notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's late afternoon and warm up in the hayloft, the sounds of the animals below muffled to almost indistinction, dust-motes dancing in the ambient light.

It would be a fantastic place for a nap.

It is an even better place to one space-faring doctor to re-make the close acquaintance of a beguiling woman he met in a bar.

Or at least, that's how it would read if it were a romance novel.

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It takes her a few moments, but she finishes the biscuit and manages to get something flame-like to appear in the top of the unit. She sits back on her haunches and gives him a mock glare.

"You ever been in Moscow in February, hmm?

"Can't say that ever came up as a choice vacation site." He points out, "They don't let Southern boys up there, blood's too damn thin."

This is also known as 'McCoy doesn't so much approve of Russian Winters'.

"Well, this," she gestures to the pathetic little ornamental flame, "wouldn't keep your coffee liquid, much less keep you warm enough." She gets up again, brushing her hands off on the seat of her trousers. "If it gets cold, I may have to 'fix' it."

Russians have a very different meaning for the word 'fix' in these situations. One hopes the Loompas are understanding about these things.

"Well, that would be something to see." Not because he doesn't think she can do it - he's not that much of an idiot. He just rather suspects he won't be able to recognize it once it's finished. She seems more like a 'bit between the teeth' sort of gal, to be honest.

"I've been told it snows in the winter out here, though whether that would qualify as 'cold' to you is another question entirely."

She glances out the window, and for a moment, the distance she swathed herself in returns.

"I've seen it snow here. Scottish Highlands. It gets cold enough."

When she looks back at him, her expression warms and that distance recedes, like the fog from the Bay melting away in the noon day sun.

"Are we eating in here? Or -- where?"

His smile is a welcome back from where-ever she had just retreated to.

"Here's as good as anywhere, I suppose - in front of the roaring fire." He drawls, making sure to be out of easy arm's reach when he says it. Or, at least, what he thinks is easy arm's reach. "There's plates in the kitchen."

Her eyes narrow at him, but the grin is mirrored with a little head shake. She follows him back into the kitchen, snagging a handful of napkins and the utensils before reaching for a plate.

"Smells delicious," she says, leaning her shoulder against his, her eyes on the very important task of serving herself a mess of hot food.

The watermelon rind he'd been nibbling on while watching her work gets tossed into the empty bags - it'll serve for debris until they can find where the trashcans have gotten hidden.
"Is delicious." He notes, and... it's silly, really. Standing in a kitchen serving up food from take-away boxes should not make him ridiculously happy.

But knowing that doesn't do anything to dim that ember of contented joy, with her leaning against his shoulder, in some place that feels less anonymous and cold than a hotel room, and the foundations of something that could be very fantastic indeed.

We'll blame it on the peanut slaw. It's pretty good stuff.

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