Angels Make Lousy Cupids
By: Twist
A/n: I wrote this on my LiveJournal about a month ago and never really got around to posting it. But anyway, now I have and here it is; the lovely sequel/second chapter to Of Angels and Volcanoes. Just so you know, though, this is NOT a work in progress; it's just a couple of shorts I've written that follow the same storyline. So no getting hopeful, because I hate making reviewers cry. :P Also an important note: Havelock, in this fic and in my brain, is Genuan. I mean, his aunt's from Genua, so I'm going with the idea that his whole family is, and he was the kid that went to school in Ankh-Morpork and never really managed to leave. So there.
Disclaimer: Nada es mío. Todo es de Señor Pratchett.
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Moist was getting used to being Patrician, as much as he hated to admit it. It really wasn't bad, and apparently Ankh-Morpork didn't think he was too bad either. He wasn't mad, he wasn't despotic, and he wasn't a king. As far as the populace was concerned, Moist was perfect.
As far as Moist was concerned, being Patrician was perfect. He was a sociable-type guy, and therefore he didn't mind meeting all the people required him to meet and remember. At the moment, he was working very hard on remembering the figure of the Kythian ambassador's daughter. He was also trying to hold a conversation at the same time. One of the two was suffering, and rest assured it was not the young lady in the sparkling yellow dress.
"What do you think, milord?" someone suddenly asked him out of the blue. Moist looked to the speaker and was slightly furious to find that it was Vimes. Damn the man, he had known the Patrician wasn't paying attention. Moist decided that a very careful diplomatic answer was best, and resumed the necessary look of thoughtfulness prior to making such a remark.
"The principle is sound," Moist said slowly, "but it'll all end in trouble."
"Exactly what I was saying, milord!" the Arch-Chancellor of Unseen University roared, slapping Moist squarely in the middle of the back and knocking the wind out of him. Moist caught Vimes' smirk through the coughing fit and had a momentary pang of anger. He was pretty sure Ridcully (he still didn't know which one was which; after almost a year that was disgraceful) had never slapped Vetinari. Or maybe he had, though if this were true it was a wonder he still had both hands.
Ridcully launched back into his tirade; more confident now that he knew he had the Patrician on his side. Moist once again let his attention wander off to the young lady across the room. Gods, she was beautiful. That dress was barely covering her chest, too . . . Amazing her father had ever let her wear it, conservative old fart that he was. And now she was smiling and laughing, oh dear . . .
"Staring, von Lipwig," said a dry, cool voice off to Moist's right. Moist, caught in a moment of weakness by someone he had never expected to see again in his life, yelped. He became aware that the conversation circle around him was staring at him. The exception was Vimes; the Commander was biting his lower lip, shoulders shaking from silent laughter.
"Are you alright, milord?" Ridcully asked hesitantly.
"Probably best not to blame it on someone eight months dead," said the silky voice over Moist's shoulder.
"Er . . . spider?" Moist said.
"Ah." Ridcully nodded with a slight scowl. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it, you know."
"Probably, probably," Moist said, struggling to recover. He was slowly and horrifyingly becoming aware that quite a lot of people were looking at him strangely. "Just took me by surprise, is all." He tried to look haughty as Ridcully apparently sized him up. Finally the Arch-Chancellor nodded and continued talking about something-or-other. Conversation around them resumed. Moist breathed a sigh of relief, though not too obviously. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered quietly, "I need a bit of fresh air." And with that, he slipped out. He really wished the Commander wouldn't follow him.
"What are you doing here?" Moist howled once he was outside and suitably alone in the University garden.
"Work," Vetinari the angel said, completely deadpan.
"Smiting, are you?" Vimes asked personably, strolling up to the angel and the Patrician. "Should I get my acid-proof umbrella?" Vetinari scowled slightly, but didn't say anything. "Good job making Lipwig scream like a little girl, by the way."
Vetinari nodded solemnly. "I was going to say something about that." He turned to Moist and fixed him with the oldest, most penetrating stare the Postmaster-turned-Patrician had ever faced. "If I ever hear you scream like a little girl again, there will be smiting. I'm not joking."
