tampered | Log; Complete

Current Mood: anxious

Log; Complete

When; Evening of January 23rd
Rating; PG for possible language?
Characters; Prince Charming

cocksmanship and Sam Vimes

slightly_knurd
Summary; The unlikely couple of co-wardens get together to discuss policy, politics, and policing.
Log;

They'd done a fair enough job of converting one of the prison wings into the new police headquarters. Taken the bars off the windows, scrubbed the place down, laid down a thread-bare carpet in most of the rooms. True, the walls were still made of concrete and stone slabs and the place was drafty as hell and there wasn't but a scrap of finesse, but what would have been the point? These were coppers, through and through. Their place was on the streets, not in the office. And there'd be time for homely touches when there weren't any crimes to be solved.

The drab, offwhite blinds were drawn against the singular window in the small office, moonlight shining through the slits. It was nearly time for the night patrol.

Commander Samuel Vimes sat in his creaky, comfortable chair, leaning forward and picking at the scar on the inside of his wrist. His helmet was off, and resting near the corner of his desk, revealing his thinning black hair. Next to it lay two items; his copper badge (No. 177) and a silver, engraved cigar case from his wife. Those, and the clothes on his back, were the only things he'd carried with him when he arrived in the City four months ago.

Four months. Had it really been so long? Sam leaned back, staring hard at the inside of his forearm. How old would that make his son, if time had progressed the same there as here? He'd be two soon. Had he learned new words, learned to walk? Did he miss his 'da', as much as Vimes missed him? What had happened, when he hadn't shown up at six o'clock to read "Where's My Cow?", the night he found himself trapped in the Underground? Sam ached to think about it. He prayed, every day, for his son's forgiveness for each day his father had gone missing.

Scrawled on his wrist, in raised scarred flesh, was a dwarven symbol. The Summoning Dark, the worst of all the mine signs. In a world of darkness, this was the most feared of all entities. It called to mind the primal fear of when mankind had not yet become civilized and organized, when things both strange and unknown plagued the populace, stealing lives away into the night. And it was a cold, cruel reminder to Vimes to always, always, keep his sense of justice.

No matter what the cost to himself or his family.

Sam's eyes lifted at last to the door to his office. Prince Charming would be arriving soon.

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His silhouette on the other side casting a shadow under the door could have been a godsend for Vime's brooding, or a harbinger of headaches to come. Prince Charming arrived in the best threads he had since his arrival in the City; a three piece suit in gray complete with dark tie bearing the gold monogram and crown. Vimes had his work cut out for him. The younger Warden knocked on the door.

"Commander, Sir," he said while jiggling the knob and bursting into the office uninvited if the door wasn't locked against him.

Prince Charming felt little to fear. The old man reminded him of an old dog, right down to the smokey stench, occasionally dour expression, and minimal faith in the prince's ability. At least Bigby had finally come around these days. He wondered briefly how he and his wife were doing in Wolf Valley. That reminded Charming; he was neglecting his lessons in Arabic.

It wasn't that he didn't like Prince Charming. He had to admit, he barely knew him; most of what Vimes now knew had come from other sources, third-party informants. But what little he'd observed so far, he had his doubts. The younger man was far too aristocratic, far too show-offy and while he practically resonated leadership, it didn't necessarily mean he was in this for the greater good.

The greater good being whatever side Sam was on at the time.

He watched as the door broke open, expression never once flickering from vague annoyance as he rolled down his sleeve. On his desk, spread out, were files of several known serial murderers, as well as a page of scrawled, barely legible German.

"Prince, sir," he returned gruffly, picking his badge up from the desk. "Evening."

If only Vimes knew how he had become aristocratic. Granted there was his birthright to consider, but all of it had been lost to the Adversary. All of his homeland had become Empire and a prince reduced to just that, always prince, never king. He barely ever thought of what became of them. Being a show-off on the other hand, well that went without saying!

