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curarems · 11 months

Text

The properties of papadulapumofofopa

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Relationships: Samuel Vimes & Young Sam Vimes

Characters: Samuel Vimes, Young Sam Vimes, Marquess Underbumble Soarwind Egregious | MUSE the Swamp Dragon (OC)

Words: 3608

Young Sam spends time at the Watchhouse. Sam Vimes², father-son bonding, because I am a sucker for those. All scientific ramblings in this are about 2% fact and 98% nonsense.

Read on AO3

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The explosion gave them a pause.

A moment of silence followed during which everyone had a brief assessment of the situation. Then, the activity around the Watch House resumed.

It wasn’t that unusual of an occurrence, after all.

Vimes and Angua exchanged a look.

“I’ll go and check,” she told him.

Vimes nodded, then paused. An image projected itself in his mind – his office, the cold mug of coffee left on his desk.

The paperwork. He has been putting it off for the past few hours; surely a few more minutes would be fine.

“No, I’ll take care of it. Get Kipper and you two go and check out that robbery on Gleam Street.”

"Sir.”

Vimes took the steps to the forensic lab at a leisurely pace. He took out a cigar from his case; then thought better of it and put it back. Best not to go in with more fires.

As he got there, he noticed a thin trail of smoke coming from under the door.

Vimes gave that a thought, then another, then dismissed it altogether.

He opened the door.

He was momentarily blinded. He teared up, eyes stinging from the smoke.

Then the smell hit him.

Ankh-Morpork had a natural smell. Its citizens were proud of it. Invaders considered it enough of a deterrent to turn on their heels [1]. The river Ankh made its own contribution, being famous for being the only river that you could sometimes walk on without sinking in [2], as well as possibly the only chewable water on the Disc – and its stench in the summer was unforgettable, much to the lament of those whose olfactory cells simply gave up and refused to recover for months in fear of being exposed to it again. There was Foul Ole Ron, whose Smell had similar effects and announced its presence from two streets away. Sometimes he had that scruffy dog with him. That one carried his own stink.

[1] This resulted in several broken ankles due to the general nobility’s inability to give up their puffed-up sleeves and thighs and above all, heeled shoes in which some of them had yet to learn to walk, despite decades of trying. It was the Century of the Anchovy and ‘an modern cytie’, according to The Times and Vimes knew better than to imply men couldn’t wear heels or women couldn’t participate in a fight – however, they didn’t need to be utterly stupid about it. Besides, Vimes thought he deserved some kind of compensation for being made to wear those shoes on more than one occasion; and it didn’t count with nobs. He was allowed to ridicule nobs, though they did the job well enough even without any of his input.

[2] Without it being winter and frozen. Besides, even if the river Ankh was covered in ice, only a fool would consider using it for ice skating. Unfortunately for the Watch (who were responsible for dragging the fools out of the river) and for the doctors at Lady Sybil (who often ended up doing check-ups for said fools to make sure no body parts melted and no poisoning occurred) and fortunately for the citizens of Ankh-Morpork (who were not currently in the river)’s amusement, there were plenty such fools in the city.

If one combined all of these, with a pinch of Smell ala Nobbs, spoiled cheese and eggs and rotten fruits, one might get something similar to what was in the lab.

“Ye gods,” said Vimes once he stopped coughing. “Are you trying to outstink the Ankh?”

He was suddenly very glad that it was him who went in and not the werewolf with a sensitive nose.

“Thorry, thir,” the Watch Igor said with what would be a sheepish grin on any other face; one not crossed with stitches and pulled in all directions.

“Nevermind. What were you lot doing?”

Now that his vision somewhat cleared, he could see the state of the lab. There was a strange glowing green liquid splattered on the walls – was it flashing yellow at times? - and one of the desks was partly reduced to ashes. Cheery held a large vial in her hands with some unnaturally orange glittery liquid inside from which all the smoke was coming from. His son was shuffling his feet behind her.

“Trying out this new substance!” Cheery’s face brightened. “They are calling it papadulopulopofomopa, discovered in the Agatean empire. We just got our first samples. The properties seem to be all over the place, but we think it’s mostly affecting the respiratory system–”

“Really,” said Vimes, whose nose was still working only thanks to being a born and bred Morporkian.

“– and skeletal muscles, specifically as a myorelaxant, though it did give Igor brief hallucinations and we haven’t figured out why yet.”

“We were testing out what it does in reaction with sodium and potassium,” Young Sam told him sheepishly, but he was grinning.

“And what have you discovered?”

Young Sam shrugged. The small dragon sleeping on his shoulders almost fell off, but he steadied him in time. “Boom?”

Vimes rubbed his eyes.

“Right.”

