notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

Morning comes slowly, which is something of a novelty to McCoy - he heads in early, and heads out late, just due to the nature of his work.

The second novelty comes when he wakes up enough to place himself, and there is a warm presence curled up beside him, heavy in the hollow of his shoulder. Memory flares back into existence, and he smiles into the early-morning dark.

He is really not sure how he got to be this lucky. He has no idea why she stayed with him, or even went forward with anything after he over-reacted.

He wonders if she meant what she made him promise.

There's only one way to find out, for certain. Very gently, almost regretfully, he smooths her hair back from her face (so peaceful, so beautiful) and presses a kiss to her brow.

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He slants a sidelong look at her, both amused and, in some not-so-obscure part of him, mildly dismayed. There are rules, learned from his Grandpappy, and he's fairly sure letting her buy breakfast is entirely against them.

He's also sure that if she has her heart set on buying breakfast, he'd be all kinds of a fool to protest. He has noticed that his boxers, and hers, are nowhere to be found.

"I surely have no objections to spending more time here with you." There. That's fair enough, and decidedly true enough.

She's still smirking like the cat who ate the proverbial canary, even though her eyes are closed.

"Such a silver tongued devil you are. No wonder I couldn't resist your charms."

"A regular smooth operator, that's me." He drawls, but she looks comfortable, and honestly, this is going to be one of the few times in the near future he will be able to sleep past the dawn. He feels it's only right to catch up on as much of his sleep debt as possible, and he can only be pleased that she is doing the same.

(She looks much improved over last night, but he suspects another night of downtime would really be necessary for her to catch up entirely - he also knows there's a snowball's chance in hell she'll actually take it)

Following her example, he slides back down under the covers, sighing in contentment as he spoons up behind her. Warmth and the early grey dawn light draw him under again, and he doesn't stir until she does.

She slips back into sleep far more easily than she has in a long time. This time when she wakes, she remembers where she is and who she's with. The sun is higher in the sky, and she finally has to admit, she's awake.

Her hand covers his where it lays flat against her stomach. She turns her head and murmurs. "Shower?"

He groggily murmurs something that comes out decidedly unintelligable, and sighs, a long breath of someone who is deeply content where he is, and is dubious of the charms of any other location.

But shower finally adds up with Olga and the combination, he has to admit, is alluring.

"Shower." He agrees, and makes a mental note that after that? Coffee is high up on the list. Mornings aren't meant to be faced without coffee, medical fact.

He is, however, humming 'Oh What a Beautiful Morning' as he works on getting upright again.

Coffee would be wondrous.

She just shakes her head at him, brushing her hair back from her face and giving another languid stretch before sitting up. She doesn't even bother to look for a robe. She just pads over to the side table, looking for some sort of room service menu. Ah, got it.

There's a small pad of paper and a pen, and she scribbles something down, tears off the page, and folds it in two. Her hand slides open a tiny panel on the wall, and pulls out a clear glass cylinder. One little twist, and she's stuffing the note into the cylinder, and putting it back in the wall. Closing the door triggers a little whooshing nose.

That done, she pads off towards the bathroom, giving him an inviting look over her shoulder.

He is not nearly strong enough to refuse an invitation like that. Even if it does take him a few minutes to be completely steady on his feet, and he realizes after trying to stretch it that his left shoulder is turning an impressive shade of purplish black. When he squints down his nose at the injury, he can almost make out the impression of the fist that hit him.

Well damn. Yet another opportunity for Nurse Chapel to scold.

Still, that's for later. For now, there's a beautiful woman who's just gone into that bathroom over there, so that looks like a great place to be. He trails her, all over gooseflesh at the slightly chilly air-conditioned environment.

The air is already steamy from the hot water pouring down, though she hasn't stepped into the enclosure yet. She turns at the sound of his voice and gets a good look at him in the light.

Her brow furrows immediately.

"What on earth?"

Her hand alights on his shoulder, just above the bruise, turning him so she can get a better look.

"I did not think we had that much fun last night?"

"That," He drawls, his voice eminently dry, "Is a gift from one of the patients I left behind in Sickbay. He was aiming for another one of my patients, but my shoulder got in the way. Quite a beauty, isn't it?"

He is very much so reading them all the riot act when he gets back. Again. At volume.

Her hands skim over his skin, and she gives him an arch look.

"Colourful. May I?"

He's not sure what she plans on doing, but so far he hasn't had any complaints, so he nods, and shrugs slightly.

"I'm finding there's a fair number of things you may, and quite well too."

He's learning that her eyes give away the most subtle of her emotions. She narrows her eyes at him, but there's a smile there, too.

Her hand passes over the bruise, and he can feel the skin itch, as if the blood is moving just beneath the surface. She smooths her palm over it again, and again.

"There. Fixed."

The skin is still a little yellow, but dark, ugly blotch has disappeared.

There's a pause where he wonders if this isn't a trans-culture hitch in the idea of 'kiss and make it better'. Then he realizes it really, truly isn't that sore.

