Before I begin the introduction, I'd like to make a quick announcement.
You've all seen the advert elsewhere in this forum for ,
the new fanfic archive; I'm one of the first-wave of Discworld writers
on board, and I'm trying to help spread the word. I like skyehawke; in addition to fanfic postings, it also boasts an actual discussion forum,
which I've /always/ thought ought to have.

As an incentive ::grin:: I have posted a four-chapter story at the
archive, called "Defender of the Crown", which will not be posted here
for quite a while. If you're fond of my stuff, go check it out. Leave
a review, or stop by the Discworld message board, say hello.

All right. On with the introduction :)

I was looking over some fanfics recently when I decided to twist one I'd
actually already written, and this is the result. I'd like to think it's
not entirely mushy, because I have /some/ pride, but the sop factor is
depressingly high. It's what happens when you give a boy a liberal-arts
education, I suppose.

Thanks to Mary and Lunar for the excellent betas, as always.

DINNER AT SARNOFF'S

Sam Vimes was not, by and large, the most sensitive man in the world.
You didn't get many sensitive men in the Watch, at least, not for long;
if they survived, they very quickly became just as hard-boiled as the
next officer, provided that the next officer was not Carrot
Ironfoundersson, who had still not been broken to the culture of
cynicism that the Watch fostered.

He was also not terribly well-educated when it came to Women. He knew
how to handle one who was running at you with a knife or an upraised
frying pan, because he'd been the mediator of many a domestic dispute,
but this is not an ideal position from which to learn the gentle art of
romance. He'd, well, he'd had some experience, it was true, but not
extensively so. The longest relationship he'd had lately was with
Bearhugger's distillery.

Up until Sybil Ramkin, at any rate.

And he might not be sensitive or romantic or very well-experienced but
he was a copper, and he did know Sybil relatively well. How long had it
been - nearly a year? A year of good solid meals at the mansion on
Scoone Avenue, and morning walks, and occasional singed eyebrows when
Sybil convinced him to help her out in the dragon house. A year of
making game effort to kick the bottle, because it bothered her.

So he began to notice things.

Sybil'd been nervous. Sybil, who was well-bred and calm and sensible
and had not even /flinched/ when a dragon tried to eat her. He chalked
it up to the impending Best Of Breed show in Quirm, where she was going
to be unveiling an entirely new type of swamp dragon, until other signs
started to appear that began to make /him/ nervous.

She redecorated several of the closed-off rooms in the old mansion. She
seemed to spend a lot less time in the dragon house. One of the
Interchangeable Emmas* had told him that she was in the library a lot,
reading books on etiquette. And these days, all of them giggled
whenever they saw him, which is a terrible thing for a man to
experience on a weekly basis.

-
* He suspected her actual name was Sara, but she answered to either, so
apparently they'd all come to understand his inability to keep track.

But it wasn't as though he could round up witnesses or, gods forbid,
look for Clues. He couldn't very well interrogate his, well, yes, his
girlfriend. He'd thought about asking Colon or, possibly, young Carrot,
for advice, but the idea of even trying to put his anxiety into words
left him cold.

It would almost be a relief when Sybil went off to Quirm. Not that he
wanted her to go, he was quite sure he'd miss her, but perhaps when she
came back she'd be back to normal, dependable Sybil. Sybil with an edge
was as disturbing as Vetinari without one.

"You're all packed, then?" he asked, as the walked along King's Way.
Sybil'd had to stop in at a friend's and ask them to keep an eye on the
dragons, since she couldn't take /all/ of them and Sam was liable to
use them as lighters and forget to feed them. He'd offered to walk her
back to the mansion, as he always did if she stopped by the Yard to say
hello, and she'd agreed, as she always did when he offered.

"Almost. I've got to make sure we're bringing along enough coal," she
said absently. "They don't like strange food, you know. And I'm sure
the coal in Quirm isn't as pure as it is here."

"Ankh-Morpork, first in charred wood," he said brightly. "Nice to know
we're good at something."

"Yes, dear."

He shot her a sidelong glance. "That's my line, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

"Sybil, are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," she said with a bright smile. "Just fine, Sam. Why?"

"Dunno, you seem distracted."

"That reminds me! We're having dinner tomorrow night, at Sarnoff's."

He'd missed how exactly she'd got from 'distracted' to 'dinner', but
he let it pass. "Sarnoff's?"

"Yes, I'm sure I've mentioned it. The little cafe around the corner
from the Yard?"

His brain threw up a reference. "That Sarnoff's? It's fifty dollars for
a steak there!"

"Don't worry, Sam, I'm paying."

"Can't let you do that," he murmured.

"Sam, I don't see why you insist on this, when - " she stopped,
suddenly.

"It's not right, a woman paying for a man's meal," he said, to fill the
silence.

"Fine, you let me pay this time, and next time you can pay."

He narrowed his eyes. "So long as next time isn't fish and chips from
the all-night take-away," he said.

"Dress nicely, dear," she said, patting his cheek. "And here we are.
I'll see you tomorrow night before your shift. Don't be late."

He stood at the gate of the house, and watched her walk inside. If she
wasn't back to normal by the time she got back from Quirm, he really
would ask Colon.

Maybe.