The lad was covered in soot. The helmet on his head leaned sideways. The lab cloak was beyond saving, what with being purple – and Vimes didn’t want to know how he managed that colour, it being white the last time he saw it. The safety goggles and shield were almost comically large on his face.

He made a quick decision.

“Come on, Sam, you better clean up before showing up like this at school, or your mother will have my head[3]. When do you need to be there?”

[3] Vimes, on the other hand, would be delighted at the prospect of his son scandalizing all those rich folks Sam went to school with.

“Uh,” Young Sam glanced at the clock. “I still have a few hours. I only have afternoon classes today.”

Young Sam, at the age of fifteen, was a proud student of Assassin’s Guild School. Vimes protested, but Sybil put her foot down about ‘good education’ and ‘tradition’ and the Patrician, blast that bastard, gave him a glowing recommendation at his old school; possibly just to spite Vimes, but possibly because he liked Young Sam. It was only a small comfort that Young Sam had no intention of joining the Black Syllabus and seemed more interested in sneaking into the Watch’s forensic laboratory and helping out every saturday at the Free Hospital, where he had a tendency to tail Mossy Lawn like a very persistent shadow.

“Do you need help with cleaning?” the boy asked Cheery and Igor.

“No, go ahead,” Cheery said.

“I wanth to tetht that green liquid,” Igor said.

Vimes looked at the wall. “As long as it doesn’t crumble the Yard, go ahead.”

He took Marquess Underbumble Soarwind Egregious [4] from his son. Young Sam took off the cloak and threw it in the bin, as well as the ruined gloves, putting away the rest of his equipment. They left the lab together.

[4] Or MUSE for short, as both Sam Vimeses tended to call that mustard yellow lump of a dragon. Vimes the Elder didn't see what was so inspiring about him, but who was he to judge.

The smell had spread through the hallways, though it didn’t seem to reach the busier areas yet.

The dragon huffed in its sleep. This close, the smell of the dragon was mixing up with the smell from the lab. Vimes was close to tearing up again.

He snorted.

“They explode at the slightest excitement, but sleep through an explosion.”

The corners of Young Sam’s lips tugged upwards, then widened into another grin as MUSE’s eyes slowly opened. Vimes readjusted his hold on him, carefully placing that mustard-coloured chemical factory over to hang from his shoulder.

“Isn’t he the sweetest thing?” Young Sam cooed as he tickled the dragon’s belly.

“If you insist.”

Young Sam took after his father in colouring, the wiry figure and thin face, though his nose was unbroken and his features slightly softer from his Ramkin side. He had the same unfortunate ears, though they didn’t stick out as much as Vimes’s had when he was his age. The smile was all Sybil, the lucky lad, as was the height – he already towered over his father, and gods, he had grown up so fast, where did all that time go? He thought of the baby whose biggest interest was whether he could fit his foot into his mouth and whether his hand was bigger than his father’s, and where was his cow; and really, with all the interest the boy had shown in collecting poo, Vimes should have known how letting Cheery take him to the forensic lab would end up.

He looked at the boy - he was now scratching the top of MUSE’s head. Gods, soon he would start shaving.

He had also inherited his mother’s obsession with dragons.

“What is he even doing here?” Vimes asked.

“He didn’t want to let go of me in the morning,” Young Sam told him. “He’s a softie. Mom said I shouldn’t be spoiling him so much, but aren’t you adorable, yes, there, no, don’t eat my finger, good boy, but he’s no bother, he’s just lonely.”

His son leaned across his shoulder to kiss the dragon’s head.

Vimes privately thought the small thing was rather ugly. Not Errol ugly, but certainly more so than the average swamp dragon ugly.

Young Sam thought the world of it.

“Don’t make him explode on me, Sammy.”

“Sure thing, dad.”

They reached the showers. Unsurprisingly, they were empty. Watchmen weren't known for their hygiene, even less so for showering this early in the day.

As they stopped, Young Sam frowned.

"Are you wearing Washpot's boots?"

Vimes looked at his boots. “Of course not. Go on. I’ll take MUSE to my office.” And start doing the goddamn paperwork.

“Can you keep him until lunch? I can go and grab us something to eat.”

Vimes thought about his BLT, minus the B.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Young Sam smiled and leaned down to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you later.”

When did he get so big? The warm tingling on his cheek stayed for a while.

It had been remarked that the Commander’s office at Pseudopolis Yard was swimming in papers. This was, in fact, untrue – A. E. Pessimal was very punctilious about organizing and having papers thrown around just wouldn’t do. Unfortunately for A. E., Commander Vimes’s opinion on the matter differed greatly. In a manner of trying to compromise, they’ve settled on piles in shapes that suited A. E.’s methodical mind, as well as setting up the piles based on their urgency, but which nonetheless had Commander’s messy signature in form of not being separated in any other way – that is, context, author, date of origin, or anything.