And then, after a moment of twisting to get a good look at it, he realizes that she does actually mean 'fixed' - He would judge that bruise to be a few weeks old, not a few hours.

"Well God-damn." He murmurs, thoughtfully, as he continues to eye his shoulder.

(He'd be lying if he said there wasn't some part of him that immediately cut and run with the implications of this and what could be done on the Starship level, someone who doesn't need instruments or even a partially functioning Sickbay to heal. But she has her own problems. She's not here to fix his. Except, evidently, those having to do with bruised shoulders.)

She smirks, and presses a chaste kiss to the point of his shoulder.

"Come on. Hot water will run out." She's assuming it will, anyway. When she finds out it won't, he may have to pry her out of the shower.

She pulls the curtain back and steps into the hot spray, sighing her contentment aloud.

And that is plenty to distract him from the inner argument of whether or not he should campaign to see if she wants to join Star Fleet, which is a stupid argument anyway. The image of her in the water, just slightly shrouded in steam, will be an image to comfort him on quite a number of lonely nights.

And even better, right now, he can do better than an image. Grinning broadly, he follows her... and she's right, the hot water is glorious.

Better still. Hot water and an extra set of hands to help with the washing. She turns into his touch, breathing a sigh as his hands slip over her wet skin. She steps in close, her arms snaking around his neck, pulling him down for another slow, deep kiss.

With the... washing, yes, exactly, that's what happens in a shower and that's what he's forgotten about entirely at the moment. Can he blamed? She's slick and warm in his arms, her mouth is welcoming and enticing, and frankly, mundane things like soap don't stand a chance.

What can she say? He's an excellent kisser. And she likes the taste of him, likes the sounds he makes when she runs her hands over his chest and down his sides.

Oh, now there's a wicked idea. She wonders what sound he might make if she were to just slip to her knees, kissing her way down his torso to drink from hollow of his hip, tasting the salt of his skin before the water can sluice it away.

What is the sound of a desperate man? His body fairly vibrates in response to her touch, each sensitive point missing her once she's moved on. Her lips are like fire, her hands like brands where they grip and tease. He can't help it, truly he can't - before too long he's rocking, just slightly, up onto his toes and back onto his heels. He tries not to give in to it, just like he tries not to let his hands wander down to tangle in her hair, but it's hard. What happens, he wonders, if he bursts at the seams from this sort of exquisite torture?

She can't help but grin, letting her teeth graze over the point of his hip, soothing the bite with an open mouthed kiss. Her hands smooth down his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and relax, and when he can't seem to take any more, she turns her head just enough to catch him.

She doesn't tease, no, she's firm and direct, still listening to his responses, letting him tell her how much and how fast, pulling him along with a low hum of pleasure in the back of her throat.

His groan starts somewhere around his toes - he hadn't even let himself imagine something like this, but here he is, his hands braced against the chilly tile, and there she is, and she is.... she is...

He's not even pretending to keep from moving. He can barely breathe right, never mind control anything else.

"Olga. Olga, I..." The desperate need is rising again, coiling up his spine, shutting down his brain, tightening his muscles, slowly breaking him to bits.

She doesn't relent, not for a breath, not for a heartbeat. Her mouth moves on his length, hot and slick, with that same deliberate touch he's now coming to recognise as something uniquely her.

One hand grips the base of his cock, the other rests against his hip, encouraging him without words to keep moving, to take what she's giving, without reservation. Again, there is that fierce, quiet passion she brings, the strength and surety of her touch making it clear, she's determined to see him through to the very end.

Even a man of steel would fall to that kind of determination, and McCoy has never styled himself as anything that strong. Soon all attempts at restraint fall away, leaving him thrusting wantonly against her, into her, watching her take him, his eyes dark and hooded.

She feels his restraint fall away and she moans, the vibration travelling straight through to the root of him. Her grey eyes look up at him and he can feel that wicked smile tightening her grip around him. She moves a little harder, a little slower, dragging out the moment for as long as she can.

He tastes divine and the pleasure ripping through his body feeds back to her, coursing into her like electricity, crackling over her skin and grounding in her long bones. One hand splays flat against his stomach, fingertips sliding on his wet skin, sliding upwards until it's pressed over his heart.

She wants a taste of it, wants to pull it into her, breathe it in. But she won't. Not without his knowledge. Not without permission.

Her moan is met with a startled, strangled shout, the vibrations causing already hypersensitive nerves to jangle and scramble what's left of his functioning grey matter. One hand he keeps splayed on the wall, if only to keep himself from falling over in an undignified (and unsatisfied) heap, shifting the other to wrap around the fingers of that talented, long-healed hand.

His movements have become just that bit more erratic, his breath shortening to sharp, almost-pained gasps. He could, when in a more sober environment, explain the science behind this, why and how the human body becomes so focused in these moments, what drives it to this point time and again.

Right now, that much thinking is beyond him.

"Darlin'" He grits out, as he feels the world shutting down in a blaze of fire and steam.