"Evening," said Charming as he looked the office up and down. Already he had decided what decor changes should happen, to keep the draft out and 'morale' up. How drab, how gray, how could any man work for the greater good of society when he treated himself like a prisoner. Charming shook his head, blue eyes roaming over the floor. "Hardwood flooring, that's the solution," he said to Vimes while waltzing towards his cluttered desk.

"After we discuss the budget," he grinned, taking a lean at the corner of that desk.

He didn't smile back. These days he found it difficult to be particularly happy about anything.

Giving a nod, he began to sift through the mounting pile of paperwork on top of his desk, finally finding the piece of paper he'd scribbled some sums onto.

"The big bit is salaries for the officers and food and other necessities for the prisoners already here," he began listing off the expenses, checking them down with a pencil. "Then there's maintenance and upkeep of the building itself, equipment fees, payments to the court for prosecuting the trials, and I set aside an additional expense to keep the coffee and tea in stock."

Glancing back up, he passed the paper over to Charming to look over for himself.

"Do we have prisoners here," he asked while looking over the list himself, blue eyes searching for the sum owed to their position discretely. "I could've sworn Greed was on probation," Charming smirked, calculating the sums they could squeeze out for frivolous things, like decor, inauguration, maybe a new wing.

"I'll take a copy of these and appeal to the deities," the prince stated in a matter of fact manner. "One Ryuzaki has already mentioned to me the Box Murders, and I believe one Corinthian is on trial next week," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "my we have a lot of work to do... Starting with an inauguration event."

He set the paper down and stood up straight. "I've a small sum left over from my campaign, that would cover a bit of the space rental, and the Palace is offering champagne," Charming grinned.

Edited 2008-01-24 07:31 (UTC)

"Yes, we do. A handful or so, their names are here," Vimes muttered, pushing forward another sheet. Underneath his chair, some...thing arose from slumber with a belch smelling faintly of sulfur. Of all the things the deities could have brought back with them, Dribble the swamp dragon was not something Vimes particularly missed. Dribble was ancient, he was fireless, and he'd been missing all his teeth for years. Only the gods knew why Sybil insisted on keeping him in the house, and now only the deities knew why in the hell he'd been brought here to be looked after by Vimes.

"You'd do well not to mention Ryuzaki's name around to the others," he went on. "He's not on particularly good terms with a few of the coppers here." Dietrich in particular.

He watched stonily as Charming went over the expenses. He knew straight off how much they were both being paid. And how much of his own salary went into anonymous donations to the Orphanage in the city. The last thing Sam had any need for was money. At the word 'inauguration', he finally looked up.

"I'd feel a good deal better staying here and making this organization work than celebrating the first baby step of it." Sam intoned, not bothering to mask his irritation.

The salary was decent enough, a comfortable living wage, and Prince Charming didn't donate to the orphanage or any other non-profit group without good reason. Good will didn't count.

"Is that so," Charming asked with a brief smirk, already learning the ins and outs of this police force's true hierarchy. Crane had expressed apprehension at the mere mention of reorganization. "Dietrich has been teaching me how to use his computer room. It's far more advanced than what I'm used to, but I'll master it quick so our reliance on the man is minimal," he nodded once, all business with that ever present playboy's smile.

He set the prisoner's list on top of the budget list then... leaned over to stare at the belching reptile. "That's ugly," he remarked, remembering the alcoholic flying monkey in his old office. Charming had the right mind to dub this one Bufkin II, or Gregory.

When Vimes finally spoke up on the event his blue gaze drifted aside. "You've never had much experience with public relations have you? You need to present yourself appropriately, that's why it's a public office. Every citizen has a right to an opportunity to see their elected official, and not at your leisure." Charming turned to place both hands on the desk, leaning forward to look Sam in the eye.

Was this young man honestly attempting to eyeball him? If so, he'd be at a loss, because after thirty-five years of cynicism and down-and-dirty police work, Vimes had practically written the book on eyeballing, as well as probing, scrutinizing, and "looking at me funny, pal". Besides, the prince was doing it all wrong. He leaned forward and matched him eye to eye.

