I normally prefer to leave notes at the end so they can be skipped, however this time context is important. One upon a time, about a decade ago, I wrote my first fan-fiction. It was rushed, melodramatic and written chapter by chapter...yet somehow I think I managed to beat out a decent plot behind all the stilted prose. It remained on my hard-drive as something I cringed at and smiled about by turns, but never forgot. Now, finally, I have taken it out, dusted it off and rebuilt it from the ground up as something I hope I can be proud of. The original version is still up for comparison, please tell me what you think. I'm planning to post one chapter per week, or the completed version is on my AO3 page if you feel impatient.

Tick…Tock..Tick….Tock….Tick..Tock…..Tock

Vimes sat slumped in the Patrician's waiting room, too tired even to notice the clock. He needed sleep. Well no, actually he needed something stronger but he wasn't allowed that. But one thing he didn't need, and his mind agreed unanimously on this point, was to see Vetinari.

His mind kept flitting back to the events of the night; the chase through the warehouses, Carrot trying to talk the man down, the realisation that the man was charging coming instantaneously with movement as he pushed Carrot out of the way, the clumsy roll and sprawl that carried him clear of the knife, the menacing stalk of a wolf and the panicked scream of a would-be arsonist finally restrained by 80lb of snarling fur and muscle.

Only after it was over had Vimes realised that with the late patrolling and paperwork of the previous day and night he had been awake for over 48hrs. He tried to relax in the hard wooden chair, but a throb of pain from the bruise that covered most of his back reminded him why he was making the effort to sit so straight. Igor had done his best, including a salve that smelt suspiciously of bacon fat and mint, but the lack of any sort of rest was beginning to tell. Igor had tried to convince Vimes to try his new method of speeding up the healing process, but any procedure that involved that much tubing attached to needles and a lightening rod couldn't be a good thing.

And now he had to try and 'explain' things. And Vetinari would be calm and listen attentively and, curse him, might even be understanding.

"Hell," thought Vimes, "I couldn't cope with that at the best of times, let alone right now."

Vimes realised someone was trying to attract his attention. He looked up into the carefully expressionless face of Drumknott.

"The Patrician will see you now."

Vimes struggled to his feet and made his way to the office, trying not to stagger. He stood in front of the desk, swaying slightly as he, more by habit than need, tried to read the paper work upside down.

"Sit down Your Lordship" Vetinari said dryly as he looked up, one raised eyebrow somehow saying more about the state of Vimes' uniform that most could achieve with illustrated notes.

Vimes sat, letting Vetinari's words wash over him. His mind was slowing to a crawl, fighting a rearguard action against the demands of his overtaxed body. Through the dull rushing in his ears he dimly heard Vetinari trying to attract his attention.

"Vimes, as much as I hate to derail your train of thought I was hoping I could merit a small part of your attention."

Vimes tried to get his eyes to focus, something that was apparently no longer an automatic process. If he could hang on until Vetinari dismissed him…

"Sir?" he said and slumped sideways.

His last relieved thought before unconsciousness was that he didn't see the look on Vetinari's face.

As the blackness slowly began to recede, Vimes dreamed.

"Are you sure you don't have any shackles Vimes?"

"No!"

(I remember this…)

Rust's angry face loomed up out of the massed city leaders.

"The charge is high treason, the sentence death."

Vimes gritted his teeth to suppress an oath

"And a fair trial doesn't come into the picture? I would think he deserved that at least."

(This isn't right, it didn't happen like this…)

"This is the trial Mr. Vimes."

Vetinari brushed his chained hands against Vimes' arm. "For the good of the city, justice must be served."

(I can't do this, it's not right, not Him…)

The hurdle jerked slowly through streets lined with angry people. Vimes saw the raised arm an instant before the throw and pulled Vetinari down, shielding him. The rock impacted with his back-plate, denting and bruising.

"The city speaks Commander."

"When have I ever listened to them?"

Vetinari smiled thinly. Vimes felt lost, searching Vetinari's eyes for a hint, a sign there was some grand plan – realising there was nothing but unable to tear his gaze away.

(He never smiles like that…)

Vimes slipped the noose over Vetinari's head, then turned and walked down the ladder. Involuntarily his body turned and his gaze searched out Vetinari's again. A wave of frustration and fear washed over him, a longing for something he couldn't place.

(For him…?)

Vimes turned to run back, but he felt as though he was waist deep in freezing mud. He saw Carrot's hand grasp the lever, his mouth open to cry out but no sound escaping.

The trapdoor opened…

The bubble broke, and Vimes slowly swam towards consciousness. He lay, still feeling the phantom pain from the thrown stone, the lingering confusion as his body adjusted from dream to reality. Vimes surveyed his surroundings by feel; not trusting himself to open his eyes until he remembered…well how he got here would be a start.

"Well I'm definitely lying on sheets, which gets rid of one set of unpleasant possibilities."

Memory hit him like a sledgehammer, and he groaned under his breath. Vetinari was not going to be pleased. Still, he could deal with that later. Carrot or one of the others would have been called to take him home to the Watch house, or back to Sybil's.

"Welcome back Vimes."

Liquid ice poured down Vimes' spine. Vetinari's voice? That meant…

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in…bloody hell it must be Vetinari's bed! He was vaguely prepared to accept the idea that Vetinari occasionally slept, he had even been by his bedside when the man was poisoned, he just never thought of his bed as the type others could visit. He tried to jump to his feet, got tangled in the bedclothes, righted himself, completed a quick and relieved check that he was fully clothed…then met Vetinari's amused and slightly predatory stare.

At that moment, Vimes' legs decided to protest strongly about his rapid movements. As his knees buckled, he grabbed the bedpost to stop himself falling. Instantly, Vetinari was at his elbow, offering support. Vimes blinked in astonishment. Was that concern in Vetinari's eyes?

He regained his balance and straightened but Vetinari didn't immediately step back, leaving the two men standing inches apart, the bed behind Vimes removing any hope of regaining personal space.

"Are you fully recovered?"

Vimes found his gaze involuntarily drifting down to Vetinari's lips as he spoke, their faces so close that he could feel the puffs of air displaced by each plosive. In hindsight Vimes supposed it was a mistake to try and push past the Patrician, especially when the other man obviously thought he was still unbalanced and so would move to brace him. At the time, however, the only thing that registered was an unusually graceless tangle of limbs and the unexpected sensation of lips meeting his.

Head still swimming from the recent period of unconsciousness Vimes found himself automatically leaning into this unintended kiss, part of him fuzzily wondering when Vetinari would draw back with a cuttingly raised eyebrow. The hands that came up to gently grip his shoulders were what finally allowed his scattered thoughts to recover with screaming clarity.

Vetinari's hands…Vetinari, he was kissing, being kissed by…

Vimes pulled away, his face masked with brittle calm. Unable to look at the potential expression on the other man's face he strode briskly from the room; fighting the urge to turn and salute in the doorway, he instead left his customary dent in the hallway wall.

Vetinari remained standing in the middle of the room, no emotion registering on his pale face. When the sound of Vimes' retreat had faded, he moved to his desk and sat down, pulling some papers towards him. As he began to write, the sound of feet striding away from the palace were heard through the open window. Only then did his shoulders slump, ever so slightly.