Rating: K+/T
His Grace, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, the Duke of Ankh, protective father, more usually absent husband, and holder of residual guilt for aforementioned absences, stared blearily into his mirror over the wash basin. Unfortunately the face staring back was his. Very definitely his. He grimaced as he saw the stubble adorning his features and wondered exactly what time he'd staggered back home, almost delirious with lack of sleep.
He knew he'd read to young Sam at 6 on the dot and then had run straight back out... everything else segued into one long cloud of exhaustion and fog.
When was the last time he had actually stopped for more than 2 seconds to speak to his wife? Or, more pertinently, spent any time with her? Of the evening in variety?
He sighed and let his hand that was holding the razor drop into the basin with a splosh. He felt the familiar tendrils of guilt settle over his shoulders as he tried unsuccessfully to erase his wife's face from the inside of his eyelids.
"I know, I know..." He hissed to himself.
She never asked, never argued, always accepted the demands of his job with boundless good grace. The guilt was his. All of it.
He slowly opened his eyes and saw that the water had turned pink. Slow ribbons of darker colour were snaking out of his clenched fist, the nails of which were biting into his palm so hard they were drawing blood.
Vimes swore and jerked his hand out of the water, wrapping the towel around his palm and deciding to abandon his shaving. He hadn't even really got started, merely given himself a wash before dropping his razor into the water.
Soft hands landing on his shoulders made him start with surprise. As he turned his head, the hands began a gentle massage on the backs of his shoulders and a light kiss landed on the back of his neck.
"You're so tense," his wife murmured into his ear, continuing the gentle kneading with her fingers. "You need to relax." She punctuated the words with soft kisses on the back of his neck, knowing what a sensitive area it was for Vimes.
Vimes could only stand, gaping stupidly, as the delicious melting of his tension flowed out of him, counterbalanced by the tingling of her light kisses. Unbidden, his bloodied towel dropped next to the wash basin as his brain decided to concentrate on more exciting parts of his anatomy, and his arms reached behind him for his wife, desperate to feel the soft curves. It felt like such a long time since he had looked at his wife like this...
One of her hands dropped from his shoulder as she pressed against him, her hand snagging his bloodied one and gently opening his fingers. A soft pressure on the palm, grazing the indentations his nails had left, made him gasp as he realised she was softly kissing the self inflicted injuries. The insistent pressure against his back was making it hard for him not to respond - her breasts were pressed flush against him and his fingers itched to caress the warm, heavy flesh.
"Sybil..." he whispered, chest tight with oh so many things he wanted, needed, to say to her.
She dropped his hand and, with a light pressure on his shoulder, turned him around to face her. Vimes' breathing had quickened with the soft, gentle, and above all, loving, pace she had set. Her expressive chocolate eyes were warm with a myriad of emotions and she lifted her hand, lightly brushing her fingers across his parted lips. No words.
Sybil stepped closer, running soft fingers down his scarred chest and abdomen, washing away his impurities and imperfections with the purity of the love that shone from her eyes. Slowly, she leaned in to him, lips closing and touching, her message clear.
Let me show you. Let me love you. I love you.