Terry Pratchett owns Discworld and associated things.

Chapter posted 07/10/12 as part of the promised improvement of pacing from first version. It also includes cut-scene material first seen in 'Additions to Distinctions'.

See the footnotes. Seriously. Gratitude is there.

Oh, my, now isn't this interesting! He'd never been in love before. Part of him (the part he was accustomed to ignoring) doubted that love was what he was in – again, he'd never been in it before, so how would he know? And considering the putative sources of love and role models he'd had in his life – his parents and the Assassins' Guild – he, logically, had to question his inborn ability to recognize love.

The part that was not in doubt was wondering why his heart was going faster and why he felt like laughing.

He ducked around a supply wagon that boasted a huge, yellow, metal contraption on its rear wheel. The owner had just stepped from the pie shop he'd been delivering to and was bellowing at the elderly Watch sergeant, a barrel-shaped old fellow who was doing an admirable job of propping up the wall of the same pie shop. Teatime kept moving, uninterested by the various ways Sergeant Fred Colon could pompously uphold the law and invite a bribe all in one breath. He'd heard it before; the repetitions did not improve the performance.

Captain Carrot had described seeing a loved one ill as the worst feeling on the Disc. After further analyzing that statement, because the literal meaning of it was untrue and required some reflection, Teatime had come to the conclusion that illness implied mortality and thus the permanent loss of the loved one.

A traffic jam was forming in Kickleberry Street, so he took the edificeer's route on his way to the Street of Cunning Artificers. It hadn't been his favorite sport in school, but his agility and balance made him a natural. He paused mid-step on a Watch gargoyle's head, chirping a greeting at it before moving on. Such was the ease with which he navigated the leads and shingles that Teatime kept pondering this fiddly new complication in his life with little concern with where he placed his hands and feet.

In his previous life, Teatime would have shrugged at the idea of losing anyone who could be called 'close'. He'd lost his parents quite early and quite permanently, and it mattered not a bit to him; in fact, he rather resented the pity he got when people learned of his growing up an orphan. He was quite sure his parents would have suffered just the same amount of grief he'd done if he had been the one inhumed.

But now, after coming back… He'd gotten foolishly angry that the Patrician had obliquely threatened Susan in the Oblong Office – that the man had used it only to goad Teatime was immaterial – and he got curiously agitated at the thought of her being out of his reach forever. Anger was there, as well as fear, both emotions with which he had only a nodding acquaintance, but there also was a kind of… disappointment? Hurt? Perhaps it was sorrow. That was one he was completely unfamiliar with, so maybe it was that. But his usual state of mind – inquisitive, busy, optimistic – slipped away into these uncomfortable emotions if he ever considered Susan's absence.

Besides that – for Teatime didn't like to linger on things that made him uncomfortable, especially if he couldn't eliminate them – he enjoyed Susan's company. He thought he could even go so far as to say that he liked her.

He dangled by his fingertips from the eaves of a two-storey building. Had he stopped at the alley on the other side of this building, he would have tapped back and forth between the closely set buildings and been done; as it was, he merely controlled the way in which he dropped. In one second, he'd touched down and was moving again.

Yes. He did like her, he decided. He'd already chosen to consider her a friend, and he was fairly certain she wouldn't object to that label. As Miss Dearheart had pointed out, one did not go through nearly a month of bringing someone back from the dead just for the exercise.

In fact, Teatime thought he could probably even stretch his regard enough to say that he respected her… as much as he respected anyone. Susan was quite the smartest woman he'd been able to find in the city, and though there were ways in which she was still inferior to him – but wasn't everyone? – Susan had those little surprises that fascinated him, like stopping time and talking in ways that nearly overrode his consciousness. He couldn't get bored with her, not really. If she tried to get tedious, all he had to do was annoy her, and the fun started again!

Besides, she'd gone back to being more interesting as she'd healed, being more willing to talk with him, indulging his curiosity, and even agreeing to allow Teatime to train her in the art of blade work. That was going to be fun, and not just because she was pretty and lithe and looked remarkably well in trousers. His knives were among the few constants in his life, and he trusted them to the degree that he felt naked without one; teaching a friend how to use a tool that was so much a part of himself would be a joy. Teaching someone he thought he loved would be the best gift he could think of.

