SONG MEME PART 3

AN: I'm laid up with a bum ankle – writing tiem nao! You could say these songs were more inspired by the song meme. Obvi, some of them were added to after the song ended. But enjoy anyway.

Disclaimer: Aw hell naw son.

"(630):

everybody makes mistakes

(1-630):

i didn't know they allowed you to text in ambulances"

-()-

30 Seconds to Mars – Kings and Queens

The Kite, after much discussion amongst the Gods, had been cast back to the Disc. They saw no practical use for it, and without a sufficient amount of dragons (or repairs, for that matter), it was useless to anyone else. Besides, the da Quirm man had been bound to a promise never to take flight to the highest mountain again, and without him, how could the machine possibly fly?

But one man had made trips to and from the wreckage, for years. It wasn't unusual – it was right outside the limits of the city Ankh-Morpork, and travelers and sightseers weren't out of the ordinary. After all, something that had once been to space was something of a novelty. But that one man would come and go, often at night. Sometimes he would have something with him, sometimes he wouldn't. Often he'd stay for hours, just working. This went on for years, long after da Quirm's death, and the gods paid no attention, because what was to worry about one lone lunatic?

But after 10 years, Havelock Vetinari – or whatever he was, really – felt the satisfaction of a job well done when he eased a hand across the sleek gunmetal throttle and felt and heard the roar of engines alien to the Disc but oh, so achingly familiar to him. In the end, everyone concluded they knew he wasn't human, and did you suppose he was hiding tentacles or something? It would put a mark on his legacy, certainly, but 300 miles away, in the velvet black of space, with a giant turtle paddling patiently in the opposite direction behind him and engines thrumming peacefully, P514 really could not be bothered to give a damn.

My Chemical Romance – Famous Last Words

The way she breathed was so peaceful and so rhythmic, but Nutt could hardly help but think how frail the motion was. The delicate ribs would hardly offer much resistance should he decide to crush the soft, porous lungs beneath, or tear from her beautiful chest the rich red heart, slick and strong and firm.

But he knew he couldn't – would never be able to. Because, he reflected, those first thoughts, of frailty and weakness, were an orc's thoughts, but, he realized, the thoughts that controlled him, that governed him, were a man's thoughts.

He considered love. It had never made sense to him, not the way that, say, mathematics or candle-dribbling made sense. Those things were exact, formulary. But love. Here he was, a rigidly logical creature, he yet he felt . . . giddy. And why? Because some human girl – no, woman – was laying there, sleeping, perfectly content and comfortable in his presence, and he could hardly stand the joy of that thought.

He laid down next to her, hands intertwined under his head, and grinned stupidly, one bottom incisor peeking out over his top lip, letting the sound of her breathing carry him to sleep.

Good Charlotte – Anthem

The anarchic youth of Ankh-Morpork were hardly a new demographic. Under Vetinari, of course, they had become much less of a threat and more of an impotent, amusing group of whiners, but Lord Downey really, really did get fed up with them some times.

"And about your dress," he said, looking over his reading glasses at the boy standing up before his desk, "You are aware that, er, chains are not part of the Assassin's Guild uniform?"

"They're cool," the youth muttered, tossing his head and flicking his dyed-black bangs out of his eyes, which he had, somewhat inartfully, lined with black eyeliner.

Lord Downey sighed. "Robert, you look like a fool. You've chained your wallet to your pants, boy!"

"So someone doesn't steal it, sir."

Lord Downey sighed and put his face in his hands. "Robert, you are an Assassin. Assassins – and I can't believe I have to say this – don't wear eyeliner, don't paint their nails black and don't chain their personal items to their clothing to prevent theft."

"Fuck the establishment," Robert snarled, before turning and storming from the office.

Lord Downey watched him go. They'd get him and his punishment would be oh, so rich – Havelock's annual customary stint at substitute teaching was coming up after all – but he couldn't help be remind himself that the gods watch over the young and the stupid, if only to keep their elders from throttling them.

Incubus – Wish You Were Here

Sam Vimes sat under the blue-black night sky of Klatchian desert and looked at the stars. He wasn't very familiar with stars, being a creature of the city and more familiar with streetlights, but he couldn't help but take them in, and grudgingly admit that they were nice. And, less grudgingly, reflected that Sybil would love to be here, out in the sand, looking up at the stars. He smiled, thinking of her, and laid back onto his hastily-acquired bedroll (a foul-smelling, worm-chewed old carpet that Vetinari had kindly bequeathed unto him, the bastard).

One day, they'd take a trip together, to somewhere. Somewhere, he imagined, a little less hot, but nevertheless rural, and pretty and quiet.

Yes, most importantly, their next trip together would be quiet.

