brain thief, cont'd
Jul. 14th, 2011 08:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holliI might actually finish this sucker.
The next day was Sam’s day off, and before lunch he decided to stop by the Free Hospital. It was its usual hurried din, doctors and nurses rushing off in all directions, small children (and some adults) bawling, a scrum of wheelchairs jockeying for position at the entrance to the lift. Sam had never been to Obstetrics before, and wasn’t sure of the way, so he flagged down a young doctor pushing a wheelchair and asked him. The girl in the wheelchair was pale as milk, and breathing wheezily. “You look a bit young... to be a dad,” she said between gasps. “And not terrified... enough.”
“Don’t talk too much, Sophronia,” said the doctor. “You’ll strain your lungs.” He was taller than Sam, broad-shouldered and blond with his hair parted just a shade too neatly. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and behind them his eyes were full of concern for his patient. Sam’s inner copper mentally classified him as wound a bit too tight, might snap all over everyone.
Sophronia only rolled her eyes, though. “I think we’re a bit... beyond that, Dr. Dussel.”
“Don’t say that!” Dr. Dussel said sharply. Then he seemed to remember Sam was standing there. “Sorry. Third floor, west wing. And congratulations, I suppose.”
“Oh, no, I’m not-- I mean, I don’t have a-- I’m just dropping in to say hello to a friend,” Sam stammered. “One of the new trainees. I don’t suppose you know her-- Meg Garlick?”
“I met her... this morning,” Sophronia wheezed. “You remember, Dr. Dussel? Nice... girl.”
“Right,” said the doctor. “Her. Well, must be off,” he said abruptly, and wheeled Sophronia away. She turned to wave weakly at Sam, before they rounded a corner and were gone.
Sam made his way up to the third floor, and asked after Meg at the nurses’ station. She turned up a few minutes later, looking very sharp in her white coat, and broke into a smile when she saw him.
“Hello, Sam,” she said. “What brings you here?”
“Just wondering how your first day was going,” he said. “And wondering if you’d like to get some lunch.”
“That sounds lovely,” Meg said. “Let me make sure I can get away for a bit. I’ll be right back.”
While Sam waited, he gradually became aware that he was the only person in sight who was a) male, and b) not heavily pregnant. He idly began eavesdropped on a couple of women sitting nearby, and just as quickly stopped when he realized that their conversation was rather horrifyingly biological.
Meg came back without her white coat, her ill-fated satchel now looking a lot lighter as it swung by her side. “What were you thinking of getting?” she asked. “I don’t know any good restaurants yet; you’ll have to be my native guide.”
“Well,” said Sam, mentally cataloguing the vast variety of ethnic cuisines available to the average Morporkian, “there’s pizza, sushi, crepes, Genuan, Ephebian, Klatchian, Howondalandish, and a couple of Fourecksian pubs in a three-block radius. Depends on what you’re hungry for, really.”
Meg blinked a little at this array. "Well, I've never had Klatchian food," Meg said. "Is it nice?"
"It's a bit spicy," Sam said, not entirely truthfully, because it was in fact extremely spicy unless you ordered the watered-down stuff for soft Morporkians. Sam had, once, got through an entire banquet at the Klatchian Embassy on a single glass of water and without wiping his eyes, a fact of which he was still extremely proud and which had earned him some repute in the diplomatic community. But he'd cheated a bit there, of course.
"I think I'd like to try it," Meg said, "especially if it's something you like. Lancrastrian food runs to boiled potatoes and vegetables cooked in pork, and I want to try lots of different things while I'm here. What's your favorite Klatchian restaurant?"
There was nothing to be done for it. If he went anywhere else, word would get back to Mrs. Aziz, and he'd never hear the end of it. And it was a Thursday, anyway.
"The Painted Garden's very good," he said. "And I know the owners."
***
Sam prayed to whatever minor deities looked after coppers with complicated romantic lives as he approached the Painted Garden, Meg beside him. But the Goddess Araminta* must have been off-duty that day, because Mina was behind the hostess' desk at the front of the restaurant.
"Hi, Sam," she said, and cut her eyes sideways at Meg. She didn't even have the decency to look amused; instead she smiled like a cat and her eyes went hooded. It was a look Sam had been quite fond of, once, but back then he had always been in on the joke. "Who's your friend?"
Nothing to do but bully though it, was there? "This is Meg," Sam said grimly. "She's from Lancre, and she's never had Klatchian food, and I though, well, if I went anywhere else…"
"You'd never hear the end of it from Mum. Right," said Mina. "I'll tell her you said hello, by the way. She's out with Hana. Wedding shopping, you know, or else it'd be Hana's day to hostess."
"It *is* Thursday, isn't it?" Sam said, as if he didn't know. "That explains it. How's the planning going?"
Mina rolled her eyes. "There's a new disaster every week, if you ask Mum," she said. "But Hana's holding up fine. Can't wait to get it over with. You're still coming, right?"
Sam had wondered a lot, in the last few months, what kind of ex-girlfriend said 'no hard feelings' and actually meant it. The kind who chucked you, rather than the reverse, he supposed. Damn her for meaning it, anyway, and he really did like Hana and their parents; had though about them in the context of potential in-laws, once…
"Of course," he said. "Wouldn't miss it." And Mina led them to a table, still smiling.
