Just a random oneshot I wrote yesterday. It's set sometime just after Making Money. I always thought they had a lot in common – although there are some very important differences! ;-) If you can spot the mangled quote somewhere near the end, virtual cookies to you. A belated happy Easter to my darling readers!

Sam Vimes tried to stand still as his wife fiddled with his tie. She'd forced him into holding another one of these blasted dinner parties.

"There," declared Sybil, when she was finally satisfied. "You look like a picture."

Under his breath, the Commander commented, "I'd rather look like a man . . ."

"Now Sam," she went on, "I want you to at least try to act like a gentleman tonight. If not for your reputation, then at least do it for me, please?"

"Yes, dear." His reputation! Hah! He already had all the reputation he wanted, thanks very much.

A moment later, Willikins showed two guests into the drawing room. There was a tall, thin young woman who looked like she'd slap the next person to get on her nerves. Clinging to her as if she was a life-raft in an ocean was an indescribable man in an extremely black suit.

'Indescribable' really was the only word. Even with his copper's mind, Vimes was having trouble deciding how to explain his guest. 'So, what did the thief look like?' 'Oh, he was sort of middling height, perhaps a little on the young side, maybe slightly brownish hair . . . you know.'

This had to be the famous Mr Lipwig. No-one else was so noticeably unnoticeable. Backing away, Vimes prayed to every god he could think of that something would excuse him from making conversation with this idiot. However, Sybil firmly pushed him back before going to greet the lady.

"Er, good evening," Moist began. He now looked like a man who, on finding his life-raft engaged in conversation with the hostess, was being forced to learn to swim very quickly. "Nice house you've got here," he commented, that stupid chirpy smile beginning to appear on his face. There was a pause. "Although," he added, when it became clear that Vimes wasn't about to say anything, "I can't imagine all of it gets used, eh? I mean . . . even the Post Office is only about the same size . . ." Moist gave a nervous laugh. The Commander joined in manically.

A new set of guests arrived. Leaving to see to them, Vimes said, "Do help yourself to a cocktail, Mr Lipwig!" It sounded like a threat, so the young man did so.

Sipping his drink, Moist looked around the large room. Various aristocrats were standing around being aristocratic, and Spike seemed to be getting on extremely well with Lady Sybil. The contrast between the two women was bizarre: Spike was like a piece of stretched elastic and was clearly dying for a cigarette, while the Duchess was probably born to hold dinner parties and mix with the Right People. And yet here she was, mixing with Adora Belle. Moist got a bad feeling that they were discussing himself and Sir Samuel.

Yes – Vimes. He had always held a sort of grudging respect for the Commander, but that didn't actually mean Moist wanted to know him. Watching, however, Moist noticed a strange . . . normalness about his host. He looked just as out-of-place as Spike. Vimes was a man whose name had become sophisticated, but whose personality had yet to catch up.

Very soon, the two men found themselves in each other's company once again. "So, the man with the golden suit," declared Vimes, nastily. "But where is it tonight, Mr Lipwig?" he exclaimed in mock surprise.

"Being washed. I only have one. And, anyway, that's for work – this is my night off."

Vimes stared at him. "But you are wrong. There are no nights off. Ever. Take it from me," he went on, lowering his voice, "I never stop being a copper, and no amount suits can make it otherwise. And you can't ever stop being an outstanding citizen. It's not a job, Mr Lipwig, it's a life."

Moist took another sip of his cocktail and reflected on this. So maybe they did have something in common. Vimes was another Nobody who had suddenly been expected to become a Somebody. It really showed.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lady Sybil declaring that, since everyone was here, it was time to make their way into the dining room and very kindly take a seat. Panicking, Moist quickly grabbed Spike and forced her into a chair next to his own, but Sybil spotted them trough the mass of milling guests and bustled over. "Really, Mr Lipwig," she declared, "you ought to know better than to sit next to your young lady at dinner!"

"I Should?" he asked, bewildered.

"Of course!" Sybil went on, showing Adora Belle to a seat further along the table. "Won't you allow someone else to enjoy your famous personality for a change?"

"Er . . ."

"Sam! Come here and keep Mr Lipwig entertained!"

"Oh, no . . ."

Glaring, Vimes stomped over, looking as if he had something more than entertainment on his mind.

"Women, eh?" smiled the ever-optimistic Moist sheepishly, hoping this wasn't the wrong thing to say.

"Tell me about it," the Commander grunted, helping himself to sausages. "She told me to be a gentleman just now. Me! A gentleman!"

His guest nodded sympathetically. "Mine's the same. She just doesn't appreciate the difficulties of running a bank."

Suddenly, Vimes' head snapped up. "Oh, I can imagine," he snarled, spearing a potato as if it had done him some great personal injury. "All that money needing to be handled!"

At this, Moist blushed. "Well, I didn't mean-"

"No, no, let me finish!" The watchman was picking up speed. A few people craned their heads to see what all the fuss was about. "And the clerks! I've heard they can be really vicious. I'm sure I've got it easy, dealing with mere criminals all night and day!" He cut into a parsnip with such force that it flew across the table and hit lord Selachii in the eye.

"Look, your grace," Moist gabbled, desperate to make peace, "I . . . you . . . we both . . . just listen!"

Vimes listened, with a due sense of worry.

"Do you think I ever asked for this job?" Moist asked, quietly. "No! There I was, minding my own business – and then suddenly, Vetinari turns up saying I've got responsibilities!"

For a moment, the two men just stared at each other. Then Vimes burst out laughing.

By two a.m., the dining room was almost empty. Spike was standing next to Sybil, and each woman was apologising continually to each other. Eventually, when both were satisfied that the other could not reasonably hold any hard feelings to them, they went over to their respective males.

Vimes' eyes opened, then closed again in self-defense.

"Sam, you are an idiot," growled Sybil.

"An' you're fru . . . furou . . . mad," her husband replied. "But tomorrowowow you'll have calmed down."

Moist blinked. Even in his thoroughly frazzled mind, this didn't quite make sense. "Shpike," he slurred, "I thing . . . I think I've had too mush to dring. To drink."

"You know what, Moist?" Spike replied, calmly – or at least, so angrily she sounded calm. "I totally agree. We're going home NOW."

She hauled her boyfriend to his feet and, with a last apology to Lady Sybil, left.

"Really," Adora Belle snarled, dragging Moist behind her, "I thought you knew better! Anyway, I thought you didn't get on with Vimes!"

"Wha . . ?"

"You are unbelievable! All of a sudden you're best friends!"

"Really! Getting pissed like that! And he's supposed to have given up the stuff! I can't take you anywhere!"

The last sober bit of Moist's brain told him, as Spike ordered a cab to take them home, that he was in a great deal of trouble. Still, it had been the best dinner party of his life.