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(Contains: violence/gore and strong language)

It's an ugly one, sir. A little girl...can't be more than six, seven, maybe... The words echoed in Vimes's ears. Constable Reg Shoe was gray and ashen under the best of circumstances, but Vimes would swear the zombie's skin also had a hint of a very different sort of green as he described the crime scene. Gods, who wouldn't? Vimes thought, staring at the sun-bleached wood of the old warehouse door, trying to steel himself enough to push it open. Constable Reg Shoe and Constable Hrolf Thighbiter had been first on the site, and had done little beyond cataloging the scene inside and sending back urgent word for the Commander and Forensics. Cheery had been in, collected evidence, was already back at Pseudopolis Yard. There hadn't been much to collect beyond the iconographs, probably, but the dwarf was awfully tender-hearted, and this case would be hard on her. Vimes put his hand up and pushed the protesting door open, letting it bang shut behind him. The lock was a joke even when it  had been new, and it hadn't been new in some time. One good kick would have you inside even if you were an arthritic pensioner. The damp, rusty hinges and swollen wood probably did a more effective job of keeping people out.



Inside, the dust motes whirled and danced in the air, lit up by the sunlight streaming in the high windows, dulled only a little with the grime of the city and smears of dirt. The child was right in plain view after he took a few more steps from the door, sprawled on the cool dirt floor like a broken doll, tossed down carelessly, discarded and unheeded. Commander Sam Vimes felt the bile rise and swallowed hard. He tried to stay detached, unaffected, but that lasted all of perhaps twenty seconds. He settled for observant but angry as hell and getting angrier by the second.



She looked like a hundred other little girls that lived in Dolly Sisters, or on any of a dozen streets and corners in the middling parts of the city. The bits that weren't the Shades or on the verges, but not quite the middle class and upwardly mobile portion, either. Nondescript brown hair tucked behind ears that stuck out slightly because they were still being grown into, brown eyes wide and frozen, a sharp little chin. Not overly well-dressed, but clean enough, because the pink cheeks and white hands had a certain well-scrubbed look to them. The blouse and skirt had been washed until the pattern had mostly faded, the cotton was thinner than it was probably two or three older sisters ago, but she had the look of the well-tended and cared for, despite that. Three of the little carved wooden buttons had been pulled loose and had scattered not far from the body. The narrow, milky white chest was exposed, and a livid red mark stood out near one collarbone. The skirt was shoved up, her legs obscenely splayed. There were smears of blood. One foot was totally bare, on the other a soft, worn, brown shoe was loosed from the heel, barely hanging on at the narrow toes.  The remnants of some of the cotton cloth, in tatters, ripped and cut away from her, were scattered around her. The finger marks were plain in the purple bruises ringing her throat. They went with the giveaway redness in the eyes.



No older than seven, surely, he thought, swallowing against that acidic taste rising in his mouth. He dragged his eyes away and scouted around the mostly empty warehouse, among the empty crates and boxes, desperate for anything else to think about, coming up with nothing that drew much attention but a few discarded bottles of liquor, drained, and old, stale cigarette butts. The smell of booze was strongest around her. The other shoe was nowhere to be found. It must have been lost, possibly in a struggle, somewhere out in the alleyway, perhaps. He made a mental note to have eyes kept open for it. Sam Vimes squatted next to the body and gently closed the eyelids over the unblinking, wide eyes. After a moment's hesitation, he tugged the hem of the thin cotton skirt down to her knees in an effort to give the child back some decency.



