notabricklayer | (no subject)

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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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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.

The blast of emotion washes over her, primal and raw and intoxicating. At that first sweet clenching of muscle, she presses him back, pinning him against the wall of the enclosure so that he can't fall, fucking him with her mouth, taking him as deep as she can. She can't help the soft guttural sounds she's making, somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

Breath by breath, she holds him, letting him tell her when enough is too much, and then gentling back to earth. The hot water has slicked her hair back, and she kisses her way up his torso, hiding her face against his throat, breathing just as hard as he is.

For what feels like a small eternity, the only sounds he can hear are his heart jackhammering his chest, their harsh breathing, the patter of water against tile and glass and their bodies, and the swirl of water slipping away down the drain. Eventually the bonelessness of his body eases off, and he can slip his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer, kissing the top of her head.

"Darlin'." He says again, more gentle this time, now that he has a few neurons that have decided they actually might want to work this morning.

She breathes him in, her head still swimming. Moments are ticking passed, even here in this place, where she's supposed to be outside of time.

The part of her that still has wings, even in this form, twitches, reflexively reaching for open sky. The part of her that is still human, even in this form, clings to his neck, drinking in his scents.

Eventually, she does step back, grey eyes looking up into his bright blue gaze. Her fingers skim over his chest, reaching up to press one finger across his lips. "Breakfast."

And then, no doubt, their separate ways.

She's difficult to read - he's not sure if he finds it frustrating or fascinating. But she's not... he has a fairly good idea by now what she looks like happy, and this... isn't quite it. He frowns, puzzled, but respects her unspoken order to keep quiet.

That command doesn't say anything about grabbing the bottle of shampoo and pouring a decent amount into his hands.

There's still a smile around her eyes when she looks at him, but perhaps it is what might be called sorrowful. When you've lived as long as she has, you get used to parting ways. Even if she has never grown to like it, she keeps a certain grace about her.

This does not mean she won't rise on her tiptoes to steal another lingering kiss while his hands are busy.

He's not sure what has changed her mood, but he can do his best to improve it. Her hair is heavy in his hands, and he takes his time with it, and with the kiss.

"What's wrong, darlin'?" He asks softly as he rinses the suds away. "Still tired?" They have been... rather active, for two people on the edge of exhaustion.

Her eyes close as his hands move on her scalp, and her head tips back, letting him cradle her skull.

She doesn't answer for a long time. Eventually, when she does find the words, her voice is quiet and low.

"It's been a good night."

And she is tired. But she has no regrets.

"I should say so." Good is, he feels a bit of an understatement, when compared to what it could have been... but that's hardly something to argue about. He reaches past her to turn off the water, which hasn't yet managed to run cold on them.

Just for the record, no matter what temperature the room outside of a hot shower is, it will always feel cooler than comfortable.

That is, unless you're from Moscow, in which case you're happy if the water isn't turning to ice on your skin.

She passes him a towel, drying her hair as she watches him.

"Thank you."

"I think I should be thanking you, darlin', if only for coming up with this excellent idea in the first place." He feels decidedly more human, and less like locking every crewmember he can get his hands on in the brig just so they won't go around hurting themselves without cause. He quickly dries, years of serving on board starships and space stations making his movements economical, and soon he's strolling back out towards the bedroom in search of clothing, his towel draped around his neck.

He has a tattoo, on his left hip of a winged Caduceus. She smirks, watching him go, shaking her head a little.

"My idea? I thought it was your idea."

She follows him out, twisting her hair up into a tight bun at the base of her skull. (Their boxers are nowhere to be found.)

They really are. McCoy has decided, allowing for the circumstances, no one will be after him if he goes commando today. The body suit is actually comforting to put on after a few months of wearing one - it's a little bit more armor between yourself and the horrors the universe can throw at you. Admittedly, it's not much at all, but still. There's something. It's a start.

"Well, someone had it, anyway, and I don't think I'm that clever."

She dresses quickly, with her back to him, and in the early morning light, he can see four parallel lines, pale silver, stretching across her kidneys and down around her hip. So faint, they're almost gone. Something big got a piece of her not that long ago. Probably six months, if she was human.

"Maybe," she drawls. "I will reserve judgement."

There's a knock at the door, and Olga opens it just enough to receive the tray with two mugs of coffee. "Spasiba."

Part of what makes a good doctor is having an excellent imagination. It's why he loathes transporter beams - he can come up with a million scenarios in which things go horribly, messily wrong without trying hard. Thus, it really doesn't take much for him to come up with possible causes of a scar like that. Adding in the possible anatomy underneath adds a new level of horror - sure, she surely isn't baseline human, but she's at the very least humanoid, and even Vulcans haven't strayed too far away from the common plan. Underneath that scar are at least three major organs, five major vessels including the descending aorta and vena cava, a major chunk of the nervous system... the only thing it doesn't cross is any weight-supporting bone, but that's a near thing.

"Smells wonderful." He says appreciatively, coming up behind her, his hands sliding over her waist. And if his left hand presses a little more firmly than necessary, well. He's a doctor. He's always a doctor, he can't turn that off. He has to have a little reassurance, or his imagination will go nuts.

She hums at his touch, a decidedly pleased sound in the back of her throat.

The scars are ethereal beneath his probing fingertips, just a bit more papery than the surrounding unmarred skin. But he can feel the thin line where flesh and bone were separated and reknit. An old injury. So old, she's even forgotten it's there.

She turns, setting the tray down, and slipping her arms around his neck, stealing another kiss, languid as the morning mist.

Of course she was fine - half the things they did last night and this morning would have been downright painful for her if she wasn't, from an injury like that. But he had to make sure anyway.

Also, he is never going to protest her going for another kiss. Even with the smell of life-giving coffee stealing through the room, he is not at all unhappy about kissing her.

After a moment, she pulls away, reluctant clearly, but still putting some space between them after handing him his coffee. She curls both hands around her mug and drinks, her eyes falling closed.

It was a good night. Just leave it at that.

There are vampyr hunting in her catacombs and she has work to do.

She's still... He's not sure what is going on with her, and he doesn't know her and her mannerisms near well enough to accurately read her. So he watches her over the rim of her coffee mug, and debates bringing it up again.

Well, this is what he does... mostly. There's a moment where his body realizes that it's being given coffee, and that's a fairly transcendental moment in itself. Yes, he realizes he has a problem. No, he has no intention of doing a damn thing about it.

They can be addicts together, as she's fishing out her smokes again, watching him with that same cool gaze she appraised him with across the bar.

"I could eat a horse," she drawls, taking a long and very satisfied drag on her cigarette.

He tells himself, firmly, that he hasn't any right to be hurt. He doesn't. One (amazing) night and one (amazing) morning does not constitute a relationship of any longstanding basis.

"Breakfast awaits, I do believe." He says, instead of anything else. And he can force cheer, make it sound real - long practice in keeping the moral of a crew together despite a grim reality makes it (almost) easy.