*There's a god for nearly everything, if you look hard enough. In this case, Araminta did double-duty as the goddess of salves and unguents, and had missed Sam's plea due to a particularly tricky ointment that needed looking after as its maker put it into jars. If Sam had known he had been overlooked in favor of keeping a Genuan housewife's eyebrows unsinged, he probably would not have felt much better.
***
Sam and Mina had dated for eight months, the first four of which he had spent trying to impress her, and the last four of which had been spent trying to prove he wasn't that impressive, really. In the time since the breakup, he had figured out the trouble with the first approach, but not the second.
Mina had been a brilliant girlfriend: smart and funny, tremendously interesting, pretty to the point that Sam felt significantly outclassed. Her parents liked him, and his parents liked her. Being allowed to kiss her, to hold her hand, to take her out to restaurants and museums and walks along the river-- all these things made Sam feel slightly giddy, long after the novelty should have worn off.
But she was never comfortable around the Viscount. She didn't like going to any of the nobby parties Sam had to go to (and why not, Sam didn't like them either), and he did everything wrong when she told him why she didn't want to go to any more of them. He'd offered to buy her a new dress, of all the damn stupid things, because she was self-conscious wearing her same old best sari over and over again.
He'd tried not to talk about the future, about the Duke of Ankh looming over his head, but by the end that was all Mina had been able to see. "I like you, Sam," she'd said. "I like Sam Vimes a lot. But I don't know that I can stay with you, when the Duke of Ankh is going to need someone I can't be."
Sam had argued with her, which was also stupid. She'd said she couldn't move in nobby circles the way he could, because her family wasn't old and posh like his. This was a deep insult, which she knew perfectly well, and also untrue. "Mum comes from an old family, okay, but Dad's just ordinary. You know that. All the titles and stuff, that all came later."
"Then why's there a statue of your however-many-great-grandad at the top of Broad Way?" she'd asked, which was a reasonable question. And it was perfectly true that, since the days of Old Stoneface, the Vimes family had spent most of its time at the bottom of the social heap, but it was also true that they had, once, been at the top, and were now at the top again.
So Mina had chucked Sam, and said 'no hard feelings' and meant it, and Sam had moped around and gotten drunk with Gordon and felt sorry for himself. And now, for the first time since then, there was a girl who he liked and who seemed to like him and, best of all, had no idea about the bloody Viscount, and here he was having lunch with her under Mina's watchful eye.
The next day was Sam’s day off, and before lunch he decided to stop by the Free Hospital. It was its usual hurried din, doctors and nurses rushing off in all directions, small children (and some adults) bawling, a scrum of wheelchairs jockeying for position at the entrance to the lift. Sam had never been to Obstetrics before, and wasn’t sure of the way, so he flagged down a young doctor pushing a wheelchair and asked him. The girl in the wheelchair was pale as milk, and breathing wheezily. “You look a bit young... to be a dad,” she said between gasps. “And not terrified... enough.”
“Don’t talk too much, Sophronia,” said the doctor. “You’ll strain your lungs.” He was taller than Sam, broad-shouldered and blond with his hair parted just a shade too neatly. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and behind them his eyes were full of concern for his patient. Sam’s inner copper mentally classified him as wound a bit too tight, might snap all over everyone.
Sophronia only rolled her eyes, though. “I think we’re a bit... beyond that, Dr. Dussel.”
“Don’t say that!” Dr. Dussel said sharply. Then he seemed to remember Sam was standing there. “Sorry. Third floor, west wing. And congratulations, I suppose.”
“Oh, no, I’m not-- I mean, I don’t have a-- I’m just dropping in to say hello to a friend,” Sam stammered. “One of the new trainees. I don’t suppose you know her-- Meg Garlick?”
“I met her... this morning,” Sophronia wheezed. “You remember, Dr. Dussel? Nice... girl.”
“Right,” said the doctor. “Her. Well, must be off,” he said abruptly, and wheeled Sophronia away. She turned to wave weakly at Sam, before they rounded a corner and were gone.
Sam made his way up to the third floor, and asked after Meg at the nurses’ station. She turned up a few minutes later, looking very sharp in her white coat, and broke into a smile when she saw him.
“Hello, Sam,” she said. “What brings you here?”
“Just wondering how your first day was going,” he said. “And wondering if you’d like to get some lunch.”
“That sounds lovely,” Meg said. “Let me make sure I can get away for a bit. I’ll be right back.”
While Sam waited, he gradually became aware that he was the only person in sight who was a) male, and b) not heavily pregnant. He idly began eavesdropped on a couple of women sitting nearby, and just as quickly stopped when he realized that their conversation was rather horrifyingly biological.
Meg came back without her white coat, her ill-fated satchel now looking a lot lighter as it swung by her side. “What were you thinking of getting?” she asked. “I don’t know any good restaurants yet; you’ll have to be my native guide.”