The remaining shoe, barely hanging on, slipped to the floor and sounded too loud in the quiet. He realized he had been holding his breath. Vimes forced himself to breathe out, to look at the little twist of paper shoved into the toe of what was likely a hand-me-down shoe to make it fit. He tore his eyes away again and walked back into the street, slamming the door hard behind him. There were already sergeants and constables aplenty milling around out there, ready to be told what questions to ask and where to start asking them. Walking and talking would solve it, he was sure of it. Whatever Cheery collected would just help bolster the case. There would damned well be some answers given, if he had to beat on every damned door personally. First order of business would be to check on any missing child reports at the Dolly Sisters Watch House. And finding that damned missing shoe. It might tell them where whoever it was had found her, if they had grabbed her or talked her into coming along. The small bare foot bobbed accusingly in his memory.



~~~



There was a sharp chill in the crisp air, right enough, but that wasn't what made Vimes shiver under his leather greatcoat as he made for home. The sun had already gone down hours before, the air was cold and clammy as always on late fall nights. There was a thick drift of soggy, slick leaves on the cobbles. Winter would be here soon enough. His face felt like it was on fire with rage, even against the clinging and clammy fog. Parents were always the worst. He had told his fair share of wives their husbands weren't coming home, and to be sure, that wasn't easy, especially not the last few years. Some had been officers, others victims. But nothing compared to the horror and shame of being the badge in the doorway when a mother opened up the door and knew as soon as they looked at you. Worse yet, the occasions when they saw you and hoped. And then you had to cut down their hopes, first thing, because it was crueler to let them go on hoping. And it would almost have been better if they had cursed at you, spit at you, tried to hit you. Something besides just looking straight through you and not quite believing it.



He hadn't been able to put that job off on anyone else. He had gone to the house himself, and slipped out awkwardly and quietly once the truth had sunk in and the wailing had started in earnest. The house had been packed to the brim with relatives and neighbors already. There were only so many times you could say you were sorry and promise to do all you could. To see that they were arrested and brought in, fair and square, so there could be a trial and at least an imitation of justice. Which seemed like pitifully little. Finding them and stringing them up by their entrails still alive didn't seem like enough.



He had eaten part of a hurried sandwich at the Watch House earlier in the evening, and now bed was beckoning hard. The Night Watch had, if there was any doubt in their minds, been told in no uncertain terms and at a thoroughly unmistakable volume and tone that following up the leads already gathered was top priority. This case was top priority. Mistakes were not to be tolerated. Some monsters should not walk under the living sky. These two were definitely on that list. Animals who could do that to a little girl were going to swing if he had anything to do with it. The warehouse and alleyway had been scoured, then nearby streets, and the shoe was still missing. What hadn't been missing were people who had seen the little girl with two men. Two men who were going to be identified and hunted to the edges of the Disc if necessary.



Vimes put his hand in his pocket for the keyring floating among the bits of flotsam that usually inhabit coat pockets and automatically worked the house key in the lock, not really seeing it. His head throbbed and his jaw felt tight. It was late enough that even a butler as thorough as Willikins couldn't be faulted for being in bed, and Vimes was a little thankful for it. He didn't think he could take anything like a cheerful greeting. The bottom story was dark. He stripped off his armor and locked the door behind him, leaving his coat on the hook in the front hall. Last, he pulled off his boots and crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, pausing just long enough to put his uniform in the laundry basket in his dressing room. He was only slightly surprised to push the bedroom door open and find that the weak light of the fireplace was accompanied by a guttering lamp not too far from the bed. A little moonlight straggled in through the window. It was just enough light to see that Sybil was curled up on the bed, on top of the covers, her dressing gown still tied over the nightgown, as though she hadn't meant to fall asleep. Her feet were bare and pale in the half light. His insides gave a crazed, sick lurch and he tried to block it out.



Vimes ran his hand through his hair and tried to will some of the tension out of his shoulders. Gods, he hated cases like this one. Maybe it was being a married man that did it. Not that cases with kids or women had ever been easy, but... it was times like these he sincerely wanted a drink worse than usual. Something to drown out the wondering about what possessed people to do things like this. And he couldn't have a drink. One drink was one too many and even ten wouldn't be enough, and the details would just come back the instant you sobered up anyway. Along with everything else. The things you saw as a watchman. It was part of the reason why Captain Sam Vimes had once spent very little time sober.



Worse, he hated the details of cases like this one getting back to Sybil. She wouldn't ask him about it. She wouldn't need to ask him about it, he would know when she knew. She would be just that little extra bit encouraging and supportive, and watch him like a man on a ledge, wondering where to put the portable safety net. And this one would get back to her. It would be one of those tales that carried unchecked, as gossip in the wild. It wouldn't even need mouths and ears. He padded over to the lamp and blew it out before slipping into bed, pulling the extra blanket folded neatly at the foot of the mattress over the both of them. He felt ever so slightly grateful and a touch guilty for doing so when Sybil continued sleeping soundly anyway. There were some late nights or early mornings that he would be, he had to admit, even if it was only in the complete privacy of his own head, a touch noisy on purpose and grateful for even a few minutes of usually unimportant things to talk about. Just for the company and the comfort it offered, the assurance that there were still some normal and sane things in the world. Something to treat like an anchor. But the last thing he wanted right now was sympathetic ears or trusting eyes or anything comforting. Just now, what he really wanted was someone pounding on the front door before sunup, telling him they had names and had tracked the bastards down.



