notabricklayer | (no subject)

There's a low chuckle in the back of her throat, and when she smiles, years disappear from her face. She sits up and reaches for her clothes, pausing a moment to brush a kiss across his chest. Her nails graze over his skin just for a moment and then she's moving.

"Come on then. Get dressed. I would not see you waste away to nothing."

She gets dressed quickly, watching him the whole time with eyes that devour just as surely as her hands do.

The idea flits through his mind of him, and her, and a picnic lunch, and this loft for a very long afternoon... but for another time. For now, he follows her example, stuffing his feet into the hated boots last of all, lacing them up with the speed of long (and usually half-asleep) practice.

"You keep that up, wasting is going to be the least of my problems."

Funny that. Her plans include a meal to go and a room for the rest of the day. Great minds, indeed.

"How do you mean?"

She's done zipping her boots up and is combing her long hair back from her face, trying to bring some semblance of order to it.

He raises an eyebrow imperiously, then (after knotting up his laces into a half-hitch that will do for now) steps into her space. His hands are gentle against the curve of her jaw, his normally sunny blue eyes have gone stormy, and the kiss he gives in answer is anything but sedate.

Yes. He noticed her watching. It's somewhat derailing his plans for a meal.

Her smile melts into a quiet growl, and she meets him, hunger for hunger, their first reunion seeming to have cracked her reserve. This is no longer anonymous, not the comfort of a stranger's touch. This is something more, something different.

She doesn't have the words for it, but that's all right. Right now, kissing him like this, she doesn't need them.

Later... to be honest, he's not entirely sure how much later, but seeing as he won't be on duty until he goes back through the front door, that most wonderfully doesn't matter... he pulls back, giving her a wry grin.

"That's how I mean." Point proven!

Her eyes close and she takes a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She's Nightwatch, not some giddy schoolgirl, for heaven's sake. She wipes a thumb over her lips, and yes, the grin is still there.

"Point taken," she says.

"Food first."

There's a certain air of promise in her voice that sets the air between them to shimmering.

There's a growl from him. He, however, looks mildly discomforted by this.

Look, there wasn't time to grab lunch today, what with the captain being literally in two places at once. At least part of him agrees with this 'food first' plan wholeheartedly.

Or whole-stomachedly. Whichever comes first.

She stalks around him, never leaving his personal space, and reaches to grab her jacket, tugging it on.

"I know what you're thinking, Lyonya. You are very tempting, believe me. But I find you," her rich alto voice singsongs a bit, "interesting. And we haven't talked much at all, have we?"

Most men would find this behavior threatening, to say the least. Seeing as he is firmly in the category of 'men' and usually managing to end up in 'most', she is being a bit unnerving.

He rather likes it.

"Somehow it always seems like we've found other things to do." He points out, hoping his traitorous stomach keeps its two cents to itself for the rest of the conversation.

"We have," she confesses, heading for the ladder back down to the stables.

"And we will. After."

She jumps the last few rungs to the bottom, landing lightly, hands already fumbling in her pockets for her smokes.

She pauses with one dangling between her lips, watching him. "Unless you'd rather keep this -- " She gestures, indicating an indeterminate amount of space between them.

He descends a bit more slowly - landing lightly is usually something he leaves to other people, and the Captain does enough acrobatics for all of them.

"I think we're a bit beyond that, don't you?" He asks, trying (and mostly succeeding) to not sound too hopeful. "I'd find it very hard to be casual."

After all, he does find her capturing his attention at the oddest times, even when he's not in the bar at all.

She doesn't answer, at least not in words. Instead her eyes light up. Her whole body language lights up like the aurora borealis, and she lets loose a little sigh she didn't know she'd been holding in.

She puffs the cigarette to life, holding it between thumb and forefinger, the coal towards her palm. She is careful to blow the smoke away from him, licking her lips.

"As do I."

He's perceptive. Intelligent. Not easily intimidated. And those eyes.

(They see right through you, Olya. Like Gesar, before the war. Be careful where you step.)

It's been an awfully long time since a lady's looked at him like that. Not since... That train of thought gets ruthlessly stomped on and shoved out an airlock. Not going there now, not ever.

Besides, he has more important things to do at the moment, like smile back, like offer an arm to this glorious creature who hasn't seen fit to rebuff him, God knows why.
"Now, seeing as I was right about the pancakes, I think that when I say fried catfish with blackeye peas and okra is one of the finest meals on God's green Earth, you should believe me."

She shifts the cigarette to her off hand so she can take his arm. (And a gentleman, one of a rare breed in her time and her world.)

Her eyes narrow and her chin rises, inquisitive. "What is this -- okra?"

"One of the most maligned vegetables ever created." He drawls, is accent thick enough that he'd be earning a lecture from a certain First Officer right now about proper diction. "What folk don't know is you have to soak it first, get the slime off - you certainly don't eat it raw."

She follows him out of the barn, her hand hooked through his, turning her head occasionally to take a drag off her cigarette.

"Slime," she says, her voice flat.

"Only if you do it wrong - fried okra is like manna from heaven, believe you me." Bones knows full well it's a hard thing to sell, a vegetable that turns into something out of a horror film in the pan if done wrong, but he grew up on those tasty little seed pods - it's all about the technique.

So many things in life are all about the technique, she thinks, studying his silhouette intently.

"Best eaten hot," she adds, curious. "Or do they do well in a takeaway bag?"

Intelligent, perceptive, yes... and entirely on board with this plan without needing further explanation.

"Conversation with a takeaway bag?" For a brief moment he thinks that maybe he should suggest barbecue instead... done properly, of course - despite what those in the north might think, barbecue is meant to be wet, and messy. It just isn't right if it doesn't get all over the place.

A daydream for another time, perhaps.

"Then what you're looking for is fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits, with slaw." Why yes. He does daydream about home-style food on quiet watches. If you had to eat what comes out of the food processors, you'd daydream about food too.

There's a low chuckle in the back of her throat and her grip on his arm tightens just a bit.

"Perhaps I want you all to myself this afternoon, hmm?"

So much so that she'll suffer eating American food for him, strange as she finds it.

"I see nothing wrong with this plan at all." He replies with a slow grin, his free hand warm over hers. "In fact, I heartily endorse it. Got any plans for the doctor you now have at your disposal?"

Her eyelids fall half-closed and she smirks, licking her lips.

"Oh I think I can think of something to keep him occupied."

"Oh? Lucky fellow." The sun is warm the way the heaters on board ship can never be, and it's almost a shame to go inside.

Almost.

But not very.

"Extensive physical exams, I'm sure."

There's still a bite of Autumn in the air, and she can feel Winter coming on strong. (She does not miss Moscow as much as she thought she would.)

"Mmm, maybe. Maybe a fitness test or two. Possibly an -- oral exam?"

She's not sure if the pun carries over into English.