Author notes: A little characterization today! You'd think Drumknott were a hideously easy character to write (I bloody well thought so when I started this thing), but unfortunately, that's not so. Especially when you happen to know that at least two of your audience happen to be… well, obsessive. To say the least. Knitting together those little sections where Drumknott does appear, into a character who can correctly play a love interest without swooning – and keeping him familiar and naughty (Drumknotty, that is. Get it? Oh, nevermind… just throw the fruit at me) – is quite hard. I picture Rufus Drumknott as comparatively young (Vimes and Vetinari are fifty, after all. So when Drumknott is described as a 'young man' from Vimes's point of view, it could be that he's thirty or so); and extremely naïve – which is not technically the same as being stupid. Because he is an observer, he probably could discern emotions from others to others, but not to himself because he's used to being treated as a sort of walking file cupboard. As for Vetinari, well, this is my punishment for presuming to make him play a romantic role. How exactly do you fit love into a mind that works like an oiled machine? (A good oiled machine, that is. None of that cheap stuff like this computer which keeps breaking down). I decided to approach it in the manner of an amoeba. Nothing throws Vetinari much. And he doesn't spend time in his pinstriped boxers, paddling in Denial. I think that should he be in love – or lust – he simply goes for it. He doesn't waste time going '0h n03, h0w cud this b??' He simply strategizes the easiest way into bed. Like the amoeba – what's the name of that process again? – where it just sort of engulfs it's food. No thoughts there. No existential doubts. Oh wait – it's phagocytosis!
That said, I'm sorry this chapter took so unforgivably long in coming. And I'm sorry for rambling as well.
Kamii-Kitsun: Thank you, I'm glad you liked my fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter
Twist: -bounce- Ahhh, I love long reviews, thank you very much for yours! I'm glad you enjoyed the fic, and yes, The Prince isn't exactly the Karma Sutra, is it? XD As for the workaholic insomniac line, I'm so sorry if that sounded like I plagiarized it from you. I've been reading a lot of Vetinari-centric fics and there were many descriptions of him along the same lines so it must've seeped into my consciousness. And speaking of which, when are you going to regale us with some more of your lovely fics? I loved Lead!
Janinepsa: I love it when people tell me they laughed hard. Or that they ruined their keyboard spitting coffee all over it. Either way. Thank you! I hope you enjoy this new chapter.
Drummers: Massages? You know you want me to ask about them. And to be fair to Drumknott, Vetinari wasn't rubbing up to him. Just his shoulder. He's still an idiot though.
Vaguely Downwards: YES CROWLEY/AZIRAPHALE FOREVER! (or 4eva, if you prefer) I'm so terribly glad that Drumknott/Vetinari is contagious. You reassured me on several parts of my fic I wasn't entirely sure of (May-Sue, etc), thank you very much for that! I hope you enjoy this new chapter
Raz2b: Oh yes, I have that scene planned out, after reading your comment. It wouldn't leave my mind. Thanks for the review! (And the really priceless metaphors I've tried to apply to describe the sheer force of Angua's sanity crumbling)
---
Carrot came out of the room eventually, and found the two female sergeants waiting for him in the dining room. Angua was poking at her salad. She looked up and smiled at Carrot. "How's Ping?" she inquired, not without a little malice.
"Oh, he's fine. I just gave him an ice-pack and told him to lie down."
"Hah!"
Cheery looked at Angua, and then back at her food. She put down her fork.
"You don't think that…"
"Cheery. Please. Not you too."
"I didn't mean that. Not Commander Vimes. I meant about Rufus Drumknott and the Patrician. Because Drumknott's quite a pleasant person, you know. He always calls me 'miss'." With not much hesitation either. Cheery valued that.
Carrot looked slightly shocked. "That's not right," he said. "He should call you 'sergeant'. He's disrespecting you."
"I don't feel disrespected," said Cheery.
"That doesn't matter," said Carrot, firmly. "You're still being disrespected. I mean, do you want that, Cheery? I mean, do you really want doors held open for you, to have men get up come into a room, for them to pull chairs back for you, and – and – take their hats off in your company? Just because you're female?"
"That only happened once, Carrot," said Angua. "And Fred only got up when Sally and Cheery came in because Nobby had put a pin in his chair."