~~~~



Vimes got his wish. Or at least half of it. There was a thin, streaky gray pre-dawn light barely making it through the window when the pounding came at the door. Names. They had names. And solid leads on where they might be staying. He staggered through getting dressed hurriedly, half-asleep but still careful not to make too much noise, mindful of the fact that after a weak, mumbled query, Sybil had gone straight back to snoring softly. She had seemed unusually tired these last few weeks. He had even worried a couple of mornings ago that she might be coming down with something, since she had barely picked at her breakfast. He would get some coffee at Pseudopolis Yard if there was time. Breakfast could wait this morning.



~~~~



“Detritus... the door...” Vimes growled, looking at the little ramshackle rented house as though willing himself to see through the walls. Be there, you bastards. Be there. The door was matchsticks in seconds under the troll's bunched fist and the two of them, still nursing nasty hangovers and barely awake, put up a fight. Vimes took a perverse pleasure in the fact that the first one he had latched onto foolishly tried to punch him. A well-placed elbow and knee had him balled up on the floor, winded, in short order. There was still some scuffling while the cuffs were put on, but neither of them would be getting away, not with Detritus so effectively blocking the opening where the door had been. They weren't armed, save for their fists. And there it might have ended, a very neat arrest, an end to an ugly case, as close to justice as you were going to get.



If it hadn't been for the shoe.



Vimes spotted the shoe lying on the table next to one bed, like a godsdamned hunting trophy. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was a small, brown slipper, with the paper still in the toe. A little girl's shoe. A pale foot filled his vision. “Hey, that's mine! Give it back! We didn't do nothin'!“ the nearest one of them shouted, still too drunk to show good sense.And then he was stupid enough to make a ham-fisted grab for the shoe. The handcuffs and drink made him clumsy, and the best he could manage was catching Vimes's arm with thick fingers sporting dirty fingernails, pawing and shoving like a schoolboy in a playground fight. One very bad at fighting. One that was used to people backing off because he was bigger. He put his filthy hands on that child, violated her like that. He did it, and then took the little girl's shoe. Took her shoe. Her shoe. Her. Shoe.



The world went a vivid red for Vimes. His blood was roaring and boiling in his ears and he had the bastard shoved up against the wall, lifting him, his feet dangling even though he was a couple of inches taller and a couple of stone heavier, screaming at him, slamming him against the wood. The words seemed to be coming from elsewhere. There was just the Beast. Maybe they weren't even words. He thought he heard Detritus shout at the watchmen stationed outside. There were a few confused moments, or maybe an eternity, before Detritus finally wrenched him back bodily with as little force as possible for a troll, slow like a glacier and just about as irresistible, and the big troll's voice cut through the evil buzzing in his ears. “Mister Vimes! We got dem! Dey ain't gettin' away!” There was a pause and the sergeant put his massive hand on Sam's shoulder and rested it there. “We got dem. Dey ain't resistin' arrest or assaultin' a Watch officer no more. You can put der weapon away,” he added more quietly, turning him around. There was a gentle note of warning to his tone.



Sam looked mutely at the sword in his hand, the white knuckled grip he had on it, for several seconds before sheathing it. The other watchmen, called in by Detritus, gave him a slightly sidelong look as they bustled the subdued men out of the room. Detritus hustled them out a little faster by barking an order, leaving the man alone with the troll, who gave the Commander a pretty good approximation of the studying Look-with-a-capital-L his wife sometimes gave him. Sam swallowed and tried to find words again. “You don't understand. Her shoe. They stole her shoe, Detritus. They did that to her and stole... her shoe...like a... a trophy... She was just a little slip of a thing...” His own voice sounded unaccountably far away. He stared at the seemingly harmless lump of brown leather on the floor. She was hardly more than a baby, and they took a souvenir. Said it was theirs.



“I know dat, sir. I know. Maybe you should just go home after we get dem booked,” Detritus rumbled. The big, knobbly hand was practically holding him up, now. His legs felt like rubber, his head like lead, most of the rest of him felt like a spring in a clock that had been wound too tight and then left to spin wildly when the gears had been stripped. He hadn't really slept last night, he had just done a fair imitation of it while his mind had churned the scene over and over again. There hadn't been time for breakfast or even coffee once they had an address.



“We got enough on duty to take dem to der Tanty. Dis'll be a Tanty offense. Lance Constable Bluejohn can come, too. Dey won't be goin' anywhere but der Tanty, I'll make sure of dat,” Detritus said. “Get some sleep. Her Ladyship wouldn't like us lettin' you go dead on yer feet. Go home, Mister Vimes.”



Something peculiar about the tone and choice of words finally cut through the last of the mental haze. Sam gave the big troll an appraising look. “I just might,” Vimes allowed.



“It would be a good idea, sir,” Detritus pronounced solemnly, removing the heavy hand and lowering it to the floor, the knuckles making a solid thunk noise. “Done all we can do, sir. And after dat, you go home and enjoy what you have got at home and are grateful for it.”  



Vimes squinted up into the big troll's steady gaze, a mild suspicion forming at the back of his mind. Detritus was one of his best officers, all things considered. And he could be as over-protective as a mother hen and strangely insightful about certain things, sometimes. Vimes nodded slowly, pictured Ruby and wondered briefly if there were cases Detritus wished didn't get around, too. “I'll do that,” Vimes said, finally breaking eye contact and heading for the door. As he made his way away from the poky little room, he wondered if maybe the sergeant understood a little better than he had given him credit for after all.




