Originally appeared in my Livejournal June 20, 2009.

Full Disclosure: I stuck by the rules, or at least the spirit of them. I wrote until the song ended and only finished any hanging sentences and went back to fix glaring typos afterward. And strangely, the selection of songs and my frame of mind seem to have produced several ficlets appropriate for Fathers Day. There are minor spoilers of a sort for Night Watch and Jingo, but no worse than you're going to see if you read the synopsis on the covers.

My Sweet Lord by George Harrison

There were very few things that could make a praying man out of Sam Vimes. Oh, there were a few times he had thought "ye gods, I hope I get out of this", certainly. And a few where he had fervently hoped things worked out or his luck held or... but everyone did that, didn't they? This was new. He had never felt like maybe there was a little praise due... some god up there, at any rate. Sweeper had said there would be one perfect moment, when it would all become clear. He had thought it was in the graveyard, at Keel's grave. But this was looking like being a more likely candidate. The little fingers reflexively squeezed at his index finger from the cradle while his newborn son gurgled in near-sleep.

Wrong Side by French Kicks

There was just a little guilt in there. Vimes prodded it like a bad tooth. He was fascinated. Why did he even care? It wasn't like he had any reason to try to keep on Lady Ramkin's good side. He thought he had drowned the Sam Vimes that might have cared years ago. Or maybe killed him with alcohol poisoning. He wasn't some moony lad who should be going around moping over a female... Only, if he were honest, some little part of him wanted to find out if it just might work with her.

Walk On by U2

"Let's walk," Sybil said, slipping an arm through his. Sam was mildly surprised. First, at the suggestion that they walk. Second, he was mildly surprised that she hadn't said a word about the meeting with the Patrician. He let himself be pulled into an amble, back toward Scoone Avenue.

"So?" he said, finally, to fill the yawning silence. He fiddled with the ends of the scarf, for something to do.

"So what?" Sybil said lightly.

"Aren't you going to ask what I decided?"

"I assume you'll say when you're ready. I told you it was up to you."

"I suppose it won't be so bad. Being married to a duchess," Sam admitted.

"I'm very proud of you. And not because of a title," Sybil said.

"History," Sam grunted. "Can't leave Old Stoneface behind," he added, half to himself.

"Wouldn't want to, would you?"

Scene of the Swans from Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky

Sam Vimes hated the theater. That much was plain. He sat in the seat next to her, stiff as a man facing the firing squad and with a scowl that would have just about peeled paint. He despised fiddly, twee music. He could just about stand songs generally sung in pubs, but not opera, not orchestra. She watched him sit there and radiate wanting to be anywhere else.

Therefore, Sybil was more than a little surprised when he caught her looking and... smiled.

Look At That Cadillac by Stray Cats

"I'm gonna get myself one of those," Sam muttered around his cigar.

"Sam..." Sybil chided. But it was in a tone that was less than half reproving. The rest of it, if he was any judge, was stifled laughter. She was definitely smiling.

"No, I'm serious. And I'm going to put big bells on it, so people know I'm coming. And bunting. Lots of bunting. Maybe hire a crier to go out in front. And I'll get the big lanterns, and make Willikins wear the damned stupid hat. With plumes. Extra plumes. And poofy trousers."

"Stop it," Sybil said, but she was struggling to keep a straight face by now. "Ronnie's new carriage doesn't look that gaudy."

This Side by Nickel Creek

Sam Vimes blinked awake. The sun was streaming through the window and, this was very important, it wasn't sandy. It wasn't hot as blazes. It wasn't so cold you could see your breath. It wasn't the desert, it was his city. More importantly, it was his drawers, his sheets, his bloody bed... his wife. Sybil didn't stir when he rolled over. If he could help it, he was never leaving home again.

Packin' Trunk by Leadbelly

Moving in was a big step. Well, maybe not so big. His things, such as they were, would fit in a bag. A very small bag, come to it. Oh, he had a trunk, but it was almost more decoration than anything. He wasn't used to packing to go somewhere. He usually packed to leave. Usually in quite a hurry. Sometimes he had help, someone only too glad to put his things out for him. Often out the window at a high rate of speed. Women just didn't offer to get him settled in somewhere, even in a bedroom to call his own.

State of Commence by Venality

NOTE: This was instrumental. It had such a fabulous title, I memed it anyway.

Men, Sybil had decided, could be a bit oblivious to such things. It wasn't that she wished to complain, far from it. Sam was a good man, whether he liked admitting it or not, and she didn't want him to give up being Commander. It would be like asking him to give up breathing. And he was a good husband, too, for that matter, when he could find the time or the space in his head to remember he was married. Admittedly, she was still getting used to being a wife. It took a bit of doing when the two of you had been used to living for only one for so long. But she also had to admit that being in a constant state of starting, was getting old. They commenced a lot of things, time together, meals together, nights together, and there just wasn't much finishing of the things they commenced. She was going to have to say something.

Who D'King by Cheap Trick

He was beginning to wonder if his feet would ever touch the ground again. He felt like he needed a rope. And his chest was probably in danger of exploding. Sam Vimes felt like a man who had gotten shed of a sixteen ton weight. He hadn't realized how heavy the worry had been the last few months. On the walk down here, it had been all thanking people for the flowers and the congratulations, and it felt good. The talk with Dr. Lawn about how valuable forgetting could be probably wouldn't be as pleasant, but he owed the man. And for more than just being able to happily accept the congratulations on the way down here.

Monday, Monday by The Mamas & The Papas

Sybil hated Mondays. Well, hated was probably too strong a word, but she disliked them. Monday mornings were fine enough. They were usually a little more leisurely than the rest of the week, at least. The craziness of the demands of an entire Watch and all the paperwork and people work got worse as the week wore on. It seemed even crime usually took a breather on Sundays. It was just the idea that Sam would get up, and after breakfast, walk out the door, and the surety of Sunday was gone. There was suddenly no guarantee that he would be there Monday evening, and that took some getting used to.