The werewolf's face was impassive and gave no sign of what she was thinking. Incidentally, her thoughts happened to go along the lines of: Yet another one of those times I wonder why I really, really like him. It's certainly not because of the size of his –
--father's mine. That's dwarfish thinking. And I'm not even a dwarf!
"Mr. Drumknott is a very nice man," said Carrot seriously, to Cheery. "I'm sure if you asked him to, he's start calling you sergeant."
"I'll… think about that," said Cheery faintly. "But I don't have to, if I don't want to."
"Look," said Angua. "Let's stop this, right? It's all getting a bit silly. What were we talking about earlier?"
"About Mr. Vimes's and-"
"Right, we'll skip that then," said Angua, putting another curl of lettuce into her mouth. It was crunchy, and green and still glistening with dew and it was completely unsatisfying. Angua bit into a radish violently. "We're not going to talk about that one, okay?"
---
The third day with Young Sam was not good. Neither was it particularly gut-wrenchingly, horrifyingly, why-was-I-born bad. Imagine going out of the bathroom with your robe tucked into your underwear. Imagine your skirt ripping in the middle of a crowded train station. Imagine flashing your teddy bear bra at that very good looking maths teacher. Imagine getting up to go over to your crush, only to discover he was waving at the girl behind you. Imagine walking in on your parents in the middle of procreating and giving you a little brother. Put them all together.
Multiply by five hundred point nine.
That's how excruciatingly embarrassing the day had been.
Something had changed, Drumknott acknowledged early on, in his relationship with his lordship. It worried him. Well, alright, he had a ridiculous sort of – lust, a desire for his employer (who just happened to be the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, of course). He had, well, yes, he'd had – those sort of dreams about his employer (who, let us recapitulate, was the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork). But Drumknott had put it down entirely to his deprived childhood. If only he'd gotten that pinstriped pair of trousers on Hogswatchnight like he'd wanted when he was eight, he would never have been harboring such urges (concerning, let's just underline it's impossibility, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork)
In an entirely human way, Drumknott acknowledged it. He didn't get out much. He wasn't terribly old yet. He wasn't the type of person who could find any sort of excitement in the woodcut of a strange Klatchian belly dancer. And Dream-Vetinari was entirely different from the Vetinari in the office. Dream-Vetinari wore silky robes that seemed to dissolve at a tentative touch. Dream-Vetinari's eyes were dark and smouldering and didn't have so many fine lines at the sides. Dream-Vetinari knew interesting ways of eating ice-cream.
They were two totally different men. Nothing wrong with that, falling in love with a fictional character. People did it everyday!
It was just another part of him now. Just like a love of pinstripes, and filing.
Which was why it was completely ridiculous, the way his jaw dropped; the way his eyes widened; and the way his brain seemed to melt into a sort of sparkly pink gloop that kept squeaking, "Oh my lord, oh my lord."
Vetinari was wearing robes that fell apart revealing tight trousersohdearlordohheaven – no, no, hell! Hell!
He looked at himself in the mirror, raising one arched, dark brow. Drumknott whimpered piteously to himself. "What do you think, Drumknott? Perhaps a little too… shocking for our esteemed wizards at the Unseen University?" Long, strong fingers stroked the dark material delicately. "Ohgodssweetgods," said the sparkly pink gloop. "Hm. I'm not quite sure I can carry this off though. Drumknott? Drumknott?"
"…yessir?" said Drumknott weakly, moving to open a window. It was getting a little warm in here. The sights and yes, smells, of Ankh-Morpork rose comfortingly and most definitely put off thoughts concerning the Patrician's legs. It could have been worse, after all. He could have worn those tight pants that stopped just below the calves and –
Oh dear.
Drumknott leaned out again, for another breather of Ew de Ankh. "It looks very nice indeed, my lord. I'm sure it'll make quite a sensation."
Especially if there are going to be any females there.
…good thing the UU wizards didn't allow women in their ceremonies…
Drumknott stifled that little pang of jealousy. It wasn't as if Vetinari had put on that – that – that ensemble for his head clerk's viewing pleasure after all. It wasn't as if the Patrician owed him anything – except maybe last month's salary. He pulled away from the window and glanced in the corner where Young Sam was trying to eat Wuffles's food.
"Sammy!"
