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Havelock isn’t sure when it started, this odd and irregular habit of his. Certainly it is not a recent thing; he remembers some stretches of time at school where the rumbling of his belly would make his classmates laugh and later keep him awake for nights on end until he finally collapsed, exhausted, to sleep away an entire day. It never seemed to be a great problem, though, since at that point he would simply wake and eat breakfast and things would continue again as normal, until he next felt the need to push away his plate at meals.
He has occasionally interrogated the impulses behind these episodes – most usually whilst laid awake at 3am in the middle of one – but only because he has no great desire to be at the whim of his urges without any understanding of why he was denying himself so. Despite his internal inquiries, though, he has never yet come to a satisfactory conclusion about it all.
It is just…well; something he does to soothe the turmoil in his mind, when it becomes troublesome.
Which makes it all very hard to explain, when Vimes notices.
No one else has ever noticed. Or if they have, Havelock supposes they have never felt the need to say anything about it. He is fine with this; it is nobody else's business what he does with his own body.
And besides, he has it all under control.
But over the years he has elevated Vimes; trusted him and confided in him and relied on him above anyone else he has known. He has, in fact, allowed the man to thoroughly infiltrate the carefully boundaried life Havelock has cultivated for himself.
Right now he is realising the extent to which these boundaries have become blurred and he is, to his horror, exposed.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Vimes is saying, and from his seat at his desk Havelock can just make out the frown in the man’s expression. Vimes is standing by the large window, and it seems to Havelock that he is staring at the city to avoid looking at him while he speaks.
Havelock is well aware that from that position one can also see the rest of the room reflected in the glass, however, and he wonders if perhaps he is under more scrutiny than he might appear.
Nevertheless, he tenses and forms a frown of his own. “What do you mean?”
Vimes’ frown deepens and becomes a scowl, and then he says, flatly, “You’re starving yourself again.”
Havelock freezes as some unseen force evidently pours icewater down his back. “Pardon?” he says, finally.
“You heard me. You’re doing that thing where you don’t eat for days.”
“Vimes, I have no idea what you are talking about.” Even as he denies it, he clenches his hand to stop a telltale tremor from exposing him.
“Don’t lie to me. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed but I’m not bloody blind.” The other man turns, and Havelock can see the colour high in his cheeks. “I’ve seen you do it plenty before, and never said anything because it wasn’t my place. But now –”
Havelock watches as Vimes snaps his mouth shut on the end of the sentence, not saying the thing they have been dancing around saying for some months now.
But now things are different between them.
If you asked Havelock to enumerate and catalogue the precise ways in which things are different, he could not. It is far too nebulous a change; far too delicate to label and categorise.
It just is. It exists, unspoken.
Havelock sits in silence, attempting to play out the various routes through this conversation in his mind before committing to one, and Vimes shakes his head and crosses the room to stand before him, planting himself before him.
“But now,” he says, “now I can’t ignore it.”
“Why?” Havelock murmurs.
“You know why.”
Havelock opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it again. Vimes makes a noise of frustration then starts pacing the rug, the heels of his hands grinding into his eyes and his head tipped back, as though the ceiling above might somehow keep a lid on his anger.
Havelock watches him for a moment, and then picks a conversational strand that he hopes will end the matter.
“It is simply a habit. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“A habit? Not bloody eating is a habit?” Vimes stalks around the room a little more, as if the effort of containing his anger is bouncing him around like a wheeling pinball. “Starving yourself is a damned habit?” He runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head in disbelief and finally comes back to a standstill in front of the desk. He leans his knuckles on it and his eyes are suddenly boring into Havelock, pinning him with a stare. “Bullshit.”
Havelock raises an eyebrow, because apparently their relationship now includes the potential for Vimes to say such things to him; at least that difference is relatively easy to categorise, he muses.
“I can’t say I appreciate the insubordination, Commander.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate you trying to pretend everything’s fine while you’re paler than a damned vampire.”
“That wasn’t any less insubordinate,” Havelock says mildly, a moment later.
“It wasn’t bloody meant to be!” Vimes snaps, then grinds his teeth together. “I don’t give a shit about that; we’re past it all by now. Throw me in the scorpion pit if you want. But I’m telling you, you need to stop this. You know what this city’s like – it's only a matter of time before someone else notices you’re – you’re vulnerable, and then they’ll be like sharks smelling blood in the water. Never mind what’ll happen if you pass out in the middle of a meeting with the bloody Klatchians, or something.”