Well, now that that's sorted, I've got business to conduct, Teatime reminded himself. He pushed open a door that opened onto a low-ceilinged room with a jingle; the dwarf there glanced up and greeted him with a merchant's smile. Teatime politely made his request; the dwarf's initial dismay was overcome by the wallet, fat with this new paper money, which Teatime opened.

Introspection was not something Teatime did often, and he was relieved that this bout was over.

Teatime was in love. He was going to give gifts that not only, in his eyes, demonstrated that love, but which would be a pleasure to give.

He was going to convince her to love him too. It shouldn't take long.

His memory tugged at his forebrain, replaying several moments when Susan had gone pink in his presence, revealing those odd pale marks on one cheek.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to do much convincing in the end.

That week, the Vimeses and the Gaiters took pains to call on her. Her grandfather had not yet done the same, but he'd sent a note by the Death of Rats to assure her of his intentions to visit on Hogswatchnight.

The first visit had been uneventful but for Young Sam's asking the usual tactless children's questions about Susan's broken hand and scarred neck. After Lady Sybil had given him the appropriate scolding, Susan had given a heavily edited explanation. If the Vimeses had had any doubts about saddling Susan with their son's education, those doubts were dispelled when she'd handed the boy a copy of A Brief Historie of the Clann of Igores by T. Price. He'd opened it up and began struggling through the first page then and there. She let him keep it.

The second visit had gone rather less smoothly. Mrs. Gaiter and her children had come by at three on a Thursday, and Susan had invited them to stay for tea; she'd had little choice, because it was clear they planned to make it a long visit, and she couldn't very well eat and drink without offering any to her guests.

Then Teatime had shown up for teatime (an event that she teased him about for the rest of her life, much to his patiently borne irritation), as he usually did. The children had stopped to look at him for a moment, and then they'd turned to Susan and began peppering her with questions.

"Where'd he come from?"

"I fort he was dead!"

"Did he do all that to you?"

"Hit 'im wif a poker again!"

"Oi! Isn't that my shooter?"

"If you two are quite finished?" Susan's best schoolteacher tone yanked on their hindbrains the way that The Voice yanked on everyone else's. The kids went suddenly quiet and attentive.

She took a second to collect herself. Then she asked, "The poker only kills monsters, yes?"

They nodded.

"Mr. Teh-ah-time-eh is alive, isn't he?" she asked, looking up at him with a warningly raised eyebrow. He sighed, but he stayed still and allowed himself to be poked in the side with a demonstrative index finger.

Again, the children nodded.

Leadingly, she said, "And what does that tell you?"

"He came back from the dead!"

"He's not a monster anymore!"

"He tricked you!"

"He's a zombie!"

"The poker's a lie!"

At this point, the children turned to each other, throwing out ever more absurd suggestions, trying to outdo one another in pure foolishness. Susan sighed. Teatime looked pained.

Mrs. Gaiter offered, "Children are so imaginative, aren't they?"

When Lobsang had tried to convince Susan to embrace her Otherness, the first reason he'd given was, "There will be family. It could take a dozen different forms; that's up to you. But you will have family."

A second week passed quickly. Hogswatch was upon them by the end of the next week, and Susan was determined to treat it as normally as possible. She was beginning to get comfortable with their routine; she feared to disrupt it by making a big deal of how they had spent it six years ago, now.

Then, of course, Teatime was Teatime.

"That isn't exactly in good taste, is it?" he insisted.

Annoyed, Susan retorted, "It isn't celebrating your death. It's the marking of the new year. The rebirth of the sun. A pig becoming a man becoming a sort of god. It's been going on for millennia. Your death was incidental and wouldn't have happened at all if you hadn't gone off-script!"

He pouted. "It still occurred. I happen to find it significant."

"Would it make you feel better if we celebrate your resurrection next year?" The question was mostly sarcastic.

"Oh, yes! I would like that."

