Disclaimer: Look, I'm not old, I haven't got a beard, and I'm not even a man. Plus, my greenhouse isn't taking over my backyard. Nope. I'm not Pterry.

Author notes:

Syntia13: pets you on the back Thank you very much! I highly appreciate your laughter.

Gestalt: Yes, I rather think there'll be more pen-sucking too, though whether Drumknott will be doing it, or Vetinari, remains to be seen. Thanks for the review!

Caethilia Mordon: Oh yes, absolutely binkers! Like the idea of a Mobius strip, completely twisted, but tantalizingly possible.

Lady Twatterby: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE FANART. A million, million times, thank you. I adore it. Everytime I'm stuck with the story, I just open it and stare at it a while and everything seems to come out alright after all (well, I think so anyway. I can but hope that the other reviewers think the same).

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The six 'o' clock story-telling session was not going very well. Compared to the, metaphorically, technicolor, surround-sound of Commander Vimes; Drumknott was a silent, black and white movie on a small, fuzzy screen. Young Sam stared up at that moving mouth that was spouting words he could hear, but couldn't quite understand. Where was the bellowing 'MOOO', the shrill 'OIIIINK', the crusty 'NEIIIIIGHHH'?

"Is that my cow?" read Drumknott steadily. "It goes 'cluck'. That is a chicken. That is not my cow."

"BCKBCKBCKBCKAAA!" cried Young Sam.

Drumknott stared at the boy. The clerk was a city man, through and through. "Are you feeling alright, Sammy?" he asked, putting a cool hand against the warm, round forehead.

Young Sam blew a raspberry and flopped his fat arms, imitating Vimes imitating the way the chicken's wings flapped. Not very accurately done, since the closest contact Vimes had with a chicken wings was when they were charred back and bubbling with oil, so salty they could burn through a brick.

Drumknott decided that with this much energy, Young Sam was probably alright. He even found himself hoping that Young Sam would overtax himself and drop d- down into a deep sleep from which he wouldn't waken until his loving parents were ready to take him back into their loving, and apparently indestructible, hands.

All day long, Drumknott had been running after Young Sam. The boy seemed to alternate between toddling and crawling and he was speedier even than someone running out of Vetinari's office - which was saying something. Vetinari's genteel "Don't let me detain you" had the effect of the rope snapping while being hanged.

As metaphors go, this is probably less of a lie than others.

Drumknott's eyes were heavy. While he could, would and did spend hours sorting through Vetinari's correspondence, snatching a few hours of intense sleep here and there, Drumknott had never felt the urge to fall into his bed and snooze the night away. But then again, he had never had to take care of a hyperactive toddler before either. He was nodding over the last page.

"Is that my cow…?" he read dreamily. "It goes 'moo'. That is my cow…"

"MOOOOO!" bellowed Young Sam as Drumknott's head fell forward, and the book slowly slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor. Sam stared, clutching onto Drumknott's lapels as the book hit the floor.

His eyes widened.

Dead! The Book was DEAD!

It came out more like, "Agagagadoom'EAD!"

Drumknott murmured a little in his sleep, head drooping. Young Sam shimmied down his leg and landed on his be-diapered behind, he poked the book cautiously, and seeing that a few pages had fallen out (little surprise, considering Young Sam, besides using that book for the educational purposes of finding cows, also used it as a pillow, a soft toy, and occasionally, a weapon.), did not burst out crying. He was Sam Vimes's child after all.

His small jaw tightened, and with the air of one on a commando mission, he started to waddle out of the room. One can only hope that his inexpertly pinned diapers would hold.

----

There was a messy pounding on the door. The knocks were inaccurate, without a steady rhythm, and seemed to be coming somewhere from where Vetinari's knees were. He paused before opening it, having selected from his secret stash of weapons. (Some people hoard chocolate, but the Patrician, well… you could try choking an assassin with chocolate of course but it just doesn't have tone to it.)

Yanking the door open, Vetinari sliced in one, sharp, accurate moment.

It would have been a very impressive moment, with blood splattering from severed tendons, if there was anyone there.

"Gaaa," said a disparaging voice from under his kneecaps.

