Sometimes

Author: Sthrissa
Summary: Sometimes he can almost imagine. Drumknott x Charlie, Vetinari

========== Chapter One ==========

Sometimes, after a rather more demanding day than what he had prepared for, when the strain of his responsibilities begin to overwhelm him and his thoughts begin to escape his most-determined control, when in his fatigue the whispers and desires that he dare not name impinge with increasing insistence upon his concentration, he will excuse himself.

He will stand unobtrusively before the paper-covered desk whose secrets are known to only two individuals still living, and will meet those forbidding eyes which can bring the hardest of the city's elite to their knees. His master's mood, which he is normally most adept at interpreting, will no longer be open to him.

As always, their eyes will lock for only a moment. During that eternity, something he refuses to call hope will flutter in his heart before it is again ruthlessly, reflexively suppressed. And, as always, he does not release a sigh when that eternity is broken with a nod from the very blank visage of his employer. For the next hour the Patrician will not call on his services.

The young man with non-descript brown hair and dressed in the robes of a palace clerk will silently depart the Oblong Office and, after what cannot be called a pause, a pair of cold blue eyes return to the City.

In the heart of the Patrician's Palace, behind thick doors and several sets of ceremonial guards*, in a dusty wing that once housed the royalty of Ankh-Morpork, there is one room that is occupied. Within these lavish quarters, richly furnished with everything a person not born into privilege could desire, there is an actor.

* Who over recent years, as the need for them slowly waned, have become increasingly ceremonial and rather less guard.

Once this individual had been an impoverished shopkeeper, unremarkable and unnoticed. Now he is a fifty-something actor who spends his days staring into a mirror worth more than the combined contents of that other person's shop. Now he lives within a palace, surrounded by servants who adore his face. No longer a peddler of cheap garments serving unfulfilling mercurial interests with limited success, his life's purpose has been redefined. Now he is a skilled artist. He is needed. And whenever he is called to perform before his audience, he is respected. Sometimes he is even feared.

An exhaustive wardrobe has been given to this person and accessories of quality and detail far superior to that given to any other actor. A cane, every inch suggesting at concealed sharpness complements a very convincing limp. A ring decorated with only a 'V', never worn and appearing to even the most expert eye as deadliest quality stygium rests on a table* in a velvet box. Elsewhere there is a store of outfits of the finest quality to suit every function, every ceremony, every trivial social obligation that a head of state could ever conceivably not wish to attend.

* Next to what appears to be a mask made from iron, also never worn.

It is nearing the dead of night, many hours since those minions who keep the menial gears of the palace well oiled have returned to their own far less opulent homes, when even those guards and dark clerks who are trusted to defend, at all hours, the palace and that which lies within it, stand slightly less tall and less alert.

Yet even at this hour, like the figure he had been sculpted to depict, the actor remains awake and determinedly active. His mind is busy analysing the day's observations, filing away the useful lessons and formulating new ideas; chasing perfection. This is a familiar routine that he has undertaken every night since he first entered the Other's service, years ago.

Although it has been a long time since anyone could fault his performance, this artist knows there is always more to learn, always something that could be better. And so he stares intently at a very expensive mirror and imitates gestures and movements, replicating the precise tilt of an eyebrow for each conceivable situation. Practising tirelessly in search of perfection.

In the mirror a reflection is wearing what appear to be the Patrician's black robes of office and very expensive shoes. A trimmed beard, manicured nails* and immaculate hair completes the thin, pale form. Perfect poise, perfect makeup, perfect costume. Perfect. Only the briefest glance at an empty space behind his shoulder, before the actor continues his task. The reflection's left eyebrow creeps slightly higher.

* Evidently a requirement for all assassins, because only common thugs would allow an active career to interfere with perfect nails.

He is a determined craftsman, this man in the mirror, dedicated to perfecting his most important and his only role.

A man who at this moment is not secretary to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, though he still wears the dull brown robes of a palace clerk and his fingers are stained with barely dry ink, lands a near silent knock upon heavy, ornate doors. Without waiting for a response he quietly pushes them open and, pausing at the threshold, he examines the reflection of a black-haired figure, intimidating and so achingly familiar as it gracefully turns towards him.

"May I enter?" The young man who is not a clerk asks politely, almost deferential, and the voice of an Ankh-born aristocrat assents, not a syllable to suggest a long discarded Pseudopolisian accent.

Ritual permission sought and granted, and conscious of the sole hour available, further discourse does not arise. The two move silently towards an antique wooden extravagance decorated with gold-ish flourishes that the aristocracy historically called a bed. They meet at the edge of an luxuriously soft mattress, smothered in expensive satin sheets and an exquisitely embroidered bedspread.

The man who is not a clerk stands before the black-haired reflection and briefly imagines another, smaller room: A narrow bed with a thin grey blanket, a small desk with a candle that burns almost throughout the night -a candle that he now always personally (though discretely) tests before permitting it to be used-.

He returns to the moment and finds the actor gazing at him with a fondness so perfect, so familiar, he could hardly tell the difference and he reciprocates with a warm smile he thinks is affectionate, perhaps even adoring. He always endeavours to be polite. The actor's gaze becomes brighter.

"Rufus…," whispers a smooth voice with barely concealed longing, trained by the highest quality instructors to perfection. Nearly identical and yet…

He places a finger upon soft, thin lips so accustomed now to imitating bleak irony, and after a moment a delicate kiss is gifted upon his fingertips. His hand lingers then transforms into a brief caress of that face, cultivated to appear intimidating and humourless, framed by a perfect imitation of a neat though rather elaborate beard. He silently moves backwards and permits himself the luxury of studying those familiar features.

He who is not a secretary examines the black-robed, near flawless figure before him. A profile that could be considered predatory, a long scrawny neck that always seemed oddly vulnerable, and pale blue-veined hands with elegant fingers manicured to perfection. Tall enough to be imposing when required and with the same alarming thinness that frequently makes him long to slip, with every file that he offers his Lordship, the highest-calorie sugar-laden cookies -or perhaps candied starfish- to be found on the disc.

The other man stands expectantly before him whilst he conducts his survey, wearing such an expression of intent interest, with a gaze that is almost-freezing, almost-terrifying, almost the same pointed look that could shepherd silence into a thick small space and politely request that it be filled, that he could nearly believe... almost imagine... Almost.

He lays his hands upon the reflection's dark unfrayed robes which do not smell faintly of an indulged geriatric canine and unbuttons the tailored garment. His eyes close to undertake this near-sacrilege, near-ecstasy, as he savours the feel of the fabric beneath his fingers. The cloth, in slightly better condition than the robes of state worn by another, feels nearly identical to those treasured touches when he leans to whisper over a shoulder, to those stolen sensations when he brushes a sleeve accidentally, briefly.

He allows his fingers to ghost against skin as he deftly removes the layers from an outfit that could almost be the robes of office. No secreted items impede his progress. Eyes still closed he folds the fabric with familiar ease, and the scrape of hidden metal does not invade the silence of the room. With a care that is due to the property of the Patrician, he lays the clothes upon the chair that waits an arms length behind him and his own dull robes he speedily discard, effortlessly silent as always.

He longingly brushes the back of an inquisitive hand over pale arms and does not find discrete leather straps sheathing the tools from a long-ago profession. His palms do not caress the unexpectedly well-muscled chest and back of someone who can effortlessly scale the city's buildings, who has soared across its rooftops. He enviously runs ink-stained digits over a pair of beautiful hands whose deft, elegant fingers are not calloused to match the grip of a pen or a stiletto.