Once again I present to you a small fluffy piece of writing in the
fashion of all my other pieces of writing. No spoilers, just the
result of my continued curiousity about the private life of Samuel
Vimes.

Enjoy :)

The Proposal
Set between Guards! Guards! and Men At Arms

...she had style and money and common-sense and self-assurance and all
the things that he didn't, and she had opened her heart, and if you let
her she could engulf you; the woman was a city. And eventually, under
siege, you did what Ankh-Morpork had always done - unbar the gates,
let the conquerors in, and make them your own.
-Guards! Guards!

The New House at Pseudopolis Yard was, in fact, quite old; it had been
in the Ramkin family for generations, and was originally meant as a
town house, though now the mansion on Scoone Avenue served that purpose
rather more grandly. Besides, the Scoone Avenue house had grounds big
enough to hold a dragon-barn as well, which is why Lady Sybil Ramkin
still lived there, and not somewhere out in the country*.

Pseudopolis Yard had stood empty for more years than you could count,
but it was still the New House to the Night Watch. The Old Watch House,
on Treacle Mine Road, had been torched to the ground by an
inconsiderate dragon, after all.

It hadn't taken long for the Night Watch to make Pseudopolis Yard their
own. It was barracks, dining hall, training yard, and headquarters, all
in one. Captain Vimes even had an office, though the only difference
between 'office' and 'bedroom' in his mind was that one had paperwork
in it, and the other had sheets; Vimes was not a man who spent much
time indoors. The rugs had been pulled up, the paintings taken down and
stored in the Ramkin Mansion's attic, the posh furniture had been
replaced by desks and chairs, the ballroom chandelier wrapped in cloth
and carted to the Opera House, to which it had been donated.

It's so /empty/, Vimes sometimes thought, as his bootheels echoed on
the wooden floors. It wasn't as though there were many of them in the
Night Watch. Lady Sybil employed more people as servants up at Scoone
Avenue. Just him, Colon, Nobby, and Carrot - although Carrot had been
making noises about them recruiting a few more lads.

So had the Patrician. Vimes left them to it. This morning, he had more
pressing matters to attend to.

"Good day, sir!" Lance-Corporal Carrot Ironfoundersson said cheerfully.
He was polishing Vimes' spare breastplate, the one with fewer dings and
dents in it; nobody polished armour like Carrot. Vimes hadn't asked him
to, but you rarely had to ask Carrot to do anything. Sometimes you had
to ask him to stop. "Have a quiet shift?"

It was so early in the morning that the shine was barely worn from
'late at night'. The market stalls were opening soon. Most sensible
people were still asleep, but for the Night Watch, it was shift's end
- time to go home, have a hot meal, and get to bed. Fred Colon had a
little row-house and a wife who cooked for him, but the other three had
rooms in Pseudopolis Yard, and shifted for themselves if they wanted
anything hot, or fitting the description 'meal'.

"Not too bad," he said, hanging up his coat. "Yard quiet?"

"Yessir. Hallo Nobby!" Carrot called, as Nobby Nobbs sidled in, smoking
one of his horrible dog-end cigarettes and carrying the remains of a
curry.

"Mornin'," Nobby grunted. "Any cocoa on?"

"Fresh pot, on the stove," Carrot said, nodding towards the small stove
they'd installed in the front office of the Yard.

"Got what you arsked for, Captain," Nobby said, pouring himself a cup
of cocoa. "Pawnshop on Peach Pie street. Didn't nick it and pocket the
money you give me, neither, just like you said." He held out a small,
remarkably clean white stone box. Vimes took it, opened it, cleaned out
a little dust with his finger, and shut it again.

"It'll do fine. Thanks, Nobby," he said absently. "Carrot, do stop
polishing, would you?"

Carrot looked mildly hurt. "I just thought it'd be nice," he said.
"Never know when you want a suit with a bit of a polish on it, sir."

Nobby wagged his eyebrows. "The ladies do like a man in a neat uniform,
sir," he added loyally. "Lady Sybil's always sayin'."

"I suppose you put him up to it," Vimes said gloomily.

"Pr'aps I did, sir."

"All right." Vimes unbuckled his breastplate. "Let's have it, then."

Carrot helped him into the shining armour, and he had to stop the lad
dusting off his shoulders.

"It's chain-mail, Carrot, it doesn't show lint."

"You never know, sir," Carrot answered, implacably.

"What's all the to-do?" Sergeant Colon asked, as he came in out of the
early morning chill. "Ah, that's a well-shined breastplate, Carrot," he
said approvingly. "Must look smart on parade, mustn't we, Captain?"

"It's not parade, it's /breakfast/," Vimes protested. The others
exchanged a conspiratorial look. "I've had breakfast with Lady Sybil
for months."

