#reg shoe
Host: so you’re all set on blankets?
Angua: we actually need extra pillows. I sleep with a pillow between my knees, and between my elbows, AND under my head AND under my feet -
Vimes: okay so, we’re gonna - we’re gonna do this now, huh?
Angua: I prescribe to the Sir Samuel Vimes sleeping method
Vimes: I need to build myself a fucking exosuit of pillows. And I’m not proud of it! I’m embarrassed about it. And it makes trips with my family a living hell.
Buggy: *cackles* a pillowy hell!
Angua: you go into a room you’re sharing with Mister Vimes there’s just none there
Reg: he’s absorbed them all
Vimes: yeah. I need them for strenght, and energy.
-how i think the roadtrip to Borogravia went in MR
“Well, at least we can agree on Truth, Freedom, and Justice, yes?”
There was a chorus of nods. Everyone wanted those. They didn’t cost anything.
Terry Pratchett, Night Watch
“You’d like Freedom, Truth, and Justice, wouldn’t you, Comrade Sergeant?’ said Reg encouragingly.
‘I’d like a hard-boiled egg,’ said Vimes, shaking the match out.
There was some nervous laughter, but Reg looked offended.
‘In the circumstances, Sergeant, I think we should set our sights a little higher–’
‘Well, yes, we could,’ said Vimes, coming down the steps. He glanced at the sheets of papers in front of Reg. The man cared. He really did. And he was serious. He really was.
‘But…well, Reg, tomorrow the sun will come up again, and I’m pretty sure that whatever happens we won’t have found Freedom, and there won’t be a whole lot of Justice, and I’m damn sure we won’t have found Truth. But it’s just possible that I might get a hard-boiled egg.”
― Terry Pratchett, Night Watch
“You’re staring at Mister Vimes, Reg.”
“Am I?” Reg asks, eyes fixed on Vimes’ back as he speaks to some new recruits.
“Yes Reg,” Nobby says. “You’re staring, Reg. Why’re you staring?”
“He… just reminds me of someone, sometimes. The Commander.”
***
He’s twenty-five and he’s standing on top of the barricades, flag in his hands and pure defiance in his voice.
He’s twenty-five and he should be dead, is dying, blood gushing from more wounds than he can count but he’s still crawling forwards, still fighting, propelled by nothing but willpower and conviction because he will. Not. Give. Up.
He’s twenty-five – but is he, still? – and fresh air washes over his face, not quite ridding him of the taste of mud and dirt still filling his mouth.