Sugarcult – Memory

Young Sam's first girlfriend was a bit of an effort, for both Sam and all of those adults on whom he leaned for advice. For his father, it came with the very important, very frightening worry of becoming, very quickly, a grandfather. For his mother, it came with worries about his behavior, his chivalry, and whether or not he was a true gentleman. For his adoptive uncle, it came with questions, most importantly, 'how can he not see she's horrible?'

And, eventually, it ended, because, in the end, everyone's fears were assuaged. He never did father a child with her, praise the gods, he was a perfect gentleman from the beginning to her tumultuous, hysterical, over-emotional departure, and in the end, he did see she was horrible.

"But I have all these memories," he lamented to his almost-uncle, one night over a beer. "Good memories."

"And I'm sure she does too," Vetinari replied, thumbing through some paperwork. "And in time, hopefully, those are the only ones that stand out."

"Sometimes I wish we could go back to them," Sam muttered.

"In my experience," Vetinari said, "there are some things in life that are better remembered than lived."

Fall Out Boy – Of All the Gin Joints In the World

Susan sometimes found herself – not pining, she wasn't the sort to pine (1) – but missing, she supposed was the word for it, Lobsang. He would be gone for so long, and while probably no one else better understood the demands of being an anthropomorphic personification, she couldn't help but consider occasionally feel that the relationship was unfair.

There were days when she would worry that he would forget she was human, and would be gone for 10, or 12, or 20 years, and when he came back, finally, she would be old and bitter or perhaps even have moved on. But then, she would remind herself, that was silly, because he was Time, and he could come back yesterday if he wanted to. But still.

And yet, when he did stop by, sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, once or twice for days, she would soar. And when he would go, she would lay in bed and think of him until she fell asleep, dreaming of Time and nougat. Once she asked if he could stay – if there was any possible way to make it happen – and he just hugged her and kissed her on her head and told her that it was time to go, he only had all the Time in the world – which was a horrible joke that for some reason he always felt compelled to make – and they kissed and he was gone.

The soaring feeling only lasted a few days, before the missing settled in, she reflected, watching her students finger-paint one sunny afternoon. And she worried a little, because rarely were the gaps in his visits such that she even noticed it.

And then there was the ever-welcome crashing from the supply closet (how he had still not managed to master appearing in there seamlessly was a mystery, if an amusing one). Heather, a blonde be-pigtailed girl in the front row, looked up hopefully. "Does this mean we're going on a field trip?" The rest of the students' eyes gleamed with a similar hunger. Miss Susan just smiled her thing little smile and said, "Yes, I do think so."

(1) And especially not for fjords.

The Ataris – Boys of Summer

Havelock Vetinari had had a crush once in his life. He'd been eight, she'd been fifteen. It had been in Genua, two years after his father's death, during the high months of summer. He was, as expected, a shy child, while she'd been the pretty, popular blonde, just coming into herself as a woman. She and her friends would lay out on the sandy shore of the Circle Sea and he would go every day, and sit in the sun, acting as if he were interested in the games the other boys his age were making up, but in actuality planning his eventual approach.

One day, when he finally did get up the courage, or, more accurately, bump into her in an uncharacteristic moment of inattention, he looked up into the face of a Goddess, and, contrary to all his planning and meticulously thought-out pick-up lines ("Hi, I'm Havelock, do you like turtles? I do.") blurted "I like you. You're uh, pretty."

And she laughed and her boyfriend – and that just had to be one of the days he was with her, didn't it? – laughed too and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Aw, thank you sweetie," she'd said, and her boyfriend had offered forth his fist for a bump, which Havelock grudgingly gave, and said "Good taste, little man," and they'd walked off.

And Havelock, after having his eight year-old heart demolished, watched them go, scowling, because he was a Vetinari, and Vetinaris don't cry. Instead, he watched her walk down the beach, boyfriend's hand cupping her rear, and muttered, "Fucker."

Scott Bomar – The Chain

Nutt and Glenda had hear about the orc and the anvil, out in some little village in Bumfuck, Uberwald. Both had decided the situation was absolutely unacceptable and, over the course of the past week, had made their way to the village where, now, they sat astride the golem horse, Nutt in front, clutching the reins, and Glenda behind, looking down on the poor, filthy youngling, chained by the neck, crouching in the mud in the early morning light.

"Oh my gods," Glenda breathed. "Was that how . . . ?"

"Yes," Nutt, gritted out. He slid from the horse. "Come around to the south end of the village."

"What are you doing?" she hissed as he crept through the brush. "If those villagers catch you they'll kill you!" She paused. "Actually no, it would be the other way around. But I'd still like to avoid it!"

"South end," Nutt hissed back, gesturing wildly toward the direction he was thinking. Glenda huffed and pulled the horse out.

