Disclaimer: This is not my story. It's my sister's and she's too lazy to make an account here. Though apparently, not lazy enough not to write fanfics but greedy enough to want feedback. Humor her. Oh, and though this story is hers, the characters belong to Terry Pratchett.

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Vetinari knew how this was supposed to go. He sought Vimes out to take care of a problem. Vimes did not seek him out to take care of problems. After all, a tyrant's got to have some rest from that badly shaved face, and barely controlled rage. And of late, Vimes had been showing people family photos, cornering them and shaking a truncheon to get their attention if necessary.

Drumknott was probably coming in for, hopefully, the more restrained treatment because in the next room, Vetinari could hear his personal clerk's quiet, soothing, sincere voice assuring Vimes that: "…yes, young Sam is coming on, isn't he? How time flies, last time his lordship told me about him he was barely a nipper, wasn't he, and now look at him, already walking, that's adorable…"

Vetinari knew Rufus Drumknott, every inch of his body, every swing of his gestures, every nuance of his speech…wait - that sounded wrong, as if Vetinari had spent more time than usual on watching his head clerk move around (and he especially had not watched when Drumknott bent over to slot files in the lower drawers)…

Vetinari shook his head slightly, frowning. Anyway, the point of it was that Drumknott really did sound enthusiastic about Young Sam. And the last comment he could recall making about Vimes's son was something along the lines of, "Looks like a pink slug now, but will probably grow up with its father's look. Gods help it."

To which Drumknott had replied: "There are worse things, your Lordship."

Then they had gotten on with their work, and Vetinari had allowed himself to wonder, for one disconcerting second, if Drumknott found Vimes attractive.

A gentle tap on the door recalled him, and then Drumknott eased in with his oiled silence. "His grace, the Duke, and his wife to see you, sir," he said. "Shall I tell them to come in?"

"They'll come in anyway," said Vetinari, steepling his fingers with a faint, resigned air as to his fate. Drumknott's mouth lifted in the corners with a slight smile, and he nodded at his master, before disappearing.

"Good morning, Havelock!" Sybil Vimes, Ramkins as was, smiled at him as she glided into the room. There was something about her that spoke of capability, common sense and sunshine. Lots of golden sunshine. Vimes had long had the look of someone who'd sensibly slathered on a great deal of suntan lotion and could now bask happily. Cradled in his arms was Sam Jnr, a round, rosy-cheeked infant with a tuft of red-brown hair and a look of chronic stupidity.

Well, that is, he looked happy and naïve and innocent. His greatest desire was to have a sweetie, lots of sweeties.

All in all, they looked like a happy family, even if Vimes was wearing his signature blank-to-the-point-of-idiocy look. Vetinari caught sight of a wistful look in Drumknott's eyes before the clerk vanished round the door.

Eh?

"…I'm sorry?" he said.

Sybil smiled at him, a trifle pleadingly. "We were just asking, d'you think you could watch Sam here for us while we go off for a holiday, Havelock?"

"No," said Vetinari.

There was a pause.

"I meant Young Sam, Havelock."

"Oh." Vetinari's face was a complete blank. "Excuse me a moment…" In recent years, the small bell he used to summon Drumknott had been replaced by a little golden horn, and down it he whispered, "Get in here right now, Drumknott."

Then he replaced the speaker, and smiled at the Vimeses. "But Mrs. Vimes, I don't quite understand…" Drumknott entered the room. "Why exactly are you proposing on leaving young Sam in my care?"

"Precisely what I want to know," muttered Vimes, not quite under his breath.

Sybil shot him a reproachful look. "Well, you see, we can't really bring him along this particular trip."

"I don't see why not," said Vetinari, looking down at a few documents he had on hand, sensing, in some odd way, that he was losing the battle to Mrs. Vimes's sheer, unbeatable likeability. "After all, you've brought him along on your other family holidays, haven't you?"