"Sorry sir," Moist mumbled, unsure of what to say and figuring that he really couldn't go wrong with a respectful apology.
"I thought the spider cover was pretty good, though," Vimes said, pulling out a cigar.
"Still, Lipwig, you screamed. Actually screamed, all high-pitched and girly. Disgraceful. Politicians should never scream," Vetinari scolded.
"Prince Khufurah screamed that one time," Vimes said, staring off into some middle distance. "Remember? All you did was walk into the room."
"I can have that affect on people," Vetinari said with a slight grin.
"Yeah, well, you shouldn't just come up behind me," Moist sulked. "It's not every day that angels wander up behind you at banquets. I wasn't exactly prepared for the event."
"Well then, shame on you," Vimes said dismissively. "What kind of work are you here on, then, if not smiting?" he asked, turning his attention back to Vetinari.
"Oh . . . nothing."
"As if that's not suspicious," Moist grumbled. He pouted when Vetinari glared. Suddenly, a lady's laugh drifted toward the three over a hedge. Moist paled: he knew that laugh. "Oh, no."
"What ever happened to your young lady?" Vimes asked, amused at Moist's obvious infatuation with the girl in the yellow dress who had just turned the corner in the their little alcove.
"Left me for a golem," Moist muttered quickly. "It's not important."
"She left you for a golem? You must've been awful."
"He was really depressed," Vetinari said, getting some kind of cruel amusement from Moist's growing panic as the Ambassador's daughter came closer. She was with Lady Sybil, which was a small blessing. The two of them were laughing.
"Oh there you are Sam!" Sybil said, sweeping over to her husband. "Sam, I'd like you to meet Paloma Ortega. Her father is the ambassador from Kythia."
"My pleasure, Young lady," Vimes said gruffly with a nod. The only polite concession he made was removing the cigar from his mouth. Paloma grinned dazzlingly.
"Oh, it es all mine," she said smoothly. "En mis few months en this city, I have heard so much de Usted."
"Charmed," Vimes almost growled. He offered a fleeting grin before replacing his cigar. Sybil glared at her husband quickly, though Moist just barely caught it and Paloma most certainly didn't.
"And who es this?" she asked, turning her attention to Moist, who blushed.
"This is Moist von Lipwig. He's been the Patrician of the city for about eight months now, though more people still talk about his predecessor." Sybil smiled sadly at this.
"Gosh you must be dull," Vetinari said behind Moist. Moist could hear the smirk in the angel's voice.
"Ah, yes, the Genuan," Paloma said, assuming a look of sadness. "Such unfortunate circumstances."
"Yes," Moist said distractedly. Vimes' shoulders were shaking. In the background, known only to Vimes and Moist, Vetinari was complaining bitterly.
"All my last life I try to be as Morporkian as possible, but can I? No. I'm always the amazing Genuan alligator-whisperer vampire or something. For gods' sakes people, it's not that difficult."
"Ah, but why linger en el sadness, eh?" Paloma said, face once again erupting into that dazzling smile of hers. "Lordship, it is a pleasure to meet you," she said sweetly.
"And you," Moist stuttered out. He bent and kissed her expertly manicured hand.
"Say something suave," Vetinari muttered.
"That dress looks fantastic," Moist said.
Paloma giggle and raised a gloved hand to her breast. Moist started sweating, imperceptibly. "I will give you el nombre de the seamstress, milord." She stared at Vimes briefly when he started snorting. Sybil hit him discreetly with her fan. "I am thinking that they make clothing for hombres, as well."
"Be charming," Vetinari coached quietly. "She obviously likes you and how advantageous would an ally on the other side of the world be?"
"Fabulous," Moist said. "I fear these clothes are a bit on the worn side." He picked at the fraying sleeves of his black suit. It was the same one he'd had since the beginning of his reign as Postmaster; perhaps it was getting a bit old . . .
