Author's Note: This is my first, and likely my last, Discworld story. I realize that most of what makes Terry Pratchett so great is his literary style but as I would not presume to imitate such a master, I have decided to write in my own way. There are, of course, Pratchettian touches because no Discworld story would be complete without them, but the majority of the piece is my voice (as the English teachers say.)

"Captain Blouse, Sergeant Perks reporting for duty, sir."

"Perks? Promoted, I see." Lieutenant – Captain, Polly reminded herself – Blouse hadn't changed much in a year. He still didn't have that certain something that separated, well, the men from the girls. Some called this indefinable feature aplomb, some called it confidence, some just called it a chin. Whatever it was, Lieu–Captain Blouse lacked it in spades. Polly wondered vaguely if it had anything to do with his socks.

She recalled questioning the lieutenant's authenticity, back when it seemed everyone was coming out of the pantry.† He certainly seemed a prime candidate for it; she would have guessed him before Maladict(a). Now, gazing at (or rather, through) the captain while remaining at an attention that would have made Sergeant Major Jackrum proud, she found the old suspicions resurfacing. Could any man really be that…unmanly? But he shaved, Polly reminded herself. And not just the lather. I shaved him. Well, almost.

Polly was almost positive that the captain was for real. As positive as she could be without…well…being positive. She felt the blush starting at her knees, a once familiar sensation that was now alien. She paused introspectively, wondering why Ozzer Perks would blush at another man's socks – that man's socks.

"Perks? Sergeant Perks?" Captain Blouse asked concernedly.

"Yes, sir! Absolutely correct, sir!" she responded automatically, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

"I'm sorry? I asked how you were 'getting on'?" Polly almost smiled at that. He still remained the only person she knew who could speak in quotes. He was also one of that slightly less rare group who manage, when they correct others, to sound unsure if they are, in fact, the ones in the wrong.

"Yes, sir! Wonderful, sir!"

"Good, good," he nodded distractedly. "Well. You are my new sergeant."

Polly waited. The comment may possibly have warranted a "yessir", but she had learned not to overdo it. Besides, she felt any response from her might distract the captain from his little speech. It had to be a speech; no other kind of talking started out with such an obvious statement.

"Ahem. As such," he continued, "you will act as my 'right arm' in this office. Headquarters is an exciting place, Perks; don't let the lads fool you. I've found that General Tacticus can be applied to an efficient filing system just as well as to the battlefield…"

Polly employed the innate ability of all NCOs to ingest just enough of the officer's discourse to respond coherently while freeing the mind for other thought.‡ While Blouse droned on about alpha-numerism (which, to Polly, sounded like quite an awful disease), Polly returned to her earlier line of thought. Why, she thought, would the thought of…socks…make me react like that?

Ah, chimed in a nasty inner voice, but not just any socks. These socks.

What? Polly replied to herself. That's not true!

Isn't it? the strangely Shufti-like voice rebutted quickly. Think about it.

Polly scoffed at herself but the voice had planted the seed of doubt. She wouldn't react that way with Paul, obviously, but he was her brother; he didn't count. When she had thought her sisters-in-arms were brothers-in-arms, she wouldn't have blushed considering their socks. She couldn't be sure, though; it wasn't as if she had really thought about them.

Her treacherous mind gave her another consideration. Why, it sneered, were you so nervous about shaving the lieutenant?

Because he was an officer, Polly replied automatically. "I understand completely, sir," she added out loud, her mouth engaging in the captain's conversation.

Are you sure it wasn't because– the inner voice started.

"Absolutely not!" Polly exclaimed. Captain Blouse started, giving her an odd look.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant? You have a problem with dictation?" he asked confusedly. Or at least, the confusion was the most evident tone in his voice. Polly noted interestedly that the faintest trace of amusement – no, sarcasm? – was present also. She hadn't thought the captain knew the meaning of sarcasm, let alone its use.

"Nosir!" she answered.

"Why your outburst, then?" Polly was surprised again, this time at the assertiveness in the question. The lieutenant she'd known, or thought she'd known, was not nearly so sure of himself.

"Internal discussion, sir!" She wouldn't normally have given such a straightforward answer but his seeming change in character had caught her off-guard.

"I see," he said, clearly not. His gaze, though more penetrating than she remembered, didn't break her and she remained stonily silent. He frowned, sighed slightly, and continued with his lecture on her new duties.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much, her mind chimed in again. It was really starting to grate on her nerves.

Shut up! she demanded, taking great care to remain silent this time. We are not talking about this.

Why not? the annoyingly superior voice asked snidely.

"Any questions, Sergeant?" the Captain finished.

"Nosir!"

"Are you entirely sure of that?" Captain Blouse's question seemed innocent enough, but Polly was no longer sure of his disposition. This day had already held more than its share of surprise.

"Er…how do you mean, sir?"

"No 'pressing' matters weighing on your mind? No inquiries regarding your new 'position' or, indeed, anything else?"

"I…don't think so, sir?" Drat! Now he had her questioning herself. Things had changed.

"Just thought you had a 'troubled look', Sergeant. Ah, well, I suppose you're eager to 'get to work'." His brightly sincere grin was far more what she was used to in the lieu–captain and it was somewhat relieving. She wondered which was the act: the eager but incompetent bureaucrat, or the shrewdly insightful officer.

"Captain Blouse," she called before she could stop herself. "Er, I do have one question."

"'Fire away', Sergeant," he replied with a very faint smile.

"Er…you're a…that is…erm," she began. A sudden vision of Sergeant Major Jackrum filled her mind, barking about speaking up and out, lads! I can't heeer you! Stiffening her resolve, she started again. "You are an officer, sir. And I am a sergeant."

She nodded to herself, satisfied. The captain, however, was giving her a look of the most genuine confusion she had seen since he found out about…them. After a moment, though, a light seemed to dawn behind his pale, blank eyes. Something approaching a twinkle finally surfaced and he gave her a small smile.

"Indeed, Sergeant. Indeed."

Polly tried to decipher the look on his face. She was beginning – actually, she was quite past beginning – to suspect that the bumbling pencil-pusher was the disguise. There were depths to this man that she had never suspected. Still, all the surprises so far today were no comparison to the shock she received when he held out his arm to her.

"Would you like to see your desk, Sergeant?"

†Polly had heard this Morporkian expression from some of the farther-ranging bar patrons. Though she quite liked the way it sounded, she still was not entirely sure of the translation.

‡Interestingly, this ability is also acquired by married men – if not at 'I do', then very shortly thereafter.