"Oh, zer baby vas gorgeous, Havelock!"

Vetinari arched an eyebrow. Margolotta's mouth twitched, but she pushed down the irritation.

"The baby was gorgeous." Then she smiled, "I don't get to see many babies. For some reason, not many people want to show vampire overlords their children. I like them, though. When they are not squalling."

"Vampire overlord, Margolotta?" Vetinari arched an eyebrow.

"It works better with the weather than tyrant," she raised an eyebrow back, "My people appreciate dramatic flair. Tradition."

Havelock Vetinari simply smiled and said, without opening his mouth, that those who can make half a city soil their pants with a mere eyebrow movement have no need for dramatic flair.

Oh, Havelock was an arse when he was in a good mood. He was an arse most of the time, in fact, but as with her own people when she was being a bitch, those that still had heads attached to bodies were too afraid to mention it. It was amazing what subtlety, careful attention to what people thought you were up to and a reputation could do for you.

She crossed the room and stood beside him as he watched his beloved city from the window. She traced a nail lightly across the glass, then sighed, "What a shame; it's pouring with rain, so you will not be able to show me the famous Ankh-Morpork Gardens. And I was so looking forward to seeing them!"

"A shame indeed. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"Perhaps."

The air was comfortable with contemplative silence as they stood together, Tyrant and Overlord, watching the city bustle past. Then the moment passed, the Overlord picked at the cuffs of her pink jumper fussily, and then broke the quiet reluctantly.

"I have some business to finish up at the embassy. I will see you for lunch?"

Vetinari inclined his head and took her hand, "Madam."

Margolotta paused at the doors and glanced back at Havelock; he had returned to the window, his back to her and his hands clasped. A god, perhaps. A god with all the talents of a predator and all the motives of a guardian. He was the puppet master, the cog turner, a man who did not simply do his job, his life's work, because he could, or because he enjoyed it, but because he wanted the best for his city. Because - she reminded herself of what she had known all along, what she had known even thirty years ago when he had an old man's eyes and a young man's heart - because he could not and would not ever love anything more than he loved Ankh-Morpork.

She smiled, and closed the door behind her.

-x-x-x-

Moist von Lipwig, Adora Belle and John spent the remainder of the day, after their visit to the Patrician and Adora's meeting with the golems, holed up in the study doing Nothing Much. Nothing Much comprised mainly of Moist attending to a few items of paperwork, Adora reading the day's paper and making dry comments about the crossword clues, and John doing what babies did best - making cute noises, pulling strange facial expressions, crying for no fathomable reason and occasionally being sick.

When John dozed off, Moist joined him on the sofa for an afternoon nap whilst Adora finished up her own various bits of work. The rest of the day passed with relatively little occurrence and a strange, ever-present contentment. Moist mentioned this to his wife and, in a moment of self-doubt, how he was afraid that he would lose it to his own adrenaline-junkie tendencies.

She smiled, took out a loan of tenderness and explained to him that if he thought parenting was smooth-riding so far, he ain't seen nothing yet, and he grinned, and paid back the loan with gusto when she pulled him off to bed.

-x-x-x-

Teatime was still there when the school term started. He did not follow her to work, which was a relief, as he had his own contracts to fulfil. When he wasn't working he'd got into a habit of reading a series of particularly grisly slasher novels, which Susan was very happy to provide because it kept him quiet, above anything else. Unfortunately, though, due to his profession and mind of twisted corkscrews and broken glass, he was very good at guessing who the murderer was; she could read him out a description of the body and list the characters and he would be able to tell her, quite easily, who killed the victim and how they did it. (He couldn't, however, ever predict the motive. Susan found this quite interesting and was a little worried at the vast, empty chasm in Teatime's emotional consciousness that other people filled with important things like sympathy and empathy; she couldn't help it, she was a fixer. It was like living with a tall, impossibly intelligent five-year old boy.)

It was bloody annoying, mainly because nine times out of ten he was right. She had half a mind to recommend him to the Watch, if it weren't for the fact that it would probably be him who killed the victim in the first place. And he would drive Commander Vimes totally batty.