Vetinari looked down. "Oh, I see," he said. "What now?"

"Gaaaaaaa," said Young Sam again, and turned to go. The door slammed behind him, narrowly missing the heap of diapers on his bottom.

There was another set of uneven knocks. Vetinari paused on the way to his desk, sighed, and turned to open the door again. "Oh, I see," he said, "this is one of those little Lassie things, is it? You've come to get help because Drumknott has probably stubbed his toe, or something, yes?"

…completely unbidden, the sudden image of Drumknott, blood cascading down his arm as someone stabbed him, so the Patrician would be blamed…

Vetinari followed Young Sam.

They made slow progress because Young Sam kept making wrong turnings, and then he plumped down on his fat behind and whined because the skin of his knees were worn off. In the end Vetinari had to take his chubby hand and they toddled along the corridor. Several servants crossed their way but pretended not to see. It was the only way to save their eyes from being ceremonially gouged out, according to the look on Vetinari's face.

Young Sam apparently felt the need for a snack, because he popped his thumb into his mouth. Several housemaids cum fangirls nearly fainted at the sight of the Patrician walking hand in hand with an adorable baby boy, padding down the halls.

One of them ran off to do fanart.

Anyone else might have yanked the door open roughly, yelling, "Drumknott! Are you alright!" But when he reached Drumknott's room, Vetinari gently eased the door open, sliding the blade he kept out of the cane. Of course he kept a blade neatly in his cane to be pulled out if necessary. It was so clichéd that no one believed Havelock Vetinari would resort to it – a mistaken belief often to be the last of mistaken beliefs.

Drumknott was sprawled in a chair, a book at his feet, pages on the floor. His eyes were closed.

Young Sam burst into tears anew.

"He's just asleep!" said Vetinari, eyes narrowing. "You brought me here all this way just because Rufus Drumknott fell a--"

Young Sam waddled over to the remains of his book and picked them up, sniffing theatrically.

Vetinari ignored the boy and studied his clerk. Drumknott was going to wake up with a bad back if he was left to sleep in that rigid oak chair. His face was rosy in sleep, mouth halfway open.

Vetinari suspected that he was in love. On anyone else, the sleep-loosened face would have looked idiotic. On Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician found his stomach twisted with the innocence of it. Carefully, he leaned down and scooped the man up.

Possibly he had been reading a little too much of those love stories in the Entertainment Page of the Times – 'human interest' – he believed that charming young woman Sacharissa Crisplock might've said. Steely, grey-eyed men picked up young women, and always found them a little lighter than expected.

Vetinari staggered a little. Drumknott felt, for a moment, like a sack of wet flour in his wiry arms. But warm. Vetinari could feel that warmth even through his black robes. "Ummm," murmured his clerk, turning his face into Vetinari's chest.

Nothing could spoil that moment. Not even Young Sam pointing at the picture of the cow and saying sadly, "No mooooooo."

Vetinari glided slowly over to the bed, covers turned neatly down (Who still made their beds, even when their mothers were no longer around? Rufus Drumknott, that's who) and laid his head clerk gently onto the covers and contemplated undressing him. To put him in his nightshirt of course. Nothing else.

He didn't do it in the end. It's a terrible thing not to be able to trust yourself.

Instead, Vetinari turned away from the sleeping clerk, and studied his surroundings. William De Worde was wrong, for once. Drumknott did have a personality. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, or his characteristics on his person, but his room verily breathed Drumknottyness.

It was fascinating.

"Cluck, cluck," said Young Sam sadly, staring at the picture of a chicken that had fallen out of the worn book.

"Oh, stop angling for attention," said Vetinari, staring around at the neat, quiet surroundings. Drumknott had thrown out every piece of palace furniture in his room, with the effect of his things, bed (seldom used), chairs, tables all being highly inferior – likely to fall apart somewhere into the next century – but extremely personable. There were iconographs on one wall, of his family, and his desk had a few books on it, along with papers covered with his neat, rounded writing.

The whole room was hushed, as a whisper, and warm as a smile.

Extraordinary.

Vetinari moved over to the desk, wondering if Drumknott kept a diary.