---
There had been times when Vetinari wanted to throw Vimes into the scorpion pits, but he had always resisted that sort of thing. Tyrants had been overthrown for smaller things than making Fred Colon captain again. And now, he resisted the urge to fling Vimes's offspring into the pits as well. He'd had Rufus Drumknott there! He could read it in the sudden flame in Drumknott's cheeks, in the way Drumknott had looked at him, like he was going to faint, or come right on the spot. Vetinari knew what to do next.
Oh, is there something at the back of this outfit, kindly brush it off, Drumknott. Thank you very much indeed, hmmmm…a bit lower, I think…
Well of course this sort of thing came up in politics too. Klatch refused to sign a contract because the Agatean Empire was making eyes at EcksEcksEcks. But it had never been this frustrating! It wasn't as if people were more complicated than countries.
"Don't we feed him enough?" he remarked, glaring at Young Sam, a smudge of dog food dribbling down his chin. Wuffles still growled, guarding his food and snarling at Drumknott who had snatched the baby boy up. His clerk had certainly moved fast, swooping down and catching the bra—baby by a pudgy waist. Young Sam dribbled and cooed and put fat arms around Drumknott's neck. And stuck his tongue out at Vetinari.
"Does 'oo want more yum-yums, Sammy?" fussed Drumknott in a way that should have made Vetinari feel sick to his stomach. Or at least amused. Well, he did feel amused. But touched as well. And tender. This 'love' business was really idiotic.
The baby still in one arm, Drumknott started to tidy up the office in a last-minute preparation to be off. A sudden flash of color hidden under the piles of clinical white paper belying the number of scandals and cheating going on caught his eye. "What the-"
He looked up at Vetinari and caught the Patrician's eye. And his bright smile.
Drumknott gulped, and slowly slid the romance novel back under the paper.
"Let us go, Drumknott," said Vetinari, still smiling.
"Um… yes, my lord."
They walked down the halls swiftly, Drumknott automatically classifying the things in his briefcase. The invitation to the UU ceremony – neglible, as if Vetinari would be refused entrance; Young Sam's teddy-bear – important; Young Sam's wraps – very important, Drumknott didn't want him to catch cold; sweets and Young Sam's bottle – so he wouldn't be hungry, poor thing; Young Sam's pacifier – very, very, very important…
-- Why had Lord Vetinari been reading romance novels? --
Vetinari paused before getting into the carriage. "…he's coming with us?" he said blandly.
Drumknott stared up at the Patrician. "Of course, my lord," he said. "We couldn't leave him behind, could we?"
"Oh, of course," murmured the Patrician. "Naturally. Of course." He let go of the carriage door and got in elegantly, the robes swinging open slightly. Drumknott swallowed, and completely didn't notice that Vetinari had left little fingerprints on the door. It was either that or fling the bra- baby to a guard (and promote him if the captain managed to drop Young Sam) and drag Drumknott into the carriage where they could be alone.
Oh for Gods' sake…
This love business was a lot harder than Wild Reckless Spring (sequels: Wild Reckless Summer, Wild Reckless Autumn, and Wild Reckless Winter. The author has also published, Men are from Elephants, Women are from Turtles) would have had him believe. Maybe it would help if he ripped off Drumknott's clothes. Well, it wasn't as if he had a bodice.
The carriage ride was uneventful. Young Sam sat on Drumknott's lap and tried to look out of the window, chortling every time they went over a bump. "'Tore!"
"Yes, that's right, Sammy. A store."
"'The-oy 'tore!"
"Clever boy! Yes, that's the toy store."
"Wannawanna the-oy!"
"Not right now, Sammy. Here's your teddy-bear if you want."
"Wannawannawannawanna the-oy now!"
Young Sam had a glint in his eye, and he was bouncing up and down like a ball made of hard rubber.
"Sammy!"
"Drumknott-"
"WannawannawannawannawannawannawannaWANNAWANNANOWNOW!"
There came a hard knock on the driver's window, and it slid open while a rheumy eye looked in. "'Scuse me, guv, but I couldn't 'elp o'er'earin'. Me'n the missus swears by a good kick in the rump, guv. There's many a poor child in Klatch what'ud be glad of a fing like that and no mistake."
"Your wife and yourself obviously have the right idea," remarked Vetinari. "Close the window now, that's a good chap. Hm, yes," he caught Young Sam's large, round eye meaningfully, "Sound advice indeed, wouldn't you say, Drumknott?"
Young Sam subsided and gnawed his teddy-bear's ear. "'Oul ol' Won," he remarked, glancing out of the window. "Buglit. 'Nium 'and'n swimp."