“Well,” said Sam, mentally cataloguing the vast variety of ethnic cuisines available to the average Morporkian, “there’s pizza, sushi, crepes, Genuan, Ephebian, Klatchian, Howondalandish, and a couple of Fourecksian pubs in a three-block radius. Depends on what you’re hungry for, really.”
Meg blinked a little at this array. "Well, I've never had Klatchian food," Meg said. "Is it nice?"
"It's a bit spicy," Sam said, not entirely truthfully, because it was in fact extremely spicy unless you ordered the watered-down stuff for soft Morporkians. Sam had, once, got through an entire banquet at the Klatchian Embassy on a single glass of water and without wiping his eyes, a fact of which he was still extremely proud and which had earned him some repute in the diplomatic community. But he'd cheated a bit there, of course.
"I think I'd like to try it," Meg said, "especially if it's something you like. Lancrastrian food runs to boiled potatoes and vegetables cooked in pork, and I want to try lots of different things while I'm here. What's your favorite Klatchian restaurant?"
There was nothing to be done for it. If he went anywhere else, word would get back to Mrs. Aziz, and he'd never hear the end of it. And it was a Thursday, anyway.
"The Painted Garden's very good," he said. "And I know the owners."
***
Sam prayed to whatever minor deities looked after coppers with complicated romantic lives as he approached the Painted Garden, Meg beside him. But the Goddess Araminta* must have been off-duty that day, because Mina was behind the hostess' desk at the front of the restaurant.
"Hi, Sam," she said, and cut her eyes sideways at Meg. She didn't even have the decency to look amused; instead she smiled like a cat and her eyes went hooded. It was a look Sam had been quite fond of, once, but back then he had always been in on the joke. "Who's your friend?"
Nothing to do but bully though it, was there? "This is Meg," Sam said grimly. "She's from Lancre, and she's never had Klatchian food, and I though, well, if I went anywhere else…"
"You'd never hear the end of it from Mum. Right," said Mina. "I'll tell her you said hello, by the way. She's out with Hana. Wedding shopping, you know, or else it'd be Hana's day to hostess."
"It *is* Thursday, isn't it?" Sam said, as if he didn't know. "That explains it. How's the planning going?"
Mina rolled her eyes. "There's a new disaster every week, if you ask Mum," she said. "But Hana's holding up fine. Can't wait to get it over with. You're still coming, right?"
Sam had wondered a lot, in the last few months, what kind of ex-girlfriend said 'no hard feelings' and actually meant it. The kind who chucked you, rather than the reverse, he supposed. Damn her for meaning it, anyway, and he really did like Hana and their parents; had though about them in the context of potential in-laws, once…
"Of course," he said. "Wouldn't miss it." And Mina led them to a table, still smiling.
*There's a god for nearly everything, if you look hard enough. In this case, Araminta did double-duty as the goddess of salves and unguents, and had missed Sam's plea due to a particularly tricky ointment that needed looking after as its maker put it into jars. If Sam had known he had been overlooked in favor of keeping a Genuan housewife's eyebrows unsinged, he probably would not have felt much better.
***
Sam and Mina had dated for eight months, the first four of which he had spent trying to impress her, and the last four of which had been spent trying to prove he wasn't that impressive, really. In the time since the breakup, he had figured out the trouble with the first approach, but not the second.
Mina had been a brilliant girlfriend: smart and funny, tremendously interesting, pretty to the point that Sam felt significantly outclassed. Her parents liked him, and his parents liked her. Being allowed to kiss her, to hold her hand, to take her out to restaurants and museums and walks along the river-- all these things made Sam feel slightly giddy, long after the novelty should have worn off.
But she was never comfortable around the Viscount. She didn't like going to any of the nobby parties Sam had to go to (and why not, Sam didn't like them either), and he did everything wrong when she told him why she didn't want to go to any more of them. He'd offered to buy her a new dress, of all the damn stupid things, because she was self-conscious wearing her same old best sari over and over again.
He'd tried not to talk about the future, about the Duke of Ankh looming over his head, but by the end that was all Mina had been able to see. "I like you, Sam," she'd said. "I like Sam Vimes a lot. But I don't know that I can stay with you, when the Duke of Ankh is going to need someone I can't be."
Sam had argued with her, which was also stupid. She'd said she couldn't move in nobby circles the way he could, because her family wasn't old and posh like his. This was a deep insult, which she knew perfectly well, and also untrue. "Mum comes from an old family, okay, but Dad's just ordinary. You know that. All the titles and stuff, that all came later."
"Then why's there a statue of your however-many-great-grandad at the top of Broad Way?" she'd asked, which was a reasonable question. And it was perfectly true that, since the days of Old Stoneface, the Vimes family had spent most of its time at the bottom of the social heap, but it was also true that they had, once, been at the top, and were now at the top again.
So Mina had chucked Sam, and said 'no hard feelings' and meant it, and Sam had moped around and gotten drunk with Gordon and felt sorry for himself. And now, for the first time since then, there was a girl who he liked and who seemed to like him and, best of all, had no idea about the bloody Viscount, and here he was having lunch with her under Mina's watchful eye.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-15 03:42 pm (UTC)