"Oh yes, the one with the dwarves…" muttered Vimes again. "That was a laugh and a half…"

"Sam…"

Vimes pulled a face. "Respectfully speaking, sir, even I don't particularly want my son to come along with us. I think he'll be safer here – even under your care-"

There was a muffled coughing sound from Drumknott, which could've been drowned out by a summer breeze, but Vetinari heard. He turned his painfully blank face onto the clerk. Drumknott stopped laughing.

"– and Sam and I need some time alone," added Sybil, patting her husband's shoulder. To Vetinari's malicious amusement, Vimes blushed. Young Sam, apparently unaware that his parents were trying to dump him upon the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, gurgled.

"I understand that there is great hospitality in Uberwald…" tried Vetinari.

"You must've heard wrong, I could've sworn it was 'hostility'," replied Vimes.

"Sam!" Sybil turned to Vetinari, and there was a deadly finality in her tone that only the richest noblewoman of Ankh-Morpork could use on the Patrician. "I'm sorry, Havelock, but Sam doesn't want to risk it, even though Count Vladimus Von Willenstein is an old family friend and you're our last hope, really. It's only for a few weeks…"

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"Argggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!"

Double exclamation marks were not often heard in the Patrician's palace- besides the scorpion pit - where muted efficiency was the keyword. Young Sam, once he found out that his parents were gone and he was, indeed, not going to get any sweeties, had let out his ire the only way he knew how.

"Arrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!"

Young Sam had been dumped on Drumknott, the moment the Vimeses had left the palace. For a while, he had played happily with rubber bands, pins and ink, messing up a week's worth of correspondence. All of a sudden, he had lifted his head as if listening for an expected voice – possibly one telling him, "No, no, Sammy, we don't put that in our mouths." – and hearing nothing, burst noisily and theatrically into tears.

Drumknott did his best to calm the boy, in the way most people who don't have much to do with children use. He stroked Young Sam's hair and tried to dab at his tears with a file and crooned, "Shhh, shhh, what's the matter? You miss your mommy and daddy, don't you? Shhh…"

The only thing he did right was not use baby talk.

Vetinari appeared in the doorway of his office. "Drumknott!" he said above the gale-force howling of Young Sam. "Bring that little-"

"Sir!"

"-child here to me," said Vetinari, not missing a beat. He drew forth from his pocket, small pellet shaped objects, striding towards Drumknott who backed away, until he and squalling Young Sam were up against the wall.

"My lord!" he said desperately. "I really don't think that his Grace and her ladyship are going to be very happy if Young Sam isn't safe and healthy and ready to be delivered to them – and not in a coffin too, sir, if I may venture an opinion -"

"What in the world are you babbling about?" asked Vetinari mildly, as he reached out a hand to pop something into the baby's mouth. Drumknott cringed. There was a pause. Young Sam grew quiet. He made happy sucking noises, tears mysteriously gone.

"Sweeties," said Vetinari, without a change of expression on his face. He ate one himself, and offered the handful to Drumknott. "I think one every time he opens his mouth to yell should suffice, Drumknott."

"Y-yes, sir," replied Drumknott, hypnotized by the danger of his situation. Many a mime had been sent to the scorpion pit for less. Delicately, Vetinari poured the excess sweets into Drumknott's pockets. "T-there isn't anything… harmful about these, are they, my lord?"

"Certainly not," said Vetinari calmly. "Outside of the usual diabetes, cavities, obesity. Have one?"

"No thank you," said Drumknott, but nevertheless had one popped into his mouth as well. He swallowed and nearly choked himself. Vetinari turned to go back into his office. Drumknott's face felt hot. The sweet really was rather good after all…

"Like it? Good, I received a packet from Downey. I believe he said his grandchildren used to enjoy them, so unfortunate they passed away early. Bless their souls," said Vetinari, before closing his office door. He heard the sound of someone spitting out a sweet, and then – from the yells beginning to grow in depth and volume – Drumknott was probably trying to take the candy out of Young Sam's mouth as well.

He smiled to himself and licked his sticky fingers.