notabricklayer | (no subject)

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.

He chuckles - that one had been used and misused in his class as they approached Boards thoroughly.

"Oh, definitely. Choosing a doctor is an important process, you know. You have to be very thorough to make sure you find the one you want."

She just lifts her chin, smiling like the cat who's eaten the canary.

"I already know which one I want," she says, holding the back door of the bar open for him.

"A fact I, for one, am deeply grateful for." He allows as he ducks through the door, squinting a little as his eyes re-adjust to the relative gloom within. He does take a close look around, on the way to the Bar, but for different things than many others - injured crewmates, and Klingons make the list, other sorts of threats he's not so wary about.

She rolls her neck as she enters, stretching out a little, glancing around. She picks her usual booth, a dark corner with a good view of the room, and settles in, lighting another cigarette from the first.

"Let's have a drink, while we wait for the food."

She waves at a rat who nods and scurries off, returning momentarily with a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

He slides in across from her, raising an eyebrow at the vodka.

It is only fair, he supposes, after the whiskey the time before. So he takes the bottle and pours with an expert hand.

"What are we drinking to this time, darlin'?"

Olga generally doesn't need a reason to drink, but today, today is different.

She holds up her glass, looking across at him, studying his face. She feels lighter than she's felt in years, just looking at him.

"To us."

McCoy smiles, clinking his glass against hers, golden sparks reflected in the clear alcohol from the embers of her cigarette.

"To us." He agrees warmly, knocking his shot back like the water it appears to be.

And boy doggy, doesn't that stuff burn all the way down? He makes a mental note to perhaps take it a bit slower, next time.

She knocks hers back just as easily, clearly not even feeling the burn except peripherally. Clearly, her lungs are not the only organ that get regularly abused by her vices.

The rat appears at her elbow again, and she gestures him to her companion. "The good doctor is ordering for us. Takeaway, please." The rat nods and turns, pen at the ready.

His first order is a bit of a wheeze as his larynx protests the alcohol burns. He's not exactly a shots guy.

"Fried chicken with buttermilk biscuits, peanut slaw, and watermelon." The rat eyes him, eyes her, shrugs, and writes it all down. McCoy resists making comments about diseases carried by rats in retaliation.

Olga does not laugh. It's rude to laugh at Americans who can't keep up with her. She knows this. But her eyes give her away, no doubt.

She refills their glasses with a practised hand.

"Ask," she says, and maybe he can hear a certain warmth in her voice. She doesn't often open this door.

This glass he chooses to savor, rather than slug back. At least, that's the official press release.

"If there was an emergency, and you needed medical attention, what do I need to know?" It, perhaps, isn't the most romantic question, but it is the one he needs answered. It bothers him, not knowing these things. It's why he nags Spock at every opportunity to get him more information on Vulcan physiology.

Strangely, she's not as surprised by this question as she thought she might have been. Still, it's a puzzling question to have to answer. There isn't much that can touch her, physically, and anything that can? Well, suffice it to say, there wouldn't be enough left over for him to treat.

She stubs her cigarette out and sips her drink, clearly pondering her answer.

Eventually, she shakes her head a little. "I heal, but it takes," she holds up a hand, palm up, fingers curling in, "an essence you can't provide. It comes from all around. Mmm. Positive energy. Happiness. Joy."

That intangible fuel of the Light. Love and hope and all that nonsense.

Well. Isn't that just a little bit frustrating? Or a lot, he admits to himself, knowing exactly what he's like in a crisis. If he can work on it, fix things in some way, no matter how little... he's fine. He's better than fine. It's what he thrives on. But to be stuck helpless, standing by?

There's a memory of a few last moments at a bedside in San Francisco - he shunts it back to the dark corner it lives in, forever.

"I do believe in fairies, I do I do?" He asks, wryly.

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward a bit, hands curled around her shot glass. The shimmer of his memories stings like salt in a fresh wound.

"Lyonya," she begins, and hesitates. "I am not a god. I can die." She thinks she can, anyway. She long ago ceased fearing the day when that might happen. "But it will not be on your watch."

It's much more likely that she will give up on this world and simply walk into the Gloom, never to return.

He swallows, and looks away. He's never claimed he's dealt well with death, and with the way he fights it, he probably never well.

"I'll hold you to that."

The moment he looks away, her voice echoes across his thoughts, as if she could reach out and pull him back to her.

Lyonya.

She has to push down a wave of righteous anger, and maybe he can feel the heat of that as well. She tries to keep it out of her voice, and maybe she succeeds.

"It's far more likely that I will lose you -- long before you lose me."