Pairing: Polly/Mal
Rating: B

Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.

Want This, Need This
by Amazon Syren

The setting sun has finally broken below the cloud cover, glowing copper in the early autumn sky as it sinks towards the western hills. Hidden in a copse of birch and cedar, three thread-bare canvas tents encircle the coals of a banked fire.
Inside the tents, soldiers are sleeping. One of them is dreaming in her sleep.

We are back in the barracks in Plotz.
I remember this.
Polly is following me into the shadows — but, but I didn't know her name then. How do I know it now?
"Now, I say a man who knows how to cook is no less a man for that. But a man who—" and then I say no more. Her fingers, soft on my lips, are hushing me, and I've realized how very close she is.
"You know this isn't about men," she says, cupping my cheek with her hand.
I lean into her touch. No, it's not about men. But she may not know how right she is about that.
"Polly, I—"
"Don't be afraid," her arm snakes around my waist. I can feel myself trembling — I don't know if I can handle this — Polly with a lazy smile on her lips, pulling me into her embrace, her breath on my skin.
"I'm not," breathless, a whisper that barely makes it out before her mouth covers mine, rough and hungry. Oh! Her breath is sweet as the honey-scent of her body. My hands slide over the front of her jacket, stiff with brocade, disguising the woman's body underneath. I know about her. But does she know about me?
"-Polly, wait," panting, fighting my own desire to pull her back to me, our noses still brushing, breathing the scent of each other's skin. "Polly, there's something you need to know. I—"
"I know," a kiss, gentler this time but no less hungry, "you're a woman, Maladict."
"H-how?" I gasp against her mouth, fingers playing at her throat.
She sucks my lower lip, almost painfully, and my knees turn to water. I grip the collar of her jacket tightly to keep from falling to my knees.
"Does it matter?"
It doesn't. I know it doesn't. I want this too much. Need this, her lips, her arms, her breath, too much, for it to matter—

"All right lads, up and at 'em!"
Someone— Shufti — nudges me as I crack my eyes open.
Shafts of fading sunlight, red through the trees, are edging past the looming shape of Jackrum, standing in the doorway. Polly is sitting up on the other side of the tent, yawning, not in my arms at all.