"You see, Drumknott? All it takes is a firm hand."
"Yes, my lord."
---
Vetinari swept into the anteroom of the Unseen University with considerable finesse. The room was a large place with a roof that swept upwards, giving the impression of being inside an egg. The ceiling had been enchanted to resembled the sky outside, not a good idea since it was now a particularly noxious shade of pea-green. Candles, proper dribbly ones too, floated in the air. The students, in two lines, waited nervously to be 'sorted', as it were. It looked as if another reality had dribbled in again.
A large, long table was placed behind a small stool with a battered wizard's hat on it. The table was piled high with food.
Some things never change.
Vetinari raised an eyebrow at Ridcully. "Well," blustered the red-cheeked, bristly-bearded Head of UU, "suddenly it just seemed… right. You know. To have this sort of setting. Good thing for a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and all that."
"You don't teach witchcraft," said Vetinari.
"And real men don't wear trousers," said Ridcully, eyeing Vetinari's garments distastefully.
Drumknott flushed, "Well really, Headmaster, you can't talk to-"
Vetinari lifted a hand. "Shall we take a seat, Drumknott?"
His clerk subsided, hoisting Young Sam a little higher on his shoulder. Vetinari smiled at Ridcully.
"Trousers is sissy," bellowed Ridcully. "Hmph! Never let any of my wizards wear that kind of thing either. Tch, tch. What are we coming to." Several students were beginning to look uncomfortable. One small, scrawny green-eyed young boy couldn't fight the feeling he should have a scar and a red-headed sidekick. Ridcully gestured towards the table, and then leaned near Vetinari and said in a whisper that was as low as the whistle of a train, "Not that I begrudge civilians, of course. But we've got to set an example to the students. Already confiscated several pairs, if you can believe it! Right off them! They've even taken to wearing them under their robes. Tch."
Vetinari nodded and glanced back. Drumknott hadn't gotten over the 'right off them' part. His eyes were glazed with horror.
The students were sent to their tables alphabetically. They were told to come forward and sit for a few minutes on the small stool with the hat over their heads; apparently some sort of old mystic power was to spill over. Vetinari hoped they hadn't used the hat of the Bursar. Everyone looked slightly confused, and Vetinari thought it probably served them well and right for mixing around with things like quantum and continuum.
Beside him, Young Sam was fussing again, in Drumknott's lap. If his clerk was aware of the number of stares they were beginning to receive, he didn't show it. He was patting his pockets, rifling through his bag and generally acting distracted in a way Vetinari had never seen in his almost anal-retentive secretary. His covert observations were rewarded- and most rudely interrupted – with the sudden deposition of Young Sam into his arms. "I'm so sorry, my lord," said Drumknott shamefacedly. "But I think I left his bottle in the carriage and he's hungry. If you could just hold him for a while-"
"Can't he eat roast beef like the rest of us?"
"He's only got three teeth, sir. And it's probably not good for his stomach."
Vetinari's face didn't move a muscle, but somehow managed to convey his feelings devastatingly. He shifted more comfortably under the added weight of Young Sam. A little more of his robe fell apart, revealing his trousers. Drumknott scurried off, very red in the face suddenly.
Vetinari sat back. Well, there were compensations. He lifted a curl from Young Sam's ear. "Don't," the Patrician said sweetly, "even think about burping up over these."
"Ug," sniffed Young Sam.
---
"Behavin' 'imself, is 'e, guv?"
"Hm? Oh yes. Yes, I suppose he is," said the clerk rather absently as he dug under the carriage seats. He'd been sure the bottle had been there. How had it gotten out of the bag? Pushing his spectacles further up his nose, Drumknott recognized a dim bottly shape further up. He reached towards it. With all the stretching and flexing and Drumknott's behind wriggling, Vetinari would probably be sorry he had missed it if he knew.
"Hah," said the carriage-driver, evidently disappointed at Young Sam's lack of gumption. "'At's what they wants yer t' think. Git yer guard down. But nex' thing yer knows, th' damn bugger's got 'is teef round Auntie Emma's ankle."
Drumknott's fingers closed around the bottle and he breathed a sigh of relief, extracting himself with some difficulty. He blinked at the driver. "I haven't got an Auntie Emma."
"Jes' sayin' if yer did, 'at's all."
Drumknott nodded and backed away.
