Disclaimer: Vimes belongs to Terry Pratchett, as does darling Vetinari, and most of the street names as well. Plus the cats'-head cobbles.
I know this kind of angst is getting OOC! And I know this isn't something Vimes would have done anyway! But never mind! Oh, and Vetinari seems to be turning into the boy I fancy, so if you notice any physical description you don't agree with, sorry...
Should he tell her? was the refrain that hammered at his mind with every step of his feet on the streets he knew so well.
The courtyard outside the palace. Cobbles. Sentries. Should he tell her? Should he tell her?
Viney Street. Crazy paving. Should he tell her?
Holofernes Street. Large paving slabs. Should he tell her?
Gleam Street. Mud, mostly. At least he didn't wear the boots she had given him. At least there wasn't that reproach in his steps as well. But should he tell her?
Cobbles again. Round cats-head cobbles. Should he tell her?
Cat's head cobbles?
The palace? He'd hardly seen where he was going. He'd known, of course - these were his streets and his boots, and he could read them - but the information had gone from his feet to his memory without troubling to stop and inform his racing brain. Why had he come back to the palace?
Because he was in love with the perfect Patrician.
Because he was foul and vile. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed himself.
He was perverted.
He was sick.
Literally. He staggered towards the fountain - not bothering to think of those who would try to drink from it: if they thought any water was safe, they shouldn't be in Ankh-Morpork - and vomited.
He had kissed the Patrician. He had held the Patrician's strong, lovely hands. He had dared to do what he had been fancying himself doing in his secret heart for months. He had at last touched the beautiful Vetinari. He had kissed his master's narrow, sensuous lips! he had stroked the dark olive skin! he had touched the sharp straight nose! His dreams of that had been short and shameful. How could he have had the courage? How could he have lost the control?
He tried to forget the Patrician's eyes, those slate stars framed by long, long lashes, but still they filled his mind. The sky seemed full of his face, his dark skin and delicate features; and his slight figure was in every beat of Vimes' too-hasty heart. What had he done?