Paloma stepped forward and took his ink-stained hand into hers. She scrutinized the cuffs and finally grinned a little. "Oh, but milord, este es nothing a seamstress could not fix." Then she looked straight into his eyes. Green, he thought dazedly. What pretty green eyes she has. "Perhaps even I could do that," she said softly.
Moist wanted to say something to impress her. His manly side was screaming at him, telling him to say something that would let her know how strong he was. Panicking due to the close contact, he blurted the first thing that crossed his mind. "I want to be your underwear," he said, and immediately regretted it. Damn, his voice had been perfect, but that line . . . Where had that come from?
Meanwhile, Vimes had had to snatch his cigar from his mouth, lest he inhale it. Sybil looked halfway between shocked and amused, though whether this was because of her husband's outburst or Moist's completely inappropriate line was unclear. Moist looked shamefully to the ground.
"I always knew you were blunt, but that was impressive," Vetinari said. "The total lack of tact, I think, is what got her."
Paloma was looking at Moist with an indiscernible expression. Finally, she grinned. "Lord von Lipwig, you are a very funny hombre," she giggled. "Perhaps you would like to come back inside with me? I am getting a bit chilled."
"Er . . . really?" Moist asked, shocked. "Listen, I'm really sorry if I offended you . . ."
"Not at all!" Paloma said, laughing harder now. "Lordship, I would be honored if you would accompany me inside. Mi papi, I think, would like to speak to you."
"Um, alright," Moist said hesitantly. With that he linked his arm her and led her inside, talking about much more civil things all the way. Sybil, Sam and Vetinari watched them go. Finally, Sybil drew herself up and assumed an expression of utmost disappointment.
"I am almost ashamed for you two," she said. "And don't think I can't see you there, Havelock Vetinari."
"Really? Damn, something must've gone off . . ."
"Egging him on like that," she said, disgusted. "Honestly, it's like you're still teenagers. And you, of all things, should have more sense." Here she glared pointedly at the angel. Vetinari withered under her gaze slightly and shrugged. Sybil let the glare go on a moment more before she relaxed and pulled him into an enormous hug. "It is good to see you're still around, though."
"Likewise," Vetinari said, gingerly patting her on the back.
"What are you here for?" she asked, releasing the former Patrician. "And what, precisely, are you?"
"Angel here on business," he husband said, finally replacing his cigar and blowing smoke out of his nostrils. "Not smiting."
"Well, that certainly does explain a lot," Sybil said calmly. "Will you be here much longer?"
"No, actually," Vetinari said, glancing at a watch with at least nine hands. "I was just about to be going."
"Well, then, we mustn't keep you," Sybil said gracefully. "I assume we'll still be seeing you?"
"Probably, probably," he said with a shrug. "And if not sooner than it's always later."
"Good to know," she said sweetly. "Take care of yourself." Havelock nodded, and Sybil turned to her husband. "Well Sam, I think we'd best go see how Moist and the ambassador are getting, don't you?"
"Oh, I'm sure they're getting on like a casa en fuego," Vimes said with a grin. He turned to follow his wife, waving casually to Vetinari as he walked around the hedge. The angel watched them go, but did not vanish after they were gone. Soon after their departure, there was a small 'pop' to his left.
"Am I late?" the cupid asked frantically. She looked around quickly, and then sagged. "I suppose so."
"Oh, I had you covered," Vetinari said casually, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. There was a slight rustle of feathers and suddenly he had wings. He closed his eyes for a moment, but was forced to look at the cupid when she sighed exasperatedly.
"I just saw everything that happened here," she said sternly, opening her eyes and snapping out of some inner vision. "Let me tell you something: the ends don't justify the means in this business. Obviously that's why angels are left to the smiting."
"Well now that's unfair," Vetinari said, faking hurt feelings. "You were, after all, late. And I was on call. Things happen."
"I'm sure there were other cupids on call who could have taken the case," she harrumphed. "We don't need angels. Cherubs, maybe but definitely not angels. You always muck things up. As much tact as an alligator."
"Argh, enough with the alligators," Vetinari moaned. "I need a drink." He raised his wings, flapped once, and was gone.
"Bloody angels," the cupid muttered.