Vimes: Family Edition
…plus Vetinari because the idea that he and babby Sam are bros is deeply ingrained within my psyche and no one will pry it loose.
I like the idea that babby Sam is like the only person on the disc who is completely fearless when it comes to Vetinari— because Vetinari is the fucking cool uncle who gives him the best books and teaches him how to get away with the best tricks
You can just imagine though, one night when Vimes is out on patrol, a black carriage, the kind of black night aspires to be, pulls up outside the Ramkin manor and a tall, lean figure steps out. As he passes by the donation box on the front gate for the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons the sound of coins trickle down, he never carries money, but Drumknott has made sure he has a few dollars on him for this very purpose.
After Wilikins opens the door there’s a slight pause as the butler tries to figure out who rung the bell and who on earth blew out the gas lamp…and then Vetinari moves ever so slightly and Wilikins draws in breath, the equivalent of a startled shudder in other people, and releases the poker he’s been holding just out of view, and lets it slide back into the umbrella stand with a muffled thud. You can never be too careful after all…
Sybil is as Sybil always is, warm and welcoming, even at this late hour. He regrets somewhat that he didn’t send word that he’d be coming. There can be several things a knock on the door means late at night, and the majority of them are never good. He felt guilt at the sight of her sitting in the drawing room, brown shawl draped over her nightgown, fluffly slippers planted firmly on the ground—Empresses would weep to know that for all their fine vestments they’d never look so regal or commanding as Sybil Ramkin Vimes does an hour before midnight. He smiles, a rare and true smile when he sees some of the hardness in her face ease, relief flooding in, though anyone who didn’t know her would struggle to see it. He’ll send a man running in the morning with an envelope for the donation box out front. In the meantime, he is not a Watchman with a helmet under his arm, all is right with the world.
They sit and talk for a while, tea is drunk. Eventually, when they run out of platitudes and niceties, Sybil, with a tact her husband lacks entirely, remarks that it was very kind of him to visit her when Sam is out late, but before he goes, would he like to see young Sam?
Leaning on his cane, Vetinari stands, agreeing with the politeness of a man who finds himself put upon by a new mother, to admire her off-spring. Sybil merely smiles and leads him through the ancient house, past coats of arms and paintings that make his own palace look like a young pretender to old money.
The nursery is dark and warm, with a single candle burning near the window, the fire in the hearth is banked but still warm. A mobile hangs over the cradle, and dragons of varying size made from crystal twirl through the night, casting rainbows over the walls and floor, glowing umber in the low light. It was a gift, Sybil explains, as she shoos the yawning nurse from the room and leans over the cradle with a gentle smile that blazes more resplendent than any of the fractal illuminations in the room, from the Wizards.
Vetinari peers over her shoulder at the snuffling resident of the cradle, and is greeted with the sight of a fat little man whose gaze is fixed entirely on the mobile. He imagines it’s a little late for a baby to be awake, but Sybil seems unconcerned. Part of him, the romantic little side that understands symbology and the way other people’s minds work, wonders if there is something in the Vimes blood that makes them practically nocturnal, and shine brightest at night.
Vaguely he is aware, as he leans further over, that Sybil is withdrawing, and that the door has closed behind him.
What does one say to a baby? Does one say anything? Vetinari reaches over with the hesitancy of a man whose youth was spent handling volatile chemicals and weaponry, and still fears that this might yet be the most precious and dangerous thing he’s ever touched.
A tiny little hand envelopes his index finger.
Vetinari wiggles his hand, and young Sam grips on with his other sticky little fist, that until know was being thoughtfully chewed on, attention now fully on the tall dark man towering over him, squashed face furrowing into a frown.
“Oh dear,” Vetinari murmurs, smiling despite himself, “That was a very Vimes look.”
Sam Vimes junior kicks his legs in the air, strong, stomping little legs that will tread the cobbles his father has made safe. Or at least, safer.
“Well,” he carries on, setting his cane against the side of the cradle and using his free hand to send the mobile spiralling a little bit faster, “one can never have too many of those.”
sorry not sorry for the ugly disgusting tears of squee running down my face
…I completely forgot I wrote this.
tora42's nonsensne 