So she gave him her books, and in return, he cooked for her. As dead assassins went, he was a pretty proficient cook, a talent that she didn't question for simple reason that she herself was an appalling cook. At night, he curled up on her sofa, quite comfortable due to his cat's ability to fall asleep on anything. There wasn't a spare bedroom and there was no way he was going near her bedroom, because, despite the fact she knew he was as likely to try anything of that nature as a neutered duck, lines had to be drawn somewhere. And she would rather that he stayed in her apartment than have him break in whenever he felt ill.

She hadn't yet finished 'How To Exorcise Your Poltergeist', but it worked as a good, heavy reason when "because we're friends" didn't work to get rid of him during Lobsang's visits.

-x-x-x-

The months went quite quickly, as months tended to. It was just one of those things; at the time every day seemed to be impossibly slow, and then suddenly it was six months later and you hadn't even realised.

It had taken nearly six months for that helpful little voice to pipe up again; he'd been heading out of the door to get a story and had turned around to say goodbye to his wife.

William, that secretive part of him said, prodding him, You're going to be a father.

He stumbled out of the Times Office and leant on the door, struggling to catch his stolen breath; it was as if, as cliché as it sounded, a large cloud had just been extracted from inside his head. A lot of instincts and feelings that he was sure should have kicked in a few months ago, suddenly kicked in, hard.

For a moment, before the insecurities resumed, William couldn't help but grin in sheer delight. And then, in his mind's eye, someone appeared, the image hitting him like a punch to the stomach. No, he thought determinedly, raising his chin as the ghostly figure of his father wagged a condemning finger, Not like him. I promise.

Shyly, feeling more than a little foolish, he retold the experience to Sacharissa that evening. She didn't laugh, she just smiled, understandingly, and said, "Well, its nice to know that you've finally realised, dear."

-x-x-x-

Sally pestered Angua about the events of the evening all week. She finally gave in on Monday, when they were stuck on a morning patrol together.

"I don't remember much of it, if I'm honest."

Oh, how Sally's eyebrows had waggled at that (in an elegant and vampirical manner, of course), "That's how you know it was a good night! You don't want to remember licking spilt beer off the floor or kissing an old man, do you?"

"I did not kiss an old man!"

"But if you can't remember, how can you be sure?" Sally grinned infuriatingly. The wolf longed to rip it off.

"I just know, okay? I don't do that sort of thing when I'm drunk."

"Ah, but you sing loudly and dance on the bar."

Angua was silent for a few moments, frowning at the young woman beside her, who suddenly looked a little sheepish. Bloody gossiping vampires! "Sally…"

"My friend was there, okay? He left the ball early and was passing outside on his way home."

"He…?" Angua pounced on the moment with relish.

"Oh, shut up." Sally rolled her eyes, "Otto, Otto Chriek, the iconographer from the Times. He's a Black Ribboner. He stopped to help Miss Cripslock and heard you and Adora starting up a round of 'Vetinari Has No Balls At All'."

Angua winced. But… "I bet he thinks lady vampire spies are really sexy, you know."

"Shut up!"

Commander Vimes couldn't help noticing, with a grin, how the previously worrying tension between Lance-Constable Sally and Captain Angua had slowly dissolved into nothing more than petty bickering. Not that either of them would admit it, but they would be best friends before the year was out. He remarked this lightly to Carrot, who merely smiled.

-x-x-x-

That afternoon, Vetinari and Margolotta did have lunch. Polite conversation was had, with the odd bit of political banter, subtle innuendo and several unspoken comments interrupting it. Later in the afternoon, the rain cleared and Vetinari had the chance to show his companion around the Ankh-Morpork Gardens before a meeting with the Merchant's Guild.

They had dinner together that evening in the palace dining room which involved similar conversation to lunch, and, afterwards, they finished their game of Thud from the previous evening.

"It is nice to spend time with you again," said Margolotta, studying the troll piece in her hand thoughtfully, "You should get Mr Lipwig to throw more galas."

"Not too many," Vetinari smiled wryly over his steepled fingers, "We wouldn't want people to start enjoying them, would we?"

XXXX

A/N - Many thanks to all of my reviewers, especially those who have faithfully responded with encouragement and feedback for every chapter. I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it!