"I know the public. I've met them and I'm not anxious to do so again. If I've got to meet with them, I'll do it in the streets, not dressed up for some bloody coronation as though we were lords of the city. If anyone's got a pressing issue to discuss, they can come here in person or contact me on the Network. Most do."

"...And that's Dribble. He belongs to my son." he added as an afterthought. The dragon, in response, merely gave a piteous whine and laid his head back down to sleep.

Young? Young?? Well Charming certainly looked good for his age if he should say so himself. A fresh twenty-nine on the cusp of a thirty that would never come. It should have stood for three hundred but none of the trio from Fabletown were telling, except Blue in trial, perhaps. Unfortunately most of his three centuries had been wasted on remarrying, outrunning the Empire, then living on his wits. It did a lot for Charming's ego. Still, his dark blue gaze leveled with Vimes', pound for pound. He was sure this man couldn't turn into the big bad wolf and rip his face off... Right?

"That might work in a situation where the only man you can depend on is the one in the mirror, but now you have me, by vote might I add. Don't be so sour, Commander Sir, I promise you won't have to wear military dress," Charming smiled. "You act as if you don't want this job," he tapped his chin thoughtfully then glanced to the dragon. Oh so it did have a name.

"You nominated yourself didn't you? At least acknowledge that people are counting on you to do something, that's why they voted isn't it."

Oh, he knew. He was representing quite a bit more than himself these years. Having all those idiotic titles tended to do that, as well as being married to the richest woman in the city. Still, he had hoped that he'd be able to get away without appearing publicly in this city, where no one else knew him. Fat chance, there.

Well. At least the gods-awful ducal uniform wasn't anywhere in sight.

"I could do without all the supposed finery and glossiness." he scowled. Charming was beginning to remind him of his wife, or - heaven forbid - Vetinari.

"I'll make an appearance. But the first sign that a crime's being committed, I'll be off." He'd left his own wedding to chase after the bad guys. Parties and inaugural balls weren't the sort of places for an anti-authoritarian proud son of Ankh-Morpork.

"It'll be a good place to draw support for the new laws, anyway." Vimes spoke, attempting to find the bright side to what appeared to be an increasingly hopeless, infuriating situation.

"Only a qualified professional can handle the work and give the crowd what they want. They're eager to see what we're up to without actually knowing what we're up to. The 'bane' of public office, if you prefer to see it that way," Charming nodded, relenting on their staredown now that Vimes had stated he'd appear. The prince straightened his tie, a minor gesture of 'victory'. "And off with you at the first sign of trouble, sheriff," he grinned.

"Now you're seeing the benefit of this plan. Talk, mingle, make yourself accessible. Does Saturday evening work for you?"

"Whichever's fine," the other man snapped, turning back to his papers, annoyed at being lectured on how to behave publicly. "I'll have one of the others trade shifts."

He found what he was looking for a few seconds later; a set of papers neatly cared for and written out plainly and painstakingly.

"Prisoner's rights." was his explanation as to what this was. Forget charges for murder, theft, impersonation, forgery, and deceit. If there was to be any law, then the first ones would be about protecting the basic rights of every citizen.

"Right to remain silent, right to an attorney, right to not be beaten or abused or bit to death, right to basic necessities concerning food, clothing and religious rights should he or she so choose, right to medical aid should the arrestee fall sick while in our custody. I think that covers most of it."

"Saturday," Charming concluded.

"Tell me that case of rabies isn't on another list," like those employed on the police force. He rubbed the space between his eyes then looked over the list of prisoner's rights. The 5th, an attorney, physical security, hum hum, it all checked out appropriately but...! "The right to visits by family and friend alike, considering the lack of the former in this City," Prince Charming nodded. It was his promise to Blue.

Vimes looked to Charming, momentarily surprised, before reaching forward and taking the paper back, adding this last rule to the bottom of the page in the same careful script.

"Done."

"Excellent. It's a good start for today. I'll take another tour of the facilities, make sure we're up to code," read: the damned decor, "then draft an outline for the deities stating our financial necessities."

Make no mistake, that outline would conveniently include the expenses to bring the office out of its film noir set into something more like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Within reason of course.