"You would."

Her grandfather arrived five days later for Hogswatchnight dinner. He brought Susan a card, which bore a technically brilliant drawing of the Hogfather but which did not open to display a message. He spent the whole time somehow contriving to glower at Teatime, who filled the potential silence with not-very-tactful questions and banter with Susan.

As he left, Death took Susan aside, pressing her good hand between his own; it was like a cage had decided to shake hands with her. I AM GLAD THINGS TURNED OUT WELL, he said. I WAS WORRIED FOR YOU. I DO NOT THINK YOU WOULD HAVE WANTED AN ETERNAL MOMENT. A pause. I WOULD HAVE MISSED YOU.

She rewarded him with a hug, which delighted him no end.

The next day, Teatime arrived at Susan's flat bearing a small flat package. It turned out to be a short knife that fit into her fist like it was bespoke. He gave it to her on the condition that she let him teach her how to properly fight with it.

He was astonished to find that, not only had Susan bought and wrapped a gift for him (a rare copy of Higg's Encyclopaedia of Blayded Weappones of Darkest Howondaland – the bookseller had given her quite the odd look when she'd come to pick it up), but the Hogfather had been and left him a present, too (a wickedly sharp throwing knife).

Susan explained, "I never write him letters, but he keeps leaving me things – out of gratitude, I suppose." In the past five years, she'd received, in order: a pork pie, a bottle of ruby port, a fine-knit dark gray shawl, a silver broach with an omega etched on it, and an updated edition of the biography of General Tacticus. This year, she had gotten a replacement copy of A Brief Historie of the Clann of Igores by T. Price. The Hogfather's aim was improving, it seemed.

"But why leave something for me?" Teatime asked.

"Either he has a sick sense of humor, or he's grateful for your belief in him." Teatime had said once that he had the heart of a little child, and while there was a certain truth to that due to the atrocities his parents had visited upon him, Susan thought that perhaps his focus was what the Hogfather was rewarding. If Jonathan Teatime believed in something, he likely did it with a focus and force unmatched by any ten children.

He laughed. Susan couldn't help but smile.

The second reason Lobsang had given her was, "You'll never know what it is to be bored again – and don't you give me that skeptical look."

Then she and Teatime went to a late Hogswatchday supper at the Ramkin Residence in Scoone Avenue. She'd gotten the invitation, along with a long letter expressing pleasure at Susan's recovery, from Lady Sybil on Monday. Teatime had dropped in at what Susan privately called "his time", and Susan had asked him if he wanted to go, too. "But you absolutely must not kill anyone," she'd warned before he'd had a chance to answer.

"Except in self-defense."

"As long as you're not provoking someone in order to claim self-defense."

"That is acceptable."

At nine o'clock, they arrived in a barouche Susan had hired. Walking home in triumph with terrible injuries was one thing; walking to an evening gathering in Scoone Avenue was something One Just Didn't Do. Teatime had found an almost-velvet, light-devouring black ensemble that was even more stylish than usual, though typically understated. Susan had conjured an off-the-shoulder gown with elegantly trailing cuffs that hid most of the plaster encasing her left hand.

Commander Vimes had stared and then put his face into the palm of one hand; Lady Sybil had merely greeted them as if nothing could be more commonplace than a resurrected Assassin showing up with the woman who had killed him and subsequently brought him back.

What had astonished Susan the most was how at ease Teatime had been. She knew Assassins were trained to be at home in any situation amongst any company, but Teatime wasn't particularly known for his social savvy. But he got on swimmingly with the Vimeses, the Patrician, the Postmaster and his fiancée, the Selachiis who'd deigned to show up, the Wiggses and a number of Lady Sybil's old spinster friends.

In contrast, after making the rounds, Susan had found herself propping up a mantelpiece with Commander Vimes.

He lifted his eyebrows at her, casting a quick glance in Teatime's direction. He contrived to look like a skeptical older brother, all embarrassment and concern and protectiveness.

Susan shrugged at him.

Being, himself, the beneficiary of Fate's odd sense of humor, Vimes shrugged back at her and lifted his glass of pineapple juice in salute.