There was also the fact that the piles were endless.

A person remarking that the office was swimming in papers would be incorrect. A far more accurate description would be saying that the piles, now stacked on the floor in an attempt to find the desk, reached all the way up to the ceiling[5] and formed a paper wall. It was meticulously organized in a way that made the piles straighter than Vimes would have thought possible, which only served to reinforce the image of a genuine wall.

[5] Much to Vimes’s annoyance. He was not a tall man and to reach the top piles, he had taken to standing on a chair. As much as it would ease his life, he had refused a ladder. A man had his pride.

Vimes took another report from one of the piles on his desk. The misplacement of vowels and switching of c’s and k’s was a nice touch, revealing the author as a watchman before he even started reading.

Getting through all that rubbish people brought him was impossible. Some of the complaints would get him a migraine if he wasn’t so used to them. The spelling could speed up a man’s balding. Filling in all the forms, requests, writing his own reports. But it had to be done. He knew what the Watch was like before; he knew how easy it was to misuse the power it gave. He barely even knew his own Watchmen anymore. Gods, how many even were there? The number was high in the hundreds; not to mention the Sammies, who regularly shipped paperwork to his desk too. It was better to keep track. The reports were buried in the pile-wall, to be seen who knows when, but they were there.

He missed the days his job was less paperwork and more patrolling. But... He was getting older. His knees and back weren't what they used to be. And his responsibilities went far beyond the Watch these days. He thought of Sybil's and Young Sam's identical smiles, and chased away the ideas of daily chases after criminals.

The paperwork, harrowing as it was, made him feel somewhat useful.

The next report’s commas decided to try tango, which meant Carrot. He blinked in an attempt to chase away the incoming headache. He would need to look into the traffic reports today; after yesterday’s busy roads, there were far too many of them.

He paused, then turned around. He stared. He grinned.

Where there used to be a pile A. E. classified as ‘not too important’, which Vimes knew meant ‘people complaining about the sun shining too bright and The Times not posting their funny vegetable’, was now nothing.

“Well done, boy,” he told MUSE.

The dragon chewed through the last bits of paper.

“Hello, Sam.”

The lad waved cheerfully with his free hand as he closed the door with his foot. He had changed into his black clothes for school, which Vimes wasn’t the biggest fan of – they were assassin robes, damn it – but could tolerate, on the account of Young Sam liking them. The smell from the lab wasn’t clinging to him anymore. His hair looked as though a rabbit made its home in there.

“Hi, dad!”

He deposited the takeaway box on the desk, dragged a chair from the corner of the room and dropped in; arms crossed, legs stretched.

“What did you bring?”

Young Sam only grinned. Vimes raised his eyebrow.

“Come on, open it. I already ate on the way.”

Vimes carefully did so.

“I clacksed mom [6] if I could,” Young Sam continued. “And she said yes, so there you go. She says you still have to eat your BLT, though.”

[6] The new disorganizers – what was it, mark 9? 10? 11? Vimes lost track – had a quite advanced clacks function, allowing messages to be delivered quickly even without a clacks tower. Vimes still wasn’t sure how to use them, nor did he want to find out.

The words barely registered in his head at first, him being so captivated by the content of the box. Then, once he fully digested their meaning, an idea started forming-

“She says you are not to feed it to Marquess Underbumble Soarwind Egregious either.”

The idea died.

“You wouldn't have to tell her,” he tried.

“Sorry, dad. Mom’s orders.”

“Right.” He glanced back at the box, then looked at Young Sam. “Burnt Brown Crunchy Bits?”

His son winked mischievously.

“Straight from Harga’s."

Suddenly, even the BLT seemed bearable.

“When did you say your school starts?” he asked as he took the first bite. He savoured the taste. Gods, it's been ages since he had the good stuff - he could feel that Harga hadn't cleaned the chippers in years. Just as he liked it. He would need to get Young Sam something in return. The lad was a gift, always.

“Not until half past two and I have only two classes. It’s exam season and everyone is busy, so the schedule is lighter than usual for the next few days.”

Vimes signed a report he’d been reading – that is, skimming through mindlessly and wishing for its end.

“You’ll be hanging around then?”

Young Sam’s eyes brightened. “Yes, I plan to go to Igor and Cheery again tomorrow. I ran into Cheery when she was leaving on a patrol just as I was going to your office and she say they might have discovered the reason for the violent reaction of papadulopulopofomopa with sodium and potassium. It was rather perplexing, you see – sodium and potassium are fine with each other, and individually neither of them reacted with papadulopulopofomopa, though we expected them to, but the second they were added together?” He threw his hands around. “Boom. So we were rather confused. But Cheery and Igor have a few theories now and we think some of them might work, so we are going to look at it together tomorrow after my morning class,” he paused. “We still don’t know why after the explosion the liquid started flashing green and yellow, though. Evidently, it even switched to purple at some point when they were cleaning up.”

