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Characters: Polly, Mal Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
First things first
"-golden swirls upon a lofty brow." Mal lowered the mud-stained, tattered, coffee-splashed and generally battered scrap of paper she'd been reading from, looking at her one-woman audience with the same sort of look as a cat who expected to be shunted off the warm spot on the sofa. "So? What do you think?" Polly lay, entangled in sheets, curled hair still mussed from sleep (and desperately in need of a trim) mouth open and eyes half shut. "Mal... what the hell is the time?" She asked, letting her face fall flat into her pillow with a soft 'fwump'. Unknown to her, the corporal's face fell as only a vampire's truly can. "Is that all you can say? I come in here declaring my un-dying... er, un-dead love for you and you just lie there all deliciously naked in virginal white sheets and ignore me?!" These were the words Maladicta wanted to say - the waving arms and wobbly lower lip were optional, so she had been informed - however the last shredded remnants of whatever kind of breeding her mother had instilled in her took over. Mal merely sighed, straightened out her jacket, smoothed a hand back through already immaculate hair and cleared her throat. "An hour or so before dawn, Sarge," she replied in the perfectly bored yet slightly amused tones of the elite everywhere. Looking away in the pretense of looking in the mirror and swallowing hard was Mal's only form of defence as her commanding officer released a long drawn out groan into her pillow. "Troops up yet?" The muffled question was accompanied by a sleep-heavy and lazy hand shoving back white sheets, exposing a length of lean, palest pink skin and shifting shoulder blades. Mals eyes shifted quickly heavenward, inwardly warring to both forget what she'd seen and never forget anything at all ever. "No ma'am," she replied, deep sigh coming out as bored at the usual routine but really trying to gain control of the fizzy warmth that was collecting in an area that she was determined to ignore... no matter how much it throbbed... no matter how much the urge to pin Polly down and ravish her till she screamed in bliss was rising. There was a rustle of sheets and Mal's eyes - of their own accord - slid from the roof of the tent, seeing enough that Polly really was starkers beneath the sheet and felt her eyes slide sideways in self-defence. After all, every black ribboner knew where ravishing young women led too...mobs in the night and sharp pointy sticks - "Are you even listening, Mal? Would you pass my jacket please?" Polly said, yawning in the middle, totally ruining her harsh tone, as she held her hand out. Mal merely glanced at it, some back part of her brain taking note of every tiny delicate detail of her wrist (of all things) before handing over the jacket and trying not to watch as Polly shuffled into a cleanish shirt. Ignore the sounds of tearing cloth, pay no heed to the frustrated moan no matter how much it makes you ache, remember the pitchforks. "Have we received marching orders yet?" "No, Sarge." A cobweb's space of silence, a tiny cessation of movement. "You're treating me like a rupert, Mal. Have I pissed you off?" That voice. Pollys actual voice. Not her 'sarge' voice or her 'I will take care of you' voice but her 'please don't hurt me, you're all I've got' voice... it's that voice that causes Mal's control to crumble just the tiniest bit. She looked at Polly. Polly in nothing but a nearly see-through, four sizes too big, white cotton shirt, bare legs hanging over the edge of the bed, ludicrously pretty feet flat on the floor and not-quite-feminine fingers picking at nails she hasn't got. "How would you have done that?" Mal asks in a tone that comes out a lot softer than she intends. The genius poetry of five minutes ago crumpled in the palm of Mal's hand before being dropped surreptitiously on the floor. Polly gives her a shining smile before standing up and it takes ALL of Mal's self-control and bone-deep suaveness to NOT turn her back and keep her eyes riveted on Polly's face. For her part Polly doesn't seem to notice her corporal's interest in her facial features, busying herself with the act of getting dressed. "Drum the troops into order, Corp, get them sorted in half an hour and we'll march on over to Scritz again." This was Polly's 'sarge' voice, something Mal could cope with. She nodded and saluted lazily as Polly went to walk past. "Right you are, Sarge," she said without thinking. Polly paused momentarily, fully dressed and standing in front of her. "Next time you want to declare your undying love, try to be a little bit more... physically creative, hmm?" Mal frowned in puzzlement at Polly's words, her mouth half-open to say something until suddenly, heavenly Polly's mouth was covering her own. The kiss was brief, firm but - strangely - feather light at the same time... Despite its speed and the sudden departure of Sergeant Perks it left Mal panting... Slowly... so very slowly a smug little grin curled her lips... Perhaps her poetry wasn't that bad after all? |