***

The staff at Sarnoff's were well-used to a variety of clinetele. During
the early afternoon, they not only employed actors trying to get a job
at the Dysk and Opera House, but also served the ones who'd gotten
jobs. Around three o'clock, the white linen came out, and Sarnoff's
went from a slightly shabby cafe to one of the most upscale places to
eat in the city. Nobs of all kinds came there for drinks before a night
of Culture, and quite expensive meals afterwards. They'd even played
host to the Breccia 'businessmen' on occasion, and ordered-out
quartz inna bun and fresh shale especially.

Lady Sybil was not a stranger to the staff of Sarnoff's, either; she
often met her fellow dragon-lovers for an evening of the most
disturbing conversation the waiters had ever heard. Flameless Gripe,
Blowback, explosions of all kinds, distinctive ways to tell digestive
fluid from fuel...

She did tip well, though.

They'd never seen Mister Vimes, but they knew him well enough. Lady
Sybil sometimes talked about him with her friends, and of course the
Yard wasn't that far away, and Corporal Carrot sometimes ate at
Sarnoff's in the afternoons. Corporal Carrot admired his Captain, and
often spoke of him. The staff were fascinated to finally see Lady
Sybil's suitor. They weren't disappointed.

"Lookit 'im, will you? Looks like 'e'd rip yer 'eart out and beat you
over the 'ead with it," said the cook, leaning around the door.
"Suppose 'e likes 'is steak raw?"

"Nah, Corporal Carrot says he's a softie, really," said the
only-slightly-terrified waiter who was supposed to go out there in a
minute and take their order.

"Lady Sybil said that too, but one of 'er friends says she 'eard 'e
once punched a man in the 'ead for bein' rude to a lawn-ornament."

"Better not call them that in front of him, then, cook," the waiter
said. "All right. Wish me luck. We who are about to serve salute you."

***

Vimes was not an enormous fan of new experiences. New experiences, for
a Watchman, could include things like death. This one, however, was
somewhat entertaining. Sarnoff's was one of the fanciest joints in the
city. The menu proved it. There were things you could dine on here that
cost more than the rent on his old flat. Certain bottles of wine, for
example.

"What do you think?" Sybil asked, adjusting her stole. He felt, as he
usually did in the presence of Sybil at her best, distinctly
underdressed in his uniform.

"I've never seen anything quite like it," he said, which was true. "Do
you suppose they even know what a one-dollar coin looks like around
here?"

"Show me one of those again?" Sybil said. He smiled.

"It's the little gold one, about this big?" he held up his thumb and
forefinger. It was their running joke. Tell me what a one-dollar coin
looks like? I dunno, I never saw that much money in one place. "Look,
even the titchy little appetizers - "

"You order whatever you like, Sam," she said sternly.

"I don't think they have fried slice," he answered. "All right, all
right. I know you wanted to have a nice dinner."

"You did?" Sybil looked downright worried. He tried to reassure her.

"Well, you're going off tomorrow, aren't you? Won't be back for a week
and a half. Nice to...nice to leave the city on a good note. You're
sending a postcard, aren't you? To...to the Watch, I mean. The last
one we got was from Fred, and his wife found out about it, and then
Nobby stole it - "

She smiled. The waiter, who looked as though he was on his last nerve,
brought their water and hurried away.

" - so we could do with a new one that won't make Carrot look up the
Public Posting of Indecent Images statutes again - "

"Sam, can we talk about something for a minute?"

He looked up from his postcard monologue. "Er...yes?"

"Well, we've been...friends, for a while now. And, and..."

"...closer friends?" he suggested.

"Yes, and I was thinking about..." she looked down. "How much I'm
going to miss you when I'm at the show..."

"You'll be so busy, though, and everyone's going to be so excited about
the new breed," he said desperately. "You won't have time, you'll be
back before you know it."

"I don't know about that." She looked up at him. "Listen, I know it's
not...the normal way of things, but I just thought. Well."

"What?"

"Sam, would you like to get married?"

He blinked. He understood every word in the sentence, more or less, but
strung together, they did something to his brain. Made it hide,
apparently.

"Er...not today?" he asked. Then he winced. "I mean, yes, I'd like that."

Her smile was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long time. "You
would?"

"Yes. Yes. I would. I'd have asked before but..."

" - it's not my place to ask, I know that - "

" - it'd be...nice," he finished.

"I thought so too."

"And that's why...dinner and...?"

Her smile just got wider. "Apparently there's a very strict tradition
when it comes to these things."

"Emma said you'd been reading books on etiquette," said Vimes.

"Oh yes. I wanted to do it right," said Sybil.

Then Vimes laughed. It wasn't the usual snort of amusement or cynical
hah! of a Watchman on a crime; it was the full laugh of a satisfied
man. It did a lot towards making the waiter less nervous about getting
their orders right.

"Sybil, you are a unique woman," he said. "I'll buy you a ring."

"Oh, that's silliness. After all, I didn't have to buy you one."

"Fine, I'll...I'll do something really nice. I'll think of something."

"You already have," said Sybil. The pair of them probably looked like
grinning idiots, he thought. But he didn't really care.

I'm going to marry Sybil.

She really wants to.

/She/ asked /me/.

Well, if that doesn't beat all.

END