"I'm entirely convinced you have no taste buds, Zoya. I mean, mint?"

Zoya lets out a grandiose scoff, her eyes trailing over toward where Thalia is draped over the hammock. It's just the two of them, of course. The rest of their Grisha friends are either back at the Little Palace gawking over Alina or out on missions set by General Kirigan, but Thalia and Zoya are still here.

Two days have passed since they were ordered back to the First Army camp to reassess their priorities, and Thalia can't help but think that they've done anything but that. Their task today had been composed of sorting through the casualty lists of those lost on the Fold days prior, and Thalia had barely kept her composure when her eyes found Zaria's name.

So, when the two of them retired to their tent for the afternoon and Zoya struck up a conversation regarding Thalia's (apparently questionable) taste in ice cream, she'd been tremendously grateful. A strange topic for the two to be conversing, especially considering Thalia wasn't even the one to bring it up. But she got the sneaking suspicion that Zoya was doing whatever she could to distract Thalia's ever wandering mind.

   "My taste buds work perfectly well, thank you. They're actually advanced enough to realise strawberry ice cream is utter gunk."

A bright laugh escapes from Thalia's throat, prompting her to sit up in the hammock and face Zoya fully, "Gunk? When did the word gunk become part of your vocabulary?"

Zoya scowls harmlessly, throwing a ball of paper at Thalia, "Since I started hanging around you, you wicked being."

She catches the paper ball in her hand, eyebrow raised at Zoya, "Wicked being? That's not a very friendly thing to say."

   "Well, we're not friends, are we?"

   Her stomach sinks, "Aren't we?"

A gormless grin breaks out on Zoya's face at Thalia's expression, "Didn't you know, Thalia? I'm only doing charity work."

With great force, Thalia pitches the paper ball back at Zoya and hits her square on the cheek, eyes twinkling, "What a blessing that you're being treated to entertainment this good for free."

   "Oh, yeah," Zoya concurs. "I must admit, though I found it peeving at first, watching you attempt to flirt with the tracker whilst having no idea what you are doing is proving to be very amusing."

   "That's not very nice!" Thalia scolds, wide eyed. "What's so inadequate about my flirting that makes your own that much better, anyway?

Zoya shrugs, "Don't get yourself all worked up now, Thalia. Your flirting isn't entirely bad, it just needs a bit of polishing, is all. And I'd say the fact I have successfully enraptured every man or woman I've so desired to while you haven't so much as kissed the tracker is proof enough I'm a much better flirter than you."

   "And how is it you know I haven't kissed him?" Thalia asks, her heart racing at even the thought. "For all you know, we could've had a quickie in the medical tent the other night."

   "But you didn't," Zoya pushes on, tapping at her temple. "I know things, my love. I know that if you had been with that man intimately then you would not have come back to the tent walking the way you did. You'd have been—"

Thalia holds out her hand, cutting Zoya off, her face burning, "I think that's about enough out of you, thanks."

   "You needn't be embarrassed, Thalia," she assures. "Its perfectly normal to want a handsome man to bed you, especially when you've never—"

"Oh my Saints, shut up!" Thalia cries, burying her face in her palms. Zoya's bright laughter echoes in the tent, wholly enlivened by Thalia's embarrassment. "You are truly the only person who has ever buggered me about this, and I'd really like you to give it a rest."

Except Zaria, that is. She had been subjected to Zaria's constant beguiling since the two learned what 'shagging' (Zaria's favourite way of speaking about the act) was. At age seventeen, when Zaria had finally done the deed, it was at its worst, because "You're so pretty, Thalia, and I know I didn't imagine the look Danyel was giving you at lunch!"

Still, despite having been subjected to this familiar torture before, Thalia found now that it stung just a bit more. Zoya, though similar in the way that she did not sugar-coat her words or tiptoe around subjects, was not Zaria.

Thalia needed to stop pretending that she was.

   "Commander Nazyalensky?"

Zoya looked up, finding Mal. He was stood at the door of the Grisha tent, arms held behind his back. Thalia could only stare, confuddled by his sudden appearance. He knew better than to come in here without permission. Mal looked to her, swallowing thickly.

   "Yes?" Zoya prompted, eyes darting between Thalia and Mal curiously. "What can I do for you, Corporal?"

Mal cleared his throat, facing Zoya, "Yakovlev wants to see you in his quarters."

The noise Zoya let out could only be described as pessimistic, pushing herself up from the floor sullenly. She turned to look at Thalia pointedly, "I will be away for an hour. If you happen to be having a conversation with the birds and the bees when I return, then feel free to close the door and I'll know to leave you alone."

With that, Zoya strutted out of the tent, her Kefta billowing in the wind. Mal watched her walk away quizzically, evidently confused, and spun to stare at Thalia, "What did she mean by that?" 

   "No idea," Thalia lies. "This is Zoya we're talking about. She gets off on making people try to figure out her impossible sentences."

Mal seemed to think otherwise, but conceded with a nod of his head, "Are you coming for dinner?"

