Turns out all the text has to be a standard size in ffn. Which is a pain, because now Death seems like he's shouting all the time. Ach well, enjoy!

LORD VETINARI.

The former Patrician looked around only to see the slightly disconcerting sight of his own body, tired and old, lying prostrate in his bed. 'Ah,' he said, looking up to see the grinning face of Death loom over him. 'I suppose there isn't a chance you could let me have one more day to ready my affairs?'

I'M AFRAID NOT LORD VETINARI, I COME FOR ALL MEN AND I TEND NOT TO STICK AROUND FOR THEM TO FIDDLE WITH PAPERWORK.

Yes, quite. In a way it was rather pleasant to actually stop working, even if the work will never end. It was finally, for him and for once and for all, finished. 'I suppose you know, it could be nice to have a rest for eternity; I just hope it doesn't come as too much of a shock to him.'

IT DOES, BUT HE'LL GET OVER IT. I MUST ASK THOUGH, WHY HIM? WHY NOT SOMEONE MORE APTLY TRAINED FOR THE JOB?

'Because my dear fellow, of all the people who really don't want the position, he is the only one who can't resist the challenge of it. He'll see it as a game – an enormously tense, ridiculously high stakes game that will either kill him in a fortnight or crown him champion of the world. Now, I do believe I should be off.' And with that, Lord Vetinari walked with Death for the final time.

Adora was surprised, and even a little proud, of how her husband reacted to the news. Hearing his guardian angel had died peacefully in the night was one thing; seeing in cold, harsh writing that he was nominated as successor was another kettle of fish entirely. Moist didn't say anything whilst the palace officials and lawyers ran through the minutiae of assuming a position which, a mere hour ago, had seemed unassumable. Instead, he just nodded occasionally at the nameless clerk, and only Adora noticed the pallor of his skin around his knuckles and the tiny beads of sweat forming above his left eyebrow. He was obviously close to a stress event horizon; he was only ever this calm when he knew exactly how much and what quality of shit his was in.

'Excuse mister... Clerk,' She said, snapping the official out of his recital of the document which Moist was not yet obliged to sign. 'Can you all give my husband and I some time to talk this through please? We'll be along presently to the Palace if he takes the job.' Moist looked at her as though he'd never seen her before, and she surreptitiously squeezed his hand.

'But Mrs Lipwig, he needs to sign and start right now, even the-' the hapless clerk stopped under the full bore of the Adora Glare, and hastily gathered his belongings, backing away from her with his entourage. 'We'll send a cab for noon then', he said lamely as they were shown the door by a member of staff. Only when the front door had shut and the noises of the cab faded away did Adora kneel down in front of Moist, holding both of his hands, which were now alarmingly pale.

'Moist?' She said gently, searching his eyes.

'Grnh', he replied.

'Oh come on, you're overreacting now,' she said, standing up and crossing her arms. Moist looked up at her as she procured a cigarette out of thin air and started smoking it like she had a hit contract out on it. 'Just think of it like a promotion; you already have four government jobs, what's another one going to matter?' Moist stood, or at least tried to. His knees buckled and Adora grabbed his elbow, steadying him. He looked mournfully into her eyes, his deepest self, one that she had only seen once before and never wished to see again, held her gaze. She manoeuvred him to the squashiest chair in their living room, and wondered if half nine was too early for Splot. 'Have you reached words yet dearest?'

'I... think so', he said, his voice tiny. Yes, definitely Splot time. One call for Igor later and he was back on his feet, almost brought back to his old self. He kissed her fiercely, picking her up and not seeming to know or care that she had a mouth full of cigarette smoke. As she exhaled, his flumped back onto the chair, running his hands through his slightly greying hair. 'Spike, I don't think I can handle this. I mean, I'm just a show! I can't rule people, I'll be dead within a week!'

'Firstly, there's no 'I' here, because 'we' are not going to let you be killed, got that? When you're Patrician –' He whimpered slightly and Adora held his chin and forced him to look at her. 'When you are Patrician, which will be about two and half hours from now, I refuse to let you die, okay? And secondly, you might be a showman and a show-off, but you are not a show, Moist Von Lipwig. Everything you've ever done since you stepped into that Post Office has been real and solid and built on the foundation of you'. She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray like she was knifing an enemy in the eye and kissed him fiercely, to stop any argument and because he smiled when she called him a show-off.

'I can't believe the old bastard's dead though – why the hell did he pick me? Everyone knows that Commander Carrot should be next in line, he screams 'follow me' with every bone in his body.'

'Yes, but you make people think that following you was their idea first, and you get bored and mess around in other people's business – Carrot doesn't. Important character trait number one right there. And I seem to recall a dashing twenty something in a golden suit telling everyone that there was no fun to be had with promising the possible? Carrot will stay with the Watch and you will get up his nose and make him want to make you better.'

'I'm dancing on the edge of a volcano as it is Spike, he may as well have painted a target on my back with a 'Shoot Here' sign above my head. I'm not a young man anymore, I can't dance as well as I used to.' She held both of his hands and pulled him out of his chair. His eyes wrinkled when he smiled and his lithe figure, once so good at leaping out of windows and thinking nothing of riding for miles to impress a girl and kick start a dying business, had given itself over to comfortable train journeys and large roast dinners. She looked into his eyes and saw an old familiar friend, Moist's imagination, look back. It obviously needed inspiration to stop his foolish need to be sensible.

'You'll be dancing soon enough my love. And anyway, just last week you were complaining about how foot-the-ball fans were the most closed minded idiots you'd ever encountered. When you're Patrician, you could do something about that. How about a Discwide tournament? That'd get them out of the city at any rate.' Spark when his imagination. 'You could make a trophy out of gold and everyone would want their country to have it because you would tell them they do.'

'And we could build proper stadiums and it'll be an excuse to extend the railway because no one would want to miss out – we could even get Fourex and Klatch involved! It'll be like having a war but no one would have to die – We could call it the DiscCup or something!' He said and Adora grinned at him. 'And we could sell stamps with foot-the-baller's faces on them and clean up the game and have charity matches before the actual tournament and the kids would love it and...' He sagged again, the crescendo of the thought of a sports tournament ebbing away as his sensible self beat his imagination down. 'But I can't do it Spike, I can't have that much power, what's to stop me – I don't know, having a man killed because I don't like his hair cut?'

'Are you planning on having people killed because of their hair cuts?'

'No, but-'

'Good. And anyway, if you even think about going slightly bonkers with power, I'll hit you so hard your face will want to crawl back to the Uberwald cave it came from. Now, repeat after me: I am Patrician because Vetinari, the mad bastard, made me.' Moist smiled his widest smile, wrinkling his eyes in a way Adora found impossibly attractive.

'I am Patrician because Vetinari, the mad bastard, made me.'

'I will be Patrician until I die or don't feel like I can do anymore for the city.'

'I will be Patrician until I die or don't feel like I can do anymore for the city.'

'I will march upstairs and get ready for meeting my doting public.'

'No, I'll do this instead,' and with one well timed grab and sweep, Adora was in his arms as he bent her backwards, holding one of her hands as her other held onto his back for support. He kissed her like he hadn't done for years, and gracefully pulled her up into a tango hold. 'Let's dance, Spike.'

It was a sloppy dance, but Moist was singing an old tune as they did and since it was neither on a volcano nor on the end of a rope, it was probably the sweetest, nicest one Adora had ever known. The trials of international relations lay ahead of them, and she would be damned if they were going to take her dancing, smiling, singing husband from her.

Not quite sure how many chapter's this will last, but I'm enjoying writing this! As always, leave a review you gorgeous creatures you!