Havelock narrows his eyes. “Is that really your primary concern, Vimes? The security of my position? Because if that is the case, your anger seems…disproportionate.”
“Nope,” Vimes says, his tone clipped. “You know damned well what my primary concern is.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. We’re both just too cowardly to say it.”
Havelock feels the conversation has gotten away from him somewhat, and he realises has no idea how to get it back under control.
“I have never known you to be a coward, Vimes,” he says quietly. “So I can only imagine that if there is something you are not saying, it is for a good reason.”
“Oh, believe me, there’s lots of reasons I’ve kept quiet – your position and mine, for a start.” Vimes hesitates. “And because I am scared to say it, but I’m more scared to hear the damned answer. But maybe it's time to stop being scared, if it means you’ll bloody listen to me.”
“Vimes…” Havelock starts, but Vimes doesn’t let him finish.
"Shut up, will you?” he says, distractedly. “Because I reckon you do all this to…to punish yourself, or something. And I think maybe it’s about control, too, although I don’t claim for a bloody second to understand what goes on inside that head of yours. But…” He pauses, clenching his jaw and giving one quick shake of his head before he presses on. “But I'm furious with you because…ah, shit. Because I love you too damned much to watch you destroy yourself like this."
Havelock feels suddenly as if time has stopped, and the sensation is not helped by the fact that Vimes also seems to be frozen in place, panic having etched itself on his features as soon as the words were out.
“Ah,” Havelock says, vaguely, because the unspoken thing has just been spoken – and by Vimes, which is probably the most surprising part of the whole ordeal. And now Havelock is faced with the knowledge that if this habit of his is about control, as Vimes suggested, it is in this very moment completely redundant; Havelock has no more control over this conversation and its implications then he does the weather or the tides.
It is terrifying.
Vimes is wearing the expression of a child who has just broken a window with a carelessly hurled rock, except in this case the window is Havelock’s composure and the rock is a four letter word he hasn’t heard since he was five.
“Ah,” he says again.
Vimes grimaces. “Gods. Right. Er. Look, I’m just going to go –” He begins to straighten, and Havelock crashes back into himself in time to dart out a hand and catch Vimes’ fingers as they are lifted from the desk. Vimes stops dead, and stares at him.
“Don’t,” Havelock says. “Please; don’t.”
Vimes flicks his gaze down to the hand clutching at his, and nods slowly. “Alright.”
Havelock doesn’t want to let go of him but he also has no intention of climbing over his own desk to reach him – this whole thing is undignified enough as it is – and so he releases his grip and then moves as swiftly as he can to close the distance between them. Vimes has a moment to look briefly startled as he is advanced upon, and then Havelock is gripping the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.
After a second of evident surprise, Havelock is relieved to find Vimes doesn’t fight it; he sinks into it rather delightfully, in fact, and his hands clutch at Havelock’s robe as he is urged backwards and pressed against the wall of the office. They kiss until Havelock gets a sudden rush of lightheadedness, and he pulls back and tries to steady himself as the office spins around him. A moment later he feels himself guided to the floor, and he leans gratefully against the wall behind him.
“Godsdammit,” he hears Vimes grunt. “You bloody idiot.”
Havelock waves a dismissive hand at him and tries to sit up again. “It is passing.”
Vimes mutters and disappears from view, and then returns a minute later with a cup. He gets down on his knees and shoves it into Havelock’s hand. “Drink this.”
Havelock takes a sip; it is tea, and gods, it is sweet. He evidently fails to keep the distaste from his expression, because Vimes snorts.
“This is vile,” Havelock murmurs.
“Tough. Finish it.” Vimes shuffles in closer, settling himself between Havelock’s outstretched legs, and adds, “You’re no good to me in a faint on the floor.”
“Ah.” Havelock considers the implications of this as he stares at the man who has so thoroughly breached his boundaries. Vimes stares back, looking flushed from their kiss still, and it doesn't take long before Havelock is done considering; he swallows down the last of the tea, settles back against the wall, and holds out the cup in a silent request for more.