“Goodness,” said Vimes who hadn’t understood a word.

“Yes!” his son nodded enthusiastically. “And I was thinking about the properties of it and it makes no sense! Bronchoconstriction and myorelaxant are pretty straightforward and I think we may figure out how papadulopulopofomopa causes hallucinations, but we also noticed some more minor effects that I have no clue where they are coming from.”

“Papamodopopafa,” Vimes repeated.

MUSE climbed his leg up to his lap.

“Papadulopulopofomopa,” Young Sam corrected him.

“Papadupulofopapa.”

“Papadulopulopofomopa.”

Vimes suspected the way he said it in italics was Carrot’s influence.

“Papadupopolo... Mafamapa?”

“Papadulopulopofomopa.”

“Papadulomofo– Hey!” he swatted the dragon on its head. “Those are my Burnt Brown Crunchy Bits!”

MUSE obliviously swallowed his bite.

“You can share,” Young Sam suggested innocently.

Vimes sent him a look of sheer betrayal. The lad burst out laughing.

“My own son,” he shook his head in disbelief.

Young Sam laughed harder.

Vimes relented, grunting. Then– “MUSE, stop eating that!”

He detangled the dragon’s claws from his breeches and put him down on the floor. He threateningly pointed his finger.

The dragon watched him with an expression of utter bafflement and empty-headedness. Young Sam had tears in his eyes, but he was slowly calming down.

“You,” said Vimes, “stay there. No climbing up my leg. No flying onto the desk. No eating my food without permission. Got it?” The dragon remained unresponsive. “Good. Now,” he turned to Young Sam. “You were saying – papadulapupafapa?”

Young Sam erupted into a new round of laughter. Vimes resisted the tugging at the corners of his lips, but his eyes were twinkling.

“Dad!” he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes. The laughter slowly receded.

What followed next happened too fast. Young Sam reaching for his father’s mug, hoping to chase away the sudden dryness in his throat; Vimes’s eyes widening; Vimes’s loud "Don’t!” coming half a second too late. Young Sam started coughing.

“The Watch House coffee,” Vimes told him drily. “I know you don’t like that stuff.”

“No one likes the Watch coffee, dad! Why do you even have it here?”

“I like it.” he said.

Young Sam, in an attempt to get the taste out of his mouth, took a quick bite from the Crunchy Bits.

Vimes didn’t have the heart to stop him.

“Nice, good strong flavour,” Young Sam said approvingly [7].

[7] Young Sam, unlike his father, didn’t consider Burnt Brown Crunchy Bits to be the pinnacle of culinary efforts. He could, however, appreciate anything that could rid him of the famous taste of the Watch coffee.

Vimes grunted. He finished what remained of his Crunchy Bits, ignoring the look MUSE kept sending him. Vimes heard of puppy eyes, but in his private opinion, dragons and Young Sam were far better at them than puppies ever were. For example, MUSE was using award-worthy ones right now.

“I should get going,” Young Sam told him later as he stood up. “I don’t want to be late for class.”

Vimes mindlessly nodded, absorbed in a report which achieved astounding grammatical feats. Then he frowned.

“Not like that, you aren’t.”

Young Sam blinked. “Like what?”

“Lean down"

Vimes got up from his chair and crossed over to his son. Young Sam did as he was told, though confusion stayed on his face.

“Your hair,” Vimes explained as he tried to tame it into a reasonable shape. “That’s a bird’s nest you have right there.”

“As you say, dad.”

He let him straighten up, then fixed his collar. The lad had no right be that tall. He patted him on the shoulder. “There you go. Good luck.”

“Thanks, dad. I’ll be home by six.” Young Sam gave a rather cheerful lazy salute as he left.

The smile on Vimes’s face looked like that of someone looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

“Washpot, are those my dad’s boots?”

Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets look down at his boots, good quality and sturdy, then back at Young Sam.

The boy’s eyes were twinkling.

“I don’t know what you mean. May I interest you in Omnianism?

Young Sam winked at him as he walked out of the building.

“Papodulopopufoma,” said Vimes.

Sybil looked at her husband, who was resting against her side with his eyes closed, and frowned.

“Papadupokopata,” he tried again.

“Sam, what are you on about?”

“Just something Young Sam mentioned today.”

Sybil gave it a thought, nodded to herself and went back to sleep. That was all right, then.

#this is actually the first thing i finished writing since 2021 and it's once again a one-shot lol #discworld #sam vimes #young sam vimes

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