Susan danced four times that night. A set dance with Moist von Lipwig allowed her to warn him that she and Miss Dearheart were planning field trips for her classes. Commander Vimes gruffly guided her through a surprisingly street-ready jig, which was evidently Lady Sybil's attempt to put her husband at ease.

And Teatime tossed her very professionally through a reel and led her in a sedate and elegant waltz, both of which left her short of breath and feeling clumsy and a little lost.

It was nearly three a.m. when the barouche stopped at the Sator Square flat. They ascended the stairs arm-in-arm, continuing the argument begun in the barouche. With a lazy wave, Teatime dismissed the driver, and the barouche rattled away.

"The melee tricks worked, though," Susan protested. "Hiddlesham, or whoever he is, had already surprised me by that point. I had to draw the dagger with my left hand, and then after that, they were both busy breaking the bones." She waved the plastered-up hand in demonstration.

"I'm going to teach you not to be surprised again. And ambidextrous fighting," he replied firmly.

"Fine. But my classes are starting soon, and Vetinari's got you on those murders," she answered. "We'll have to make time for it." They paused at the top of the stairs for Susan to dig around in her reticule for her key.

"You control time," Teatime reminded her with a grin.

Finally locating the key, she looked up to answer just as his lips met hers in a kiss. It was gentle, and not so much unsure as restrained.

The final reason Lobsang had given Susan to accept herself – her entire self – was this: "I said I'd lose you. I lose you to him."

Susan's forebrain shut down with the shock, and the little bit of frontal-lobe function that remained noted that Teatime's eyes were hooded, watching. She had just enough time to wrap her fingers around the lapels of his coat before he suddenly broke away. The force of his retreat dragged her with him down two steps; he caught her about the waist, steadying her.

"You were about to run off!" she accused, taking the opportunity to strengthen her grip.

"Well, you weren't responding," he protested. "I thought it best to get out of slapping range."

"You surprised me! I had no warning!"

His expression said that he wasn't sure he was following her but that he was making the effort. "I see."

She lifted her chin. "Now that I have an idea of what to expect, perhaps you should try again."

"Oh?"

"I insist on it."

So he did.

And it wasn't unsure; it wasn't hesitant; it was decided and probing and turned her frontal lobe off completely. There weren't fireworks, but her entire limbic system went up in flames, so the effect was rather the same. And this was just his lips moving on hers; his hands were still politely around her waist. She shivered to think of how she'd react when the politeness disappeared; he felt the shiver, and his hands tightened.

Hands still fisted in his coat, Susan backed up the last two stairs and dragged the Assassin with her straight through the door.

You guys. YOU. GUYS. I finished something. And it was something I thoroughly enjoyed writing! There are flaws, there are weaknesses, and maybe you're just not into what my ficbuddy burningbright calls The Good Ship Death'n'Doom, but I FINISHED IT.

Those who commented: I offer my most sincere thanks. When you put something you care about into the void, it's of untold importance to receive even the most nonchalant response.

To those who merely quietly read: I offer similarly sincere thanks. Even watching the hit count tick slowly upward made me smile.

To those who need some more excellent reading in this vein, may I suggest you visit burningbright at www. fanfiction u/ 282282/ burningbright (be sure to delete the spaces), and dig into The Trilling Wire in the Blood and The End Precedes the Beginning.

Linxcat wins many cookies for making fanart. Copy/paste the following link, removing the spaces: art /Distinctions-Sketchdump -291234126

Special and specific thanks to burningbright, OldStoneface, and Zizzi, for being super reviewers and invaluable in the editing process.

Finally, this may be the end, but it's not the last stuff I'll touch in this fandom and in this storyline. I wanted this whole story to have a distinct Pratchett-like tone - he implies Adult Things but is pretty circumspect about it all - so I leave it with a kiss. But inside my brain, these two have a perfectly healthy (define healthy pretty broadly, okay?) NC-17 life. If I get the courage, I'll touch on that.

Best of luck to you all, and may your reading always bring you pleasure!