Since it was only her and Zoya here, Thalia had managed (with great effort) to convince Zoya that eating in the same tent as the First Army wasn't so bad, and they had ate there since the second day. While he had not ate alongside them, Mal made a point to wave in greeting whenever he caught sight of them.

   "I'm not very hungry," Thalia lied, again. "I had an awfully big lunch."

   (She didn't.)

Mal gave a short nod, not making a move to leave. Thalia, though she wasn't one to flatter herself with such absurd and frankly outrageous ideas, had an inkling that he might want to stay.

In a split second, Thalia made what may be one of her most life defining decisions. She jumped up from the hammock, gesturing for Mal to follow and bounding through the tent toward the small makeshift bedroom. Once there, Thalia dropped to her knees and began to search her bag, all while Mal stood behind her aimlessly.

   "What are we doing in here?" He asked inquisitively, kneeling down to join her.

"Looking for something," Thalia informed, still rifling through the messily packed bag. "I could've sworn that I— aha!"

Victoriously, Thalia raises a small patterned tin into the air, beaming. She untucks her knees and plants herself firmly on the ground, opening the tin. Judging by the smile on her face, you'd think Thalia had just struck gold. But not gold, one Mrs Petrova's infamous desserts, which might be even better.

"Cookies," she rejoices, taking one out and biting into it. She lets out a muffled moan, "Mrs Petrova is a Saint, let me tell you."

Mal stares at the cookie placed in his hand, "What flavour is it?"

"Oatmeal," Thalia answers, grinning through a mouthful. "Why are you making that face?"

"Oatmeal sucks," Mal reveals, biting into the biscuit. He swallows, mouth twisting, "Do you actually enjoy these?"

Thalia snatches the cookie from his hand, scowling, "I do, because I have this funny little thing called taste?" He chuckles, reaching for the cookie once more, but Thalia reels her arm back and holds it away from him. "Piss off. People who insult oatmeal cookies don't deserve to eat them."

   "Let me try it again," Mal pleads, holding his hand out expectantly. "I promise I won't insult the precious Mrs Petrova's baking again, even if the cookie tastes like burnt sand."

She gapes, reeling for a moment, before spluttering, "Burnt sand? In what Saintforsaken world would an oatmeal cookie taste like burnt sand?"

"In this one!" Mal combats, taking advantage of her momentary shock, diving forward to grab the cookie from her hand. But Thalia is fast, ducking out of the way and leaving Mal grasping for air. "How did you—"

Thalia's lips quirked upward as she shook her head in a way that you would when scolding a small child, tutting quietly, "Did nobody ever teach you not to fight battles you can't win, Corporal Oretsev?"

"Can't say they have, no," Mal retorts, lunging once more. This time, Thalia is slower with her defence, and narrowly avoids being trapped beneath Mal. She jumps to her feet, cookie long forgotten on the floor, poising her hands. Mal raises an eyebrow, smirking, "Going to bewitch me, are you?"

Thalia shrugs, "Judging by the racing of your heart, I'd say you're plenty bewitched already."

His eyes subconsciously trail down his chest to where his heart rests, then back up to Thalia, "Then why are you doing that. . . thing with your hands?"

She drops the position, hands pressed to her hips, "Because I like seeing your face."

"My face, eh?" Mal challenges, walking forward slowly. "And what is it you like so much about my face, Thalia?"

"Mostly the way its amid the worst I've ever seen."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bad liar?"

"Not until now. Which is rather insulting of you to say, by the way."

Thalia is well aware of the pounding of her heart, battering against her ribcage as Mal steps closer. Surely she's going mad, but Thalia can't help but hope that Mal is closing the distance between them for the reason she thinks he is. She thinks back to her conversation with Zoya earlier.

   "Its perfectly normal to want a handsome man to bed you."

And the one (amongst many) she had with Zaria all those years ago.

"You're very attractive, Thalia. Anyone who wouldn't want to shag you is out of their bloody mind."

But is that want she wants, really? Does she want Mal to take her in the way many have tried, or is she just searching for the intimacy that she has so inhumanely deprived herself of for years? Does she want him, or does she want to pretend that the warmth of another body belongs to another gone?

Thalia doesn't know. All she knows is that she wants, wants, wants, and feels as if wanting will never be enough. She wants— needs something. Something right here in this very room. She aches with the anchoring in her chest.

She won't allow herself to think on it for a moment longer. Not when Mal is using his hand to tilt her chin back, locking their eyes together. Her mind is begging her to do something. Screaming at her to make a move, because she won't have this opportunity again.

   "Is this okay?" He asks, and Thalia can't do anything but nod because even words seem to fail her right now.

Mal stares at her for a moment further, and Thalia simply cannot take it. So she pushes up onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his own. Relief floods her body like a tidal wave as he kisses back, steadying the anchor and bracing her for the storm.

After what might've very well been minute or an hour, she can't tell, Mal pulls back, breathing heavily onto her face, pupils dilated in a way that makes Thalia yearn for more, "Oatmeal tastes better when it comes from you."

Thalia locks her arms around his neck tightly, and with a newfound desire to do as her mind instructs, leans in to meet his lips once more, "How about you have another taste, then?"

   He does.