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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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.

She watches him as she finishes her cigarette. She's still watching him even as he puts his boots on, stealing glances as they sweep the room for anything personal.

They meet in the doorway, and she lingers in his personal space, her gaze fixed on the blue of his uniform.

She'll move through the door, in just another moment.

There is a scent that is uniquely her, and he wonders how long it will take, breathing the somewhat stale recycled air of a starship, to forget exactly what that scent is.

He doesn't have any right to be hurt.

Doesn't change the fact that he is, a bit. Makes him feel like all kinds of a fool that he is, but there you have it. It takes quite a bit of effort to not to descend to being irascible, because it's not her fault he got attached. This is why, he'd forgotten, he doesn't do this sort of thing too often. The day after is a bear to deal with.

He's sure they look odd - her standing in the doorway, him just inside, neither really moving.

"Now, have you ever had pecan pancakes? There's nothing better in the morning than properly-made pecan pancakes." And frankly he didn't need that mental image of what else could be done with the maple syrup, though it is most assuredly an alluring one.

She looks up at him, that same ghost of a smile moving over her features. Her hand rests on his chest for just a moment (an eternity between heartbeats) and then she's moving into the corridor.

"What are -- pee-cans?"

That particular outrage against southern cooking distracts him, and carries him through breakfast, where he does his level best to introduce her to and convince her of the superiority of the foods from his youth. Grits are, perhaps, a hard sell, but buttery, nutty, fluffy, syrup-drenched pancakes would win the heart of the hardest skeptic, and paired with sweet, mildly tangy grapefruit from Florida? Angels couldn't ask for better.

Breakfast is still something of a painful affair, despite the distraction - he can't quite figure out what happened up in the room, for the life of him, and it doesn't help he can't quite keep from blushing every time he reaches for the syrup.

She does eventually start to smile a bit more easily, and the cuisine is certainly enlightening. (It's no where near as endearing as his enthusiasm, or the way his cheeks keep flushing when he reaches for the syrup.)

She's smoking one more cigarette over her last cup of coffee, and she can't take the strangeness of the moment anymore.

"Lyonya."

Her head falls to one side, and she purses her lips.

"I come here often."

He wishes, deeply, fervently, that he could read her. He decides to play the optimist for once, and ignore the thought that this may be her way of asking him to not make things awkward for her.

He also, briefly, wonders if this really is the best instance to try out that optimism thing, but he plows ahead anyway.

"I don't seem to come in quite so often." Sometimes, sure, but every once in a while there are alarming gaps of missing time here. "But if you're around...?"

Dear God, he didn't mean it to come out sounding quite so pathetically hopeful, but there it is.

She laughs, a dry little cough of a sound, and glances away. When she looks back, she's smirking properly.

"Such a sweet talker. How could I ever resist."

She stuffs the cigarettes back in her pocket and shrugs into her coat. When she stands, she rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't stay away long."

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