"Oh aye, but you ain't never had /that/ in your pocket afore, have you?
Begging your pardon, Captain," Colon said. Nobby sniggered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vimes answered, with as much
dignity as a man in a shiny breastplate can muster.

"Come on, Captain Vimes, give us a look," Carrot asked. He was a
well-grown lad, but he was still a lad, and he sounded like a
ten-year-old on Hogswatchnight.

"Some men manage this without any assistance, you know," Vimes fought,
but weakly. "Colon didn't have an audience, I know that."

"Nah, but I was just a lowly constable," Colon said, grinning. "I
wasn't /Captain/."

"Fred - "

"Just a look, Cap'n, it won't hurt it none," Nobby urged.

"Bunch of old ladies, you are," Vimes said, reaching into his pocket.
"Never should have told you, Fred."

"Prob'ly not," Fred agreed, comfortably.

It was in a greasy, much-faded velvet box. It didn't burn with the fire
of a thousand suns. It didn't even glitter. It gleamed, barely. They
gave him a dim look.

"It's all I could afford," Vimes protested. "It's not as though I'm a
rich man, you know."

"Not yet," Colon said slyly.

"I did get a nice box. Had Nobby find me one."

"Which I in no way nicked," Nobby said, urgently. "Fairly bought and
paid for."

"All right, I believe you. Under the circumstances, I won't ask if
there was any change." He transferred It to the white stone box, and
put it in his coat pocket, tossing the grubby velvet one in a trash
bin. "Now, do I pass inspection?"

He had meant it as a joke, and felt suddenly exposed in front of the
laserlike looks of Carrot, Nobby, and Colon. Finally, they glanced at
each other, and nodded. A Watchman was a Watchman, and if you minded
that he had a dented breastplate or worn-out boots, you oughtn't to be
hanging about in the first place.

"Buy her an apple!" Carrot called, as Vimes stalked out. "They're good
for you! Lady Sybil likes apples!"

"An' don't smoke!" Colon added.

"An' don't do anything stupid!" Nobby said, but he waited until the
door had closed. The other two glared at him. "Well, she might take the
Yard back," he said defensively.

***

Outside, it was crisp and cool in the late spring morning. Everything
was simpler outside, even during the daylight hours, which were usually
something Vimes shut his curtains against so that he could sleep. The
streets were still quiet, and - you could almost believe - peaceful.

Lady Sybil must be at least a little fond of him, he thought, to get up
at six in the morning on a cold day and venture out of the old house on
Scoone Avenue. She'd started coming to meet him for breakfast when it
became obvious that he worked during her dinnertime, most days, and it
was a pleasant little habit they had now. She met him in Sator Square,
a nice walk from the Watch House, and he listened to the news of her
world** as they ate. He'd had to save her a few times from Dibbler's
treacherous breakfast sandwiches, because Lady Sybil was a trusting
soul, but then she'd often saved him from an early-morning drink when
he was in a foul mood. She would talk at him until he couldn't help
coming round to her point of view, which was similar to Carrot's -
there wasn't anyone you couldn't get along with, if you were a good
chap and tried hard. It didn't last forever, but it lasted through
breakfast, and that was enough.

What he wanted, he'd discovered, was for breakfast to last longer. Or
at least, for it to be a sure thing***.

"Morning, Sybil," he said, stepping into the square and tipping his
helmet. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Good morning, Sam," she answered. "I just arrived myself. Shall we?"

He nodded, curtly, and fell into step beside her.

"I thought we might try that little cafe, the one that just opened off
the Square," Sybil began. "I hear they do an excellent Genuan
Surprise."

"Don't know that I want to be surprised by anything they've got in
Genua," he said. She smiled. "Do they do egg and chips?"

"I imagine they could have a try. You're an easy man to cook for, Sam."

Egg and chips was not how he had wanted to steer the conversation, but
he hadn't thought about that bit up until now. /Speaking of surprise,
Sybil - / or possibly, /Look here, I don't take up much space and - /

"The cafe sounds fine," he said.

"How was your evening? Not too damp?" she asked. She always called it
his evening - not shift, or work, or anything so common. Sybil had
class, loads of it, and grace.

/It'd never work,/ he thought despairingly. /It really never would.
Daft to even try./

"Sam?"

He glanced at her. "Oh, right. Yes, fine. Not much damp. Listen,
Sybil..."

"Yes?"

"I was wondering..." he trailed off as they passed a fruit merchant,
and Carrot's words came back to haunt him. "Here, these look fresh,
would you like an apple?" he blithered. She stopped, perplexed.

"Yes, I suppose..." she said, slowly. He tossed a coin to the merchant,
and picked up one of the man's spotty, elderly fruits, which he shined
on his sleeve before handing it to her.