~~~~



Sybil pinched the bridge of her nose. Most of her would not have considered Sam Vimes guilty of murder, actual murder, even on the evidence of three gods and a message written on the sky. But... stories did get back to her, in a roundabout way. Sam got wound up about things. Sometimes he unwound all at once. There had been that... bad business with that little girl and those men over at Dolly Sisters, and when Sam had broken in to the men's lodging he found one of them had stolen one of her shoes, and she'd heard Detritus say that if he hadn't been there, only Sam would have walked out of the room alive... - The Fifth Elephant


:iconstacieyates:

Unwound by stacieyates

Mature Content
There was a Sam Vimes she knew, who went out and came home again, and out there was another Sam Vimes who hardly belonged to her and lived in the same world as all those men with the dreadful names.
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:iconeducatedrodent:
EducatedRodent Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2011  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the great story. You built up the suspense well from sentence to sentence. Every description counted, and that's a job well done.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2011
Thank you, glad to hear you enjoyed reading it.
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:iconpersonasa:
Personasa Featured By Owner May 4, 2011
Ah, I can see what you're trying to fill in here.
It works.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner May 5, 2011
Thank you for taking time to comment.
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:iconkinamoteng-kahoy:
kinamoteng-kahoy Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2010
well done! A good back story to the quote. It reads well and quite believable characterizations, Vimes acts like Vimes etc. Haunting and not graphic with the crime scene, the way Prattchet writes his. And you obviously know your way around Ankh-Morpork, though this is a side of the city we all wish didn't look so much like our own.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2010
Thank you for the detailed feedback and the compliments. Glad to read that you enjoyed it!
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:iconelkian:
Elkian Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2010
Wonderfully well-written - and completely chilling.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2010
Thank you for the feedback, I appreciate hearing that you enjoyed it.
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:iconelkian:
Elkian Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2010
^^ my pleasure. It's the least I can do after such an amazing story.
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:iconguitarfan01:
guitarfan01 Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2010  Hobbyist Artist
That was very good. I really don't have much to say.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2010
Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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:icongruffen:
gruffen Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
Very impressive. Almost impeccably written, and quite striking, too. I love that you put that quote in at the end, because it made me realise that there's so much that we don't consider when we read the Vimes books. There really are other crimes in Ankh-Morpork, and it may just be a passing sentence from Sybil that's giving a nod to a whole other story that just didn't have time to be mentioned. Well done.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2010
Thank you, I appreciate the feedback and I'm glad to hear you enjoyed it so.