In the center of the village, the youngling raised its head as Nutt crept closer, emerging from the bush on silent soles and slipping between two of the villagers' wood cabins. The smaller orc sniffed the air, and, suddenly, spotted Nutt. It made a quiet squeal and pelted forward on its chain, running on all fours, eyes somewhat mad with excitement, grunting and squeaking more and more loudly as it – he, Nutt saw, under the dirty loincloth – got closer. Three feet away, the chain snapped taut, and the little thing was jerked backwards, hitting the ground on its back with a thud and a groan. Inside the nearest house, Nutt heard movement, and he shushed the youngling, but it was no use.

Quickly, Nutt, darted out from between the houses and seized the chain, trying to pull it apart. The iron was of poor quality, and bowed easily, until finally, after what seemed like an age, a link gave.

"Vas geschieht?" A door slammed open and a villager, axe at the ready, appeared in his doorway. "Orcs!" he bellowed, when he caught sight of Nutt and the now-free youngling. "Orcs!"

Nutt grabbed the smaller orc's hand. "Run!" he yelled, for all the good it would do him. He pelted toward the south end of the village square, where he could see Glenda and the horse just beyond the treeline. "RUN!" The two tore toward the trees, crashed through the brush, and, in one fluid movement, Nutt grabbed the little thing and vaulted onto the horse, putting the creature smack between him and Glenda. "Go!"

As the horse galloped off down the road, the angry shouts of the village fading into the background, Glenda turned to him. "Are we even going to talk about this?" she yelled over the hoofbeats.

"What's there to say?" he yelled back, while the new orc babbled happily, looking adoringly up at Nutt. Glenda turned back forward, and twisted her hands into the clay mane, expression bemused. "Fair enough."

Velvet Revolver – Slither

By day, Rufus Drunkott was exactly as the rest of the world saw him: quiet, calm, collected Drumknott, with no imagination, no personal ambition and no funny ideas. It was a quiet life, and a comforting role, always in the quirky if protective shadow of Vetinari. And Rufus liked that about his day job. Sure the hours were long (1), and sometimes the expectations were unreasonably high, but it was a good job and most of all, no one expected him to be unreasonably clever, or personable, or quick on his feet. He was just expected to be . . . quiet Drumknott, unnoticed until necessary.

But some nights Drumknott would shed his persona and, under an alias, of course, always under an alias, he would go with some of the under clerks to the alley behind Jolly Panda Take-Away, and slip down into the basement, where the smoke hung heavy and the lights were just dim enough that you couldn't see the faces but you could always see the cards, and he would become Jake Morris. He and the clerks, of course, had an advantage and they'd play it well. Jake and his band would go maybe twice a month or so and one night they would simply play the game, be it poker, or gin, or blackjack, or whatever. But some nights – always poker nights – they'd go, and they'd work the room, and they'd count cards, and they'd make out like bandits. No one could ever prove it, and so they'd go back and lose a little and all past winning streaks would be forgotten.

Once, one of the other clerks asked Drumknott after a counting night if they'd be in trouble if Vetinari found out. Drumknott shrugged. "Oh, I wouldn't know, probably not. He'd probably make it sound like a civil service because we're stimulating the economy or taking blood money off the streets or something." The other clerk had nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

Later that night, Vetinari raised an eyebrow when Drumknott dumped the bag of cash on his desk. "Poker night?"

"Buddy Stradgett was playing," Drumknott said innocently. "Poor man can't bring himself to leave a table if he's on a losing streak; he feels as though he has something to prove, I think."

Vetinari riffled through the bills idly. "Strange, looks to be about the same amount of money he skimmed out of the Thieves' Guild Widows and Orphans fund. Funny how that works, isn't it?"

"Stranger that some civic-minded individual turned it in, eh?"

Vetinari tucked the cash back into the bag, a hint of a smile on his face. "Will wonders never cease."

(1) Read: incessant and batshit insane.

Lustra – Scotty Doesn't Know

Sam Vimes' first clue should have been the fact that, one Thursday, Vetinari didn't show up for the morning Watch meeting and Drumknott, for once, seemed to be steadfastly unwilling to a) admit he wasn't sure where the man was and b) help Vimes find him. The second clue should have been the suspicious bruise around the man's wrist two weeks later, briefly glimpsed during clue c) an unexpected run-in with the Patrician in Pellicool Steps.

"What are you doing, sir?" Vimes had asked, while his brain tried to contend with the fact that the Patrician was both in plainclothes and looking unusually casual and unkempt.

"Whatever I want," Vetinari had said haughtily, and both agreed wordlessly then and there that they would never speak of that moment again.

All the pieces, of course, fell into place a month and a half later when Vimes, taking a night-time walk through the city to clear his head after a long, tiring and irritating day clearing up a mess caused by a bit of a stir between the Assassins and Fools, saw what looked to be a disturbance behind the counter of a pet store. From what he could see of the back room through the window, there looked to be a bit of a struggle going on, and based on a brief glimpse of two shadows, a man and a woman were involved.