The driver spit reflectively onto the pavement. "Not," he admitted to himself quietly, "that I didn't tell the little bugger that he'd get a sweetie if Auntie Emma didn't stay the night. Din't have ter go to his mam though, complainin' that Auntie Emma din't wash 'er socks. Damn blabbermouth."
---
Mrs. Whitlow eyed the pale young man before her. He didn't have the most interesting face in the world, but he wore the Clerk insignia on the lapel of his admittedly neat jacket. It had a little black button too, which Mrs. Whitlow recognized as the Patrician's coat-of-arms. Mr. Drumknott was probably the Patrician's personal clerk; that little sable on ebony badge as good as stamped him as belonging to Lord Vetinari.
It was as good as a wedding ring, in fact.
(Or, and ignore this, that might be because the writer is admittedly prejudiced)
"Ai do not normally make such concessions," she said placidly. "A man's house is his castle and the woman's kitchen is her world, Ai've always said. But Ai'm sure we can spare some hot milk for your and Lord Vetinari's baby."
Color crept up into Drumknott's cheeks, blinking and looking about in bewilderment at being in such unfamiliar territory. "Not our baby," he said weakly, following Mrs. Whitlow about as she filled the bottle with great competence. "We're really looking after it for someone el- no, I don't think quite so much sugar will be good for his teeth – tooth – er, but you know best of course," he said hastily, quailing under Mrs. Whitlow's effective expression.
"Ai wouldn't presume," she sniffed, "to venture an opinion on politics and magic, Ai'm sure. But rearing babies is quite simple enough for a woman."
Conquered and crushed by italics, Drumknott nodded and accepted the bottle when Mrs. Whitlow had measured into it enough sugar to send a dinosaur into a hyperactive fit. He backed out the door, thanking her as she returned to organizing the kitchen. That is, yelling at the maids to hurry up with the food.
Pinstriped legs scurried down the long halls as Drumknott searched for the right door. He managed to open one that didn't lead to the Dungeon Dimensions. It was the door the students used, and Drumknott catapulted right into a milling mass of black robes and of people complaining that their nethers felt drafty. He shoved through the crowd, holding the milk-bottle tight in one hand. "Excuse me, excuse me, please! I need to get through!"
One loud complainer paused in his activities to eye Drumknott balefully. "And how long d'you think you're gonna get to keep those pants on, eh?" he growled. "Ridcully'll have them off you sooner than you can sing 'My Bonny Blue Bonnet'."
"Look, aren't you all supposed to be in some form of alphabetical order?!" said Drumknott. Hey, it worked for filing…
"What for?" grumbled the man, plucking at his dark robes. "Think we're gonna line up so's we can get a chance to sit on some rickety old stool with a mangy hat over our heads? Think that's really special or something? Lifechanging? Call that special? I don't."
Drumknott ignored this and fought his way through the navy-colored crowd. He had just about reached the high table where Vetinari was sitting with one hand softly on Young Sam's neck (precisely where a squeeze would cause great pain, but Drumknott didn't know that), when someone barreled into him, and made him drop the bottle into a forest of feet. It rolled somewhere under the robes of people who were not wearing anything underneath.
Oh, bugger.
Drumknott felt a flush work up his neck. He could hear the bottle being kicked about. And people exclaiming at finding their shoes suddenly wet with milk and shiny sugar bits. "Erm," he started to say, "wait a minute, please…"
People were starting to stand up to watch the commotion. Vetinari caught Drumknott's eye and something in it made the clerk's stomach flip in a way that was definitely unhealthy. He placed Young Sam onto the Bursar's lap and made his way slowly, like a panther, slipping easily and with grace towards Drumknott.
It really wasn't fair, the way those robes swished about the trousers.
Drumknott turned towards him –
It wasn't violin music. Not even close.
"Hey, what the bloody --!!" Someone tripped over the bottle and fell over, pushing the person in front of him, who pushed the person in front of him, who pushed both the people in front of him over… it was like watching a game of round dominoes with lots of swearing. They fell like an arbor of trees.
And when the person behind the clerk lost balance as well, Drumknott pitched forward, reaching for the first thing he could.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippp.
It was the sound of Drumknott's hopes and dreams.
It was the sound of impending joblessness.
It was the sound of something that would haunt his dreams. And not in a good way either.
It was the sound Vetinari's robes made as Drumknott fell forward onto the floor, taking a large part of it with him.