There was also much waffling about putting the quote at the end rather than the beginning.
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:icongruffen:
gruffen Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
=) No problem. Well deserved.

I do think it has far more impact at the end than it would at the beginning. An interesting, if unusual, choice.
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:iconthymewaste:
Thymewaste Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2010
I don't read much Discworld fanfiction, mostly because I haven't yet finished all the books, but I'm glad I read this one. :)
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2010
Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it! And I envy you slightly. It's a wonderful thing to still have some new Discworld out there in front of you, ready to be read for the first time.

Of course, once you finish them all, it's time for the fun of re-reads to see what you missed the first time through.
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:iconartildawn:
artildawn Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2010  Professional General Artist
thanks for filling in that gap. very well done.[link]
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 7, 2010
Thank you, I appreciate you leaving a comment!
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:iconbardkayna:
bardkayna Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
:clap:
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:iconsimstars:
SimStars Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010  Student
:O
This is absolutely amazing. I am seriously speechless. Just.. wow.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2010
Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it, and thank you for taking the time to leave a comment.
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:iconroruna:
Roruna Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010
So this is the plot bunny that was tormenting you? Well done. Not quite sure what to say, well written as always and now I might walk around in a haze for the rest of the day.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010
Sort of. I said a long while back that I thought there was the nugget of an extremely good fanfic buried in that incident, then I started it, and then I couldn't figure out exactly how I wanted to finish it up. I would tuck it away and then take it out occasionally and reread what I had and put it back. I could get my head around the fact that it was interesting plot fodder that Sybil and Vimes both realize he's a very different person during certain parts of the job, that Vimes probably doesn't particularly like that such things make it back to Sybil in a roundabout way, and the idea that even Vimes needs to be included in the "Who watches the Watchmen? We watch each other." It was the ending I couldn't figure out how to tackle. I needed that thing that wrapped it up in a neat package and tied it all together.

Something about that quote at the end always makes me read it, pause, reread it, (or listen to it again, in the case of the audio version) and wonder a bit about the incident behind it. I guess it always gave me pause that it was something bad enough that Sybil more or less mentally edits it down even in her own head. And that it's never really clear why or how she hears Detritus say this, if it was an accidental thing while he was talking to someone else or he told her directly, maybe on purpose. It gets more interesting when you think about what she's trying to tell Vimes all through The Fifth Elephant.

Then it finally dawned on me that it seemed pretty significant that it's Detritus who stops him from stepping over the line. Not Carrot, not Angua, but Detritus. I've seen it pointed out on one of the Discworld sites/wikis that Detritus and Vimes actually have a lot in common in that they both start out fairly lonely and low on the totem pole when we first meet them and are extremely personally successful by this point in the series. Detritus is a chained up "splatter" and Vimes is drunk in the gutter. Then it dawned on me that they're both happily (and apparently later-in-life than average) married men in a very different way than Fred Colon. Both of them could heavily credit their wives for their changed fortunes in life, since it's wanting to marry Ruby and Ruby's ultimatum that prompts Detritus to join the Watch. I wondered if Detritus ever wished things didn't get back around to Ruby. You could stretch it to say they sort of share unexpected fatherhood.

They even both gravitate to "sergeanting".
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:iconroruna:
Roruna Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2010
the thing I found interesting about that paragraph in T5E was how so much information was given in so few words, I never wondered what the incident entailed and your fic had that same foreboding that was a big part of Night Watch, Titanic and Troy, you know what's going to happen and that it's going to be rough.

