Title: Talk of the Town
Pairing: H. Vetinari/Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes (kind of!)
Rating: K+
Summary: After a brief relationship at the end of Guards! Guards! Sam ends things with Sybil. Sybil's rebound will have repercussions far beyond Sam's wildest imagination.
This is slightly AU, the characters are perhaps slightly parodied.
Read with tongue firmly in cheek.
It is said that the Gods play games with the lives of men. Some suggest that they pass the tedium of the millennia around an intergalactic chessboard, gambling with fate, the lives of men hinging upon the shake of a dice. This all sounds romantic and…preordained…until you can grasp the mindset of the average God. They don't have the imagination. Their idea of a hilarious joke is much the same as the annoying prankster who still puts whoopee cushions under people's seats. Just occasionally, for vainglorious reasons, one or two individuals might catch their eye(s). But on the whole, the Gods and Goddesses up at Cori Celestii have very little reason to concern themselves with the lives of men.
The lives of rulers of men, on the other…appendage… now that would be much more interesting…
Ankh-Morpork. King of Cities! Pearl of the Sto Plains!
Over on the Ankhian side of the river, a disheveled Night Watchman stumbles down a long drive as the front door of the pleasant old house behind him closes sharply. He stops and bends double, whether to catch his breath or to pull himself together, is unclear. After a few moments he straightens up and continues his weaving, stumbling steps down the drive. Behind him, the lights in the downstairs rooms went out. The man stops. A gust of wind ruffles his hair. The roar he lets out seems to have been wrenched out of his very being.
In an altogether different part of the city, something very dastardly indeed is afoot….
Lady Sybil Ramkin blew out her candle and sat motionless on the settee in what Sam Vimes would eternally think of as 'the ghastly pink drawing room.' Her frame was still taut with tension and she drew several deep breaths hoping to force cleansing equilibrium to her bloodstream. She failed. She felt the hot tendrils of embarrassment squeezing her heart, the immense hurt doing little to soothe. Bringing up the rear guard was a hefty dose of anger. Why? What did I do that was so wrong? The thoughts turned over and over in her mind as she sat in the dark silence. Memories floated past her mind's eye, as intangible and fragile as the first shoots of spring. She had dared to hope, hope that the fledgling romance might have blossomed. What she hadn't bargained for, was the nuances of Sam himself. She sighed and wiped a stray tear before standing up and squaring her shoulders, and climbed the ornate staircase to her bedroom - although she suspected sleep would elude her that night.
The moon threw its audacious, silvery light through the leaded windows of Lady Ramkin's bedroom, or as Nobby Nobbs would probably prefer, boodwah, and insouciantly illuminated the large, comfortable bed of the lady herself. Shadows were deepened, the room alight with the ethereal, almost otherworldly glow. Lady Ramkin lay on her side, staring unseeingly at the panes of the window, the moonlight merely mocking her. Such a night as this, was a night for lovers, not for spurned forty-somethings feeling dejected and old. She turned over onto her back. She wondered what he was doing right now.
Sam Vimes, erstwhile Captain of the Night Watch and extremely single, stared unsteadily at the glass in front of him. It seemed to be refilling itself - he could almost hear the liquid snarl as it sloshed up the sides of the glass. He had entertained the idea once that he should cut back on his drinking. He tried to snort in disgust at that idea, but just succeeded in a series of bubbling noises as he slid further down his stool.
Woman. Yeah, that's what it is. City's a woman. One that accepts everything. Yeah. Kicks you in the gutter, but you can never leave. He vaguely recalled that he was trying to forget something, but couldn't remember what...hahahaha! Good one! Vimes chortled to himself.
Charlie, the bartender, propped himself up by his elbow as he stared at his customer.
"I said to her," Vimes burbled into his freshly refilled glass. "Ge' yo'sel' betterer-er," he frowned as he thought about the word, the advanced neural processing required temporarily flummoxing him. Feeling on slightly firmer ground, he giggled. "She' lady, Charlie...lady don't belong wi' me..." Vimes raised his voice.
"And who is the lady," Charlie asked in a bored voice. He was used to the drunken rumblings of the jilted, the locked out husbands, the broken-hearted and the suicidal. Sam hadn't been like this for a while. He was mildly interested.
Vimes tried to answer but could only come out with a series of esses. He tried again.
"Sssssybbbb," he frowned and tried again. "Ssssssyb-Sssssybil. A whole lotta woman, Charlie," Vimes swallowed the rest of his drink. "A whole, wholewhole lotta-a-a womanananan..." Vimes' head dipped forward onto one arm as his voice became a mumble.
Charlie paused in smearing the grime around a fresh glass. Sybil? 'A lady'? He stared at Vimes. The man was raving drunk. Not Lady Ramkin, the mad woman with dragons. The drunken, scruffy, unshaven alcoholic in front of him could not possibly have -dated?- a real, high born lady, no matter how mad.
"Really? That dragon woman?"
Vimes' head bounced gently off the bar as he slid bonelessly onto the floor. Charlie leaned over the sticky bar, staring at the heap of armour on the mouldy straw.
"You're joking, right?"
Alone in the Oblong Office, Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers and lightly rested his chin on them. If he had had a swivel chair, he would be lightly swivelling as he pondered. But he hadn't. So he didn't.
Lord Vetinari did not have psychic powers, despite the general belief of the majority of the populous. He always maintained that it was so much better to actually know what the future held, instead of guesswork, wouldn't you agree? My what a lovely crystal ball, I can see straight through it...
Lord Vetinari saw the future, and saw that it was good. A slight pulling at one corner of his mouth indicated that a small smile was trying to break loose. Finding itself all alone in unfamiliar territory, it hastily disappeared.
He picked up a small bell and rang it. Despite the lateness of the hour, his clerk, Drumknott, appeared with alacrity.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Ah, Drumknott. I believe it is time a long overdue lesson is learned."
"My lord?" Drumknott's face remained impassive.
"See that my coach is ready." He waved a thin white hand. Underneath his table a low snoring sound pierced the silent room.
"Yes, my lord." Drumknott inclined his head and noiselessly withdrew.
Lord Vetinari resisted the temptation to smooth his dark hair. The compulsion mildly irritated him. He steepled his fingers again and allowed the smallest quirk of one corner of his mouth.
Comments would be greatly appreciated!