Characters: Polly, Mal, Shufti, Jack, Paul, OCs
Pairing: Polly/Mal
Rating: C

Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
Note: Sequel to There'll Be Children and No Butterflies Here, Except Maybe One by Latin Doll, and BUtterflies Are Free by Amazon Syren.

No Birthday Quite Like This
by Amazon Syren

     "Next year there's going to be a party..."
     Polly hadn’t thought Mal would actually go through with it.
     But she had.
     Polly had been called into the Perks Family kitchen for dinner, only to find the place transformed into... well, Borogravian doesn't have a word for 'festooned', but if it had, Polly would have used it.
     There had been balloons, which, Polly found out, were sort of big… balls… of air that you tied shut so that they could be tossed around wildly by the kids until one of them caught on a nail-head and burst in a way that made three-year-old Tilly burst into tears and hadn’t done much for Polly’s well-being either. (Mal had sliped her arms unobtrusively around Polly, then, while everyone was thankfully busy fussing over Tilda and trying to get another balloon blown up, a world of understanding contained in her gentle embrace, the kiss she planted on Polly’s shoulder, the rueful look in her eyes, even as she lifted an eyebrow, conceding that “Maybe those weren’t such a good idea.”)
     There had been confetti, too, which Jack insisted on tossing all over until there were little coloured squares of paper in everyone’s hair and everyone’s clothes, as well as in the broiled fish, the mashed potatoes, and the coffee-and-alcohol concoctions that Mal had made with unusual amounts of skill (or possibly luck).
     Mal – who was presiding over the kitchen table with one of Shufti’s voluminous aprons draped over her suit and wrapped twice around her waist – had even made a cake. It was burnt almost to a cinder in places, but complete with cappuccino cream frosting (also full of confetti) which Polly had licked delicately off her fingertips.
     After Polly had opened her presents (a small painting of wild birds collecting around a heap of seeds that Paul had painted the previous winter, and a book with a golden lily on the front that Mal had informed her she should save to read ‘later’), Mal made good on her threat to make the kids sing for Polly – Jack and Tilda lined up in a very short row, their piping voices squeaking out the lyrics.

     “I get up in the morning, it’s a brand new day,
     Can’t wait to catch that great big fish.
     Baby, it’s your birthday, hip-hip-hooray!
     I’m hoping that you make a wish!
     Yeah!”

     I can’t believe she actually did this, Polly thought, wondering if her niece and nephew would ever realize what they’re really singing about.

     “It’s your birthday, honey, today’s the date,
     An opportunity you can take!
     I got my fingers in the frosting, and I can’t wait
     To taste your birthday cake!”

     Polly raised her eyebrows at Mal as the song finished, the kids jumping up and down and cheering because they’d remembered all the words and, hey, the song was clearly about eating dessert. Who wouldn’t cheer about that?
     “Oh, really?” Polly commented, not even trying to keep a straight face.
     “I told you I’d get them to sing,” Mal answered, looking positively impudent.

***

     Much later, after the crumbs and the confetti had been cleared away, and the kids had been packed off to bed, Polly climbed the back stairs, her presents under her arm, and slipped into the room that she and Mal shared when they visited Polly’s family.
     She sat on the bed, setting Paul’s painting and her new book on the night stand, unlacing her boots and making herself comfortable.
     The book Mal had given her was called ‘Lily Tribe’ and Polly had been wondering all afternoon about the contents. Given that Mal hadn’t wanted her to read it at the table, though, it hadn’t been difficult to hazard at least a guess on the subject matter.
     She opened the cover, turning to the table of contents – and a scrap of paper fluttered from between the pages, landing on the duvet.
     Ever curious, Polly closed the book and unfolded the paper.
     It was, as it turned out, a letter, written in Mal’s elegant, slightly gothic handwriting.

     Well, Polly, the letter read. I’d like to say that I’ve reached new depths of abysmal poetry with this one, but really this isn’t much of a poem. More just… things that I can’t quite say out loud yet. It’s okay to laugh at the messy rhyme scheme and the lack of any successful imagery, I promise.

     Below the note, there were a few lines, broken up like poetry, which did rhyme. In a way, at least.

     To My Polly

     I am in awe of you.
     The million things you bring yourself to do,
     Your courage and your many strengths.
     That you could go to such great lengths
     Beyond exhaustion, all the way through pain,
     And still remain
     At least a little sane.
     You made me whole again,
     My lover and my friend,
     When I thought I’d never mend.

     I love you, always.

     Something wet dripped onto the page and Polly blinked realizing, as she did so, that she was crying.
     “That bad, is it?”
     Polly looked up to see Mal lounging in the doorway. She was, oddly, still wearing Shufti’s apron. Polly held out her arms, a wordless invitation. Mal stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind them. It was a mark of how far they’d come in the past year that neither of them flinched at the sound of the latch.
     Mal slipped into Polly’s embrace easily – far more easily than she had, even six months ago, no hint of hesitation in her movements, or in the way she cupped Polly face in her hands, wiping her tears away.
     “You know I didn’t mean to make you cry, right?” Mal murmured, gently.
     “I know,” Polly answered. Her mouth quirks, half ruefully. “That adolescent male,” she continues, “wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”
     She pulled Mal closer, resting her forehead against Mal’s shoulder, regaining at least some of her composure.

     “Thank you for my birthday party,” she murmured, looking up at last.
     There was a wealth of memory in that shared glance, of pain and despair and desperation, of trust lost and regained.
     “Well, I did promise, didn’t I?”
     Polly kissed Mal, then, soft and quick on her yielding lips.
     “You did,” she murmured, and kissed Mal again.
     Mal leaned against Polly, taking her hand.
     “Did you enjoy the questionable content?” she asked, quietly.
     Polly chuckled.
     “It was very questionable,” she answered. “I’ll give it that.” She stroked Mal’s thumb with her own. “Where did you find those lyrics?”
     Mal smirked.
     “I wrote them myself, couldn’t you tell?”
     Polly kissed Mal’s temple, gently. She couldn’t quite hide her smile.
     “And was I supposed to take any special meaning from them?” she asked, running her finger’s through Mal’s hair.
     Mal leaned into the touch, sighing contentedly.
     “Depends,” she answered, softly. “Did you?”
     Polly’s mouth quirked.
     “I might have,” she conceded, and then thought of something. “Why do you still have the apron on?”
     Mal smirked.
     “Well,” she murmured, pulling Polly closer, still. “There aren’t any kids around, now.”
     Just an apron… Polly remembered what Mal had said, a year ago, when they’d been trying, and failing, to stave off despair. With the thought came the memory of cold stone, hunger and pain – but Polly breathed the scent of Mal’s hair (clean and still smelling faintly of coffee), and the memory withdrew, less visceral than it once was. She breathed out again, dropping a kiss by Mal’s ear, chuckling ruefully.

     “You do think of everything, don’t you?” she commented, kissing Mal again.
     “Well, no,” Mal answered, her mouth quirking. “If I’d really thought of everything, I’d have taken the suit off first.”
     Polly blinked at Mal. Really just an apron, then.
     She laughed, then, free and unfettered, pulling Mal close again.
     “I’m sure,” she promised, tugging at Mal’s apron strings, “that we can do something to correct the situation.”