Instinct kicked in. The front door was locked, but a well-aimed kick took care of that. He was dimly aware of a scream when the door banged open, so he drew his sword as he ducked through the crates and cages, finally leaping the counter and leaning around the doorframe.

It was immediately apparent that what he had witnessed had looked like a struggle, certainly, but that was completely incorrect. The woman yelped when he leaned around the door, yanking a long raincoat over the unclothed front of herself. The man – no, not just a man, Vimes's frantic brain suddenly realized in that glistening moment of clarity before panic kicks in, Vetinari – was already in the process of hoisting his trousers back up. Vimes immediately covered his eyes and spun his back to the two.

"What the hell?" the woman was asking.

"Oh gods, oh my gods, I'm so sorry," Vimes groaned, stumbling out of the back room. "Oh my gods."

"Vimes?"

"Oh gods, sir, I'm so sorry," Vimes could hear himself saying, not really processing because at this point several parts of his brain had killed themselves preemptively to save themselves the trouble later. "It looked like – I was walking, I thought there was a fight . . . I didn't even think."

"What the hell did you do to my door?" the woman demanded, coming out from behind Vetinari, wearing only the long raincoat. "You broke the jamb and everything!"

"I thought you were being burgled!"

"You could say that," Vetinari snickered, at which point the remaining parts of Vimes's brain that hadn't totally shut down called it a day and hit the 'off' switch.

"You could have knocked!" She paused and added, "Loudly."

"Listen, everyone calm down," Vetinari said, making a poor attempt at tucking his shirt in. "We're all adults here."

"He broke my door!"

"Oh my gods," Vimes groaned.

"You better pay for that," the woman snapped. "I'm going to get a robe."

"Well done on the, er, civic awareness," Vetinari said tentatively. "Although I personally would advise a little more . . . analysis of the situation before you go storming in, next time."

Vimes, realizing he may not actually be killed for this offense, slowly uncovered his eyes. "Sir?"

"Vimes, I'm not going to have you executed," the man sighed. "It was an accident and, quite frankly, if it had to be somebody, at least it was you. I can trust you to stay quiet. Saves quite a lot of hassle."

Vimes tried to think of where he could possibly go from there before hazarding "So are, er, are you two . . . ?"

Vetinari shrugged. "You could say that."

"Say what?" the woman asked, returning. She was dark-skinned, with shoulder-length curly black hair. She pulled the robe tighter around her shoulders and scowled at the front door. "Say that I'm damn sure getting police protection for my front door until I can get someone out here to fix it, that's what you can say."

"I'm sorry about that, ma'am," Vimes muttered.

"Er, Grace, that's Commander Vimes by the way, I'm sure you recognize him and Vimes this is Grace Speaker," Vetinari added hurriedly.

"Um, pleas – I mean, nice to meet you, sort of," Vimes stuttered. "I, uh, I wish it had been under better circumstances."

Grace grudgingly proffered a hand. "The same to you, Commander."

An awkward silence descended on the three, smothering all the life out of the entire situation. Finally, Vimes swung into autopilot and clapped his hands together. "Well, no crime in progress, guess I'll, er, be going then. I'll send someone down immediately to guard the door, sorry about that . . . Miss . . . ? Speaker?"

"Miss Speaker, yes apology accepted," Grace said, a crooked smile pulling at one corner of her mouth, her left eyebrow raised.

"And see you, uh, see you around. Sir. Um." And with that, Vimes fled. Vetinari and Grace watched him go.

"Well that was about as diametrically opposed to how I'd had it planned as it could have been," Vetinari said thoughtfully. "Still, I suppose the point got across."

"Did he think we were married?" Grace asked, leaning on the man.

"I don't think he thought at all," Vetinari said, bemused. "Ah, Vimes. We're the same age, you know."

"And yet you'd still think he'd caught his parents in the act." She shook her head. "Amazing. Do you think he'll do anything about it?"

Vetinari seemed to weigh the question. "I wouldn't be surprised if you saw more Watch patrols in this street. And I expect Sybil Ramkin may come calling on you at some point."

Grace blinked. "Really?"

"She'll figure it out, even if he doesn't tell her."

She leaned her head against his chest for another minute before she asked, "Are you going to do anything?"

He thought about it for a minute, and when Grace looked up at his face, she saw clearly the look of a man contemplating the vast possibilities of the Trousers of Time. Finally, he shrugged and shook his head. "You know, I don't think I will. After all, what else needs to be done?" He smirked. "I have faith, Grace, that good, dependable Vimes will take this to his grave."

-()-

WAT.

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