Code? What code? If there weren't any laws to enforce, what made Charming believe there was any such thing as a building contract? There certainly wasn't any such thing in existence back home. Vimes could care less what Charming did with the building, as long as the laws got put through and his coppers were paid on time, so they could go on living.

"I'll be speaking to the watch tomorrow, pending a curse day, on how things are going to be run around here." He said, opening one of his desk drawers to file away some of the mess. Through the stack already there, he caught a glimpse of an unopened bottle of whiskey, placed there by himself. With any luck and no small amount of effort, it would remain unopened for the duration of his term here.

"I'll be present for the occasion," he nodded, more than willing to be prompt if it would gain him the respect the position and performance deserved. Charming was pleased by the amount of people who seemed to think he wouldn't be up to task, and thus a puppet for vying powers.

"I think we should knock another wall down to accommodate working space for two wardens," he added with a look around Vimes' office. That was when he noticed the bottle of whiskey. "Save it for later, old man," whether the commander intended to share it or not, "we'll have a toast to this small victory in time."

The prince was unaware of Vimes' love-hate affair with the bottle.

"It's not for drinking." Sam said shortly, shutting the drawer once the papers were filed away. "It's for not drinking."

He turned to glance over at the wall adjoining his office to the next one over and grudgingly admitted to himself that it might be a good idea.

"I'd get that girl, Toph, to do it. She brags enough on the Network about her earth-moving powers that she ought to have no trouble with it. Haven't spoken with her yet, but if she can't, there's always Harry Dresden. Which reminds me, we ought to be putting a commission in for him to order a few new shirts."

"I see," a mean drunk, Charming concluded. He knew a few of those in his time, Boy Blue included in certain moods. Beast had always been his favorite drinking companion. He missed the old sheriff.

"Toph will ask for something, either monetary compensation at best or a favor at worst." Having heard of what she did to Greed, he didn't put it past the girl to shake her fist to get what she wanted. "New shirts," asked the prince, curiously, reluctantly... Dresden did do his own laundry, right?

Vimes ignored Charming's look concerning the bottle. He hadn't had so much as a glass of wine in nine years. Kicked the habit ever since the dragon.

His face split into a grin at that. "Harry's a wizard. He's made shirts that according to him, are fireproof, bulletproof, and all other manner of things. I'd like to get one for each of the men here, if possible." He didn't trust magic fo a second. The trouble with magic, Sam believed, was that there was no logical explanation for wizard work. The only accepted answer seemed to be "Because it's magic", which was far less than satisfactory to Vimes. But while he didn't put any faith in the supernatural, he did trust Harry. And that was enough.

"Now there's a thought," he grinned. The shirt Vimes described reminded him of Blue's witching cloak, only the bugle boy wasn't one for cutting the fabric to share. It was impervious to sharp blades anyway, making any sort of rationing of the cloth impossible. "A good plan. Out of charity you think? We may need them for Saturday's event," Charming raised a hand to his chin again.

"Not out of charity, he'll want paying too. But he'll give us a good rate for them, and they're well worth whatever he asks, especially if they save just one life."

Wasn't that the truth.

"Let's discuss it with him as soon as possible. You get on that, Commander Sir, I need to finish my assessment of the facility."

Charming grinned. He wasn't shirking any duty... really, one just came before the other on his list of priorities, and Vimes was already acquainted with Harry anyway. Right? It was the most efficient way to get things done, so to speak.

Vimes gave a short nod, turning to write a note to himself about this to remember. It'd help for Charming to get more acquainted with the staff, as Vimes already knew them from before. And truth be told, Sam far more liked the hands-on work than the lofty goal-making with the socialites.

"Then I'll be seeing you later, Prince Sir." he responded in the awkward form of address they'd both seem to have fallen into.

It was unique and fair despite the awkward titleship. Co-Warden sounded almost corporate, and Commander and Prince reflected title without the mutual respect. Title and formality was just right. He offered Vimes a salute in a style fit for royalty; the style with which he was raised. Then Prince Charming narrowed his blue gaze on Dribble once more before making his exit.

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