Class and grace. And Sam Vimes had neither. If it was possible to
actively lack class and grace, he would.

"Are you sure you're all right, Sam?" she asked. "You seem a bit
distracted today."

"Just thinking things over," he answered.

What have you got, Sam? An empty rank, boots with holes in, a bare
bedroom in the Watch House and a few barely clung-to convictions. A
breastplate with dents - shiny enough, true, but you didn't even do
that, did you? An attitude even cynics think is a bit on the depressive
side, a badge, and a bad shave. Why would Sybil Ramkin give you a
second look?

On the other hand, a quiet, Carrot-like voice said, why's she up at six
in the morning to have breakfast with you? Eh?

A man's got to have something to offer a lady like her.

You've got a badge. You're a Captain. When was the last time a woman
smiled at your jokes? When was the last time you made a joke?

You /are/ a joke, if you think this is going to work.

There was a scream, up ahead. Sam stopped, laying a hand on Sybil's
arm. Another scream. "Unlicensed Thief! Stop 'im!"

"Stay here," he said sharply, and took off running, shedding his heavy
coat as he went. It didn't take long to come around the side of a
fishmonger's stall and see the wailing woman, and a man who was
apparently in training for the hundred-meter-dash-with-handbag. As he
tore after the purse-snatcher, he thought about Leggy Gaskin, who had
run after a thief and gotten a one-way trip to Small Gods cemetery for
his troubles. /You could be a fast copper, or you could be an old
copper, but you couldn't be - /

Blow that for a game of soldiers. You couldn't commit a crime under the
nose of a Watch Captain, Night or otherwise, and expect to get away
with it. He nipped down an alleyway that would cut diagonally out
towards the street the thief had just turned down, and arrived in time
to lay an angry, breathless punch on the running man.

"Let's see your guild license," he demanded, as the thief fell on the
cobbles, nose bleeding. "Eh? Haven't got one? I expect you left it in
your other pants. No, you don't," he advised, as the man tried to crawl
away. He grabbed him by the collar, flipped him over, and glared down
at him. Lifted one leg to put the boot in -

And saw Sybil come puffing around the corner, the thief's victim in
tow. She has a good turn of speed, he thought. He lowered his foot,
slightly ashamed.

The purse's owner, however, had no such compunctions. She had no sooner
snatched her purse back from the thief, than she was laying into him
with it. To judge from the thuds it made, she must be carrying lead
hankies. Two officers from the Day Watch were trotting up, too, so he
let them go to the trouble of pulling the pair apart and sorting things
out.

"That was jolly brave of you," Sybil said, handing his coat back to him
as they walked down the alley. Something jangled in a pocket. "Sorry,
you dropped it - I think something broke..."

He stopped and reached into his pocket, bringing out a handful of white
stone slivers.

"What was it - " she started to ask, then stopped, suddenly. Along
with the slivers, he held a (mercifully unblemished) gold ring, with a
small, a very small, rather blueish diamond set in it.

"Oh bugger," he said, as her eyes widened. "I didn't mean to - I mean,
I wanted it to be more...er, less - not in an alley, for starters - "

"It's perfect," she said. His brow knit.

"It is? I mean..." he trailed off, haplessly. "I didn't know how to
ask...but...would you like to? Erm, marry me. That is." She was staring
at him. He brushed the chips of stone off his palm. "It's all right if
you'd rather not - "

Sybil began to laugh. It started out very quietly, then slowly grew in
volume until he began to worry. "Of course I will, you silly man," she
gasped. "If I'd...rather...not..." she repeated, going off into gales
of laughter again. "Would I like to..."

"Here, are you all right?" he asked. Perhaps the shock had put her over
the edge.

She nodded, wordlessly, still giggling. Then she managed to get herself
under control, leaned over, and kissed him. Engulfed him, really. Sybil
didn't do anything by halves.

Sam Vimes was not a man accustomed to being kissed, especially in
public, even if 'public' was only a dim, uninhabited alley. When the
surprise wore off, he saw she'd put the ring on her finger, and was
admiring it.

"It isn't much - " he began.

"Nonsense. It's lovely. I've always liked blue," she said.

Class and grace by the bucketload, Sam thought, as they picked their
way back to Sator Square. Class and grace and a heart big enough for
the whole world.

Including me.

END

* Another reason was Captain Samuel Vimes, but we'll get there in a few
paragraphs.

** Mainly dull society gatherings, spiced up by Sybil's true passion,
dragon-breeding. Since she bred swamp-dragons, who often exploded for
no apparent reason, it could be quite exciting. It was a rare breakfast
that didn't include both the word 'orchestra' and the phrase 'blast
radius'.

*** Which some people would call a pretty good definition of love, if
not burdened with Vimes' cynical view of the softer emotions.