He has fixed broken systems. He has the people's trust."

"You sound so certain-"

"He has the trust of the Times, and people will follow along with that!"

Even though he could only half-follow the conversation, Moist recognized from Lord de Worde's horrible smirk that William had just talked his way into a trap.

"Ah," said Lord de Worde. "So you admit that you have a bias."

Moist glanced at William de Worde, who avoided eye contact and focused on massaging his hurt hand.

"Not to mention Vetinari's questionable connections with the Lady Margolotta," Lord de Worde continued. "There is a troubling, a disturbing bias swinging towards Uberwald at the moment. There are many like-minded citizens who share my concern. If anyone were to bother to bring it to the attention of the lower masses, no doubt the concerns would double."

Moist was, for the first time in his life, honestly dumbfounded. He hadn't been to Uberwald in years. He wasn't even sure he remembered the national anthem.

"Yes," said William. "Yes, there is a bias towards Moist. He's earned it. He has always been honest. We will continue to keep him that way."

"Oh, will you?" Lord de Worde sneered. "What are you going to do, track his every move?"

"If I have to."

"For all we know, he's been lying even about his criminal career-"

"Which is why I will personally be over-seeing the writing of his life-story! I'll ghost-write it myself if I have to!"

Moist made a mental note to call upon Lord de Worde every time William de Worde was behaving like a limp rag. His father really brought out the best in him.

Lord de Worde growled. "Even if the Truth catches up with the Lie, they can only run neck and neck until one of them trips, William!"

"THE TRUTH IS JUST GOING TO HAVE TO KICK SOME BLOODY TEETH IN, THEN!"

"Excuze me," a lilted voice called from the doorway.

It was Otto von Chriek, famed photographer of The Times. Moist noticed, with much delight, the way Lord de Worde visibly flinched.

Panting, William said, "Otto, this is not a great time."

Otto shrugged apologetically. "Time is of the ezzenze, no? I had thought this vas a prime opportunity. I vish to photograph Mr. von Lipwig's first twenty-four hours in office. Ve could do a special spread, show the people vat zhey are getting, hmm?"

"Yes!" William cried. "Yes, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Thank you, Otto."

Otto smiled. "Ve vill start here, then?" He turned to Lord de Worde, as if he hadn't seen him there before. "Lord de Vorde! I trust you are keeping vell?"

The blood drained away from Lord de Worde's face. That seemed to be all the reply he could manage.

"Vell, if I could have you stand next to Mr. von Lipvig there? Oh, and-"

In a blur, Otto was suddenly across the room, nose to nose with Lord de Worde, hands nearly encircling his neck.

Moist shouted something, and thought he heard William shout something as well. But Otto threw them each a puzzled glance, and resumed smoothing Lord de Worde's collar and tie.

"Ve must make sure you are looking all nice and smooth for ze picture, yes?" He said pleasantly, brushing down the nobleman's coat-sleeves. "After all, zis is for posterity."

Moist and Lord de Worde posed together, like statues. William stood by, smirking shamelessly at his father's discomfort.

Noblemen do not flee, but Lord de Worde cut a close equivalent across the room and out the door once the camera had flashed.

"We will be watching, Mr. von Lipwig," He called behind him. "We will be watching very carefully."

Otto turned back to William, ducking his chin in a way that made him appear meek. Even better, it appeared to convince William completely. Moist added a footnote about it to his growing list of observations. "I heard you shouting and zought ze situation required a little…intervention. Perhaps I overdid it?"

William began laughing. "It was perfect!" He crowed, shoulders heaving. "Did you see the look on his face? Did you see the way he…" The laughter was becoming gasps now, catching in his throat and sticking. "He…that bastard…"

William collapsed into Vetinari's chair and buried his face in his good hand. After a moment, Moist heard himself stammer out something like, "There, there."

William just shook his head and moaned, "I'm sorry. He's just the first one; they're all going to be like. They always follow his lead. I'm just so sorry." He straightened up and glared up at Moist. "But that's why you have to take this job."

"Sacharrisa is outside," Otto put in gently. "She vas vorried about you, Villiam. She figure you vould make a point of…how do you say…sticking your self-righteous chin in it? Zose vere her vords," He added quickly, with a wink to Moist. "And you should let someone look at your hand."

William made his own, shaky way out, and Moist couldn't stop himself from commenting, "I've been meaning to say this for some time, as one Uberwald boy to another: you put on the accent a little too thick."

Otto shrugged, and replied in a voice Moist had never heard him use in public, "It makes people feel better. But maybe one day I won't have to. Having a Patrician from Uberwald could help with that."

"I won't be favoring Uberwald!" Moist said quickly.

"No," said Otto, with a twinkle of fangs. "And you won't favor anyone else. You will set a precedent. You'll be proof that anyone, from anywhere, can be a fair Patrician for this city, because we are all equal." He winked again. "I will take care of William. He means well, even if he tends to stick his neck where it is not needed. But he believes in you, and that is rare. He does not believe in many people. He does not believe they are worth it."

Moist rubbed his jaw ruefully.

"Make sure you ice your jaw," Otto commented on his way out. "It would be a shame for your face to be misshapen in my photographs of your first day in office."

Moist sank again into Vetinari's old chair. It showed too many weak patches of thin fabric, he mused, rubbing the spot where Vetinari's sharp elbows had dug holes. It would have to be replaced with something smooth, and shiny. He would never be able to do things quite in Vetinari's way. The new Patrician would need a bit more flash, a bit more of a public persona. Something to keep him in the public's eyes. Something, he reflected with a pang of guilt, to keep him accountable-

"That was a fine show," said a voice accompanied with a puff of smoke. An arm encircled his neck by way of an embrace, and he sank back against Adora's chest.

"You could have come in at any time," he said reproachfully.

"You needed to handle that by yourself," said Adora, with a shrug. She stroked his hair, just a little. She could afford him a little extra affection now. "You're going to be okay."

Moist closed his eyes and inhaled her cigarette-scent deeply. "You know, there's never been a Patrician's wife before."

"And there never will be," said Adora. "There will, however, be a First Lady's husband."

Moist smiled. "I love you."

Adora leaned down and kissed Moist gently where William de Worde had punched him. "I know."