What I did not expect and was very pleased to see was Vimes actually worrying about things not getting back to Sybil. It wasn't a huge shock or anything but I think I assumed that Vimes didn't tell Sybil about certain things about his job because a) he never has time to sit down and have a chat with her or b) there are some things that he just doesn't like to talk about. It's very sweet to think that he might want to protect her from the grimier parts of his life.

I do love the parallels between Vimes and Detritus, the frightening thing is that I think they both know just how similar they are. Like the only times they even bother to explain themselves to each other is for the benefit of the reader, not each other.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2010
Something about the discussion they have at the table in Jingo makes me lean that way, too. Yes, it's hilarious that Sybil calls it "that business with the barber in Gleam Street" and Vimes says "Sweeney Jones. Well, he was killing people, Sybil. The best you could say is that he was very bad at shaving." but there's something in that whole exchange that makes me think there's also something of a careful arrangement of not asking too many questions and not spilling too much about certain things Sam gets up to at work if he can help it. Especially when taken with those mentions in TFE.

It kind of comes off as "gallows humor" or "whistling in the dark" between the two of them if you tilt you head and squint just right. She expresses some worry (which probably is a bit of a remarkable event with Sybil, she's not exactly the worrying type) and he immediately tries to make light of it.

Then there's the very careful talking around exactly what happened when Willikins got, *ahem*, surprised while innocently holding the ice pick, at least while Sybil's standing right there.
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:iconroruna:
Roruna Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2010
add that exchange in T5E:
Vimes: I don't want to worry you
Sybil: well, now that I'm really worried you might as well tell me.

Notice that there was no mention of meat pies in the conversation about Sweeney Jones? Could that have been another case of 'not going into detail'?

But there are some moments when Sybil makes light of Vimes' work too like when she said 'I need to talk to you without you chasing after werewolves'.
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2010
Yep, she often does it, too. Which only adds to the awesome.

There's something about that "make light of it" approach that just seems totally right. It rings true. I just don't think you could be in either of those positions (in an inherently dangerous job/married to someone with an inherently dangerous job) without having a healthy sense of humor about it. And Sybil's not exactly a fretful person. She's more what I tend to think of as a practical worrier. She doesn't really dwell a great deal on things she can't plan/organize/work around/deal with, but all the same, Sam doesn't seem to be particularly keen on giving her more to worry about.

Also, I think Sybil is funnier (on purpose) than most people give her credit for. She does, after all, threaten by proxy to have Sam's guts for garters in Jingo if he doesn't make it to the University. She even smiles when she says it. Slightly.

He's going to have a much tougher time keeping anything on the down low post-The Truth, though. There's a newspaper reporting on all the 'orrible murders and exciting police chases, now. And Sybil gets that paper. (For the cartoons, mostly...)
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:iconroruna:
Roruna Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2010
I have to agree with the practical worrier thing and maybe that only works so long as she doesn't know too many details. I mean worrying about Vimes getting hurt on the job is one thing, worrying about him going insane is another. I think she might worry more about the latter than the former. Vimes certainly does.

LOL yea, she's more... devious too, I think. When you consider that she never yells at Sam but will instead be Sadly Disappointed at him.

I'm sure Sybil will find some way of dealing with the newspaper, probably tell herself they exaggerate to sell more copies. I wonder how Young Sam will cope with worrying about Vimes. Wouldn't it be some sick irony if Young Sam grows up to be a nervous wreck?
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:iconthe-french-belphegor:
The-French-Belphegor Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh.

You know those stories you read or watch (but mostly read, in my case, because words give the illusion of having gloves on that images don't) you come out feeling like you've been punched in the gut, and throat, and gut again, repeatedly? Well, this is one. I don't really know what to say after that. It's true to the characters, and impeccably written, and I can't believe that 9 people "viewed" it and didn't leave a word.

I feel it's going to take a while to get back to normal. Great, great work, really :)
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:iconstacieyates:
stacieyates Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2010
Thank you so much for the feedback. I appreciate that you took the time to comment. I've thought there had to be a pretty darned good fanfic idea buried in that paragraph at the end for a long time. I started this ages ago and it took a few months of being quietly ignored and dug back up, then quietly ignored again before I could figure out exactly how to shape it up and where I wanted it to go.
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