notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

The lights of their apartment come up in the way he is used to lights coming on the way he is used to lights coming on - smoothing increasing from dark to light with barely a hitch inbetween. The apartment is the same as before - a naturally quirky Victorian that's slightly stark thanks to the driven surgeon who had made this his home once upon a time.

He always meant to take time off, decorate the place a little more elaborately, set it up to be more of a home than a place to collapse after long shifts. Maybe now's time.

But right now he can do something about these damned boots. Some day he is going to both fund and write a paper outlining the evils of these boots, and he'll stuff it down the throats of every lazy ass on the Starfleet Surgeon General's board.

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She snatches it out of the air, smirking at him.

"Spasiba."

She very carefully sets it down beside the water glasses.

"After." She wets her lips and eyes the pad he's spread out in front of the fire. "Where do you want me?"

His eyes darken precipitously at the question - not something bound to help him maintain any sort of professionalism here.
"Where-ever you want." He answers without thinking, honesty beating current events.

After a moment his brain catches up.

"I think you'll be more comfortable here." This really doesn't make the first comment less true. Ever.

She looks down, hiding a grin that might have actually shown teeth. After a moment, she stands and slips her camisole off over her head. The trousers follow, and a moment later, she crosses to stand in front of him, completely at ease in her skin.

"Here?"

She points down at the pad in front of the fire.

He stares at her, lit by the flickering firelight.

Oh, dear sweet Lord. She is gorgeous. Simply gorgeous.

And he's already forgotten she asked a question.

She might need to re-ask. He's busy being utterly distracted right now.

Okay, she was at ease in her skin. His scrutiny makes her cheeks colour a bit.

"Here, then," she supplies, her voice a bit quieter.

She holds his gaze as she moves to lay down. Her legs fold beneath her before she stretches out on her stomach.

"Yes?"

He gives himself a bit of a shake - this is going to be a lot more difficult than he thought.

"Darlin', you're amazing." He assures her, running a reassuring hand down her spine. "Now. Are you comfortable there?"

She hums her assent, nodding a little. This is already the height of luxury as far as she's concerned.

"If I fall asleep, please do not be offended."

"No, not at all." It would be a compliment, rather. He shifts to one side of her, reaching for the bottle and pouring some of the oil into the palm of his hand.
"Tell me if anything hurts, Olya." Gently he settles his hands over her lower back, letting her acclimate to the touch, firm and steady, before pushing up to her shoulders, gentling back down the sides of her ribs.

And again. And again. And that makes it a rhythm, steady and sure.

A woman could get used to this.

It's been so long since she's been properly relaxed (if ever) that it takes a while for her muscles to even start moving in that direction. She carries all her tension across the tops of her shoulders and in her neck, but he can tell by the small of her back, she spends a lot of time on her feet. (Well, that and crawling through sewers.)

A part of her body remembers what it's like to have wings, so there's an odd tension around her torso, between her shoulder blades. The light pull of tension along her keel bone is purely phantom in this form.

She is quiet under his ministrations, each breath drawing longer, until she's sighing with every pass.

He continues in this pattern until he can easily differentiate beneath his hands the areas of long-standing stress, until the oil is worked in and warm. Again, it is a good thing he has promised not to confront any Others - he would be tempted to give them a piece of his mind about this, too. But that is not for now. Now, once he feels those poor abused muscles are warm enough to take further treatment, he shifts the pattern. Small circles at each side of the spine, with a firmer touch, starting at the small of her back and slowly, so slowly, working back up again.

Her body is her anchor, her connection to the world. Every scar, every ache, every shift of weight, every breath, reminds her that she is connected. His skilled hands and his knowing touch knit her to this flesh in the most delightful ways. The warmth of his skin against hers drives away the perpetual chill of the Gloom, and when he hits a particularly tight spot, she lets slip a quiet moan.

Someday she'll explain to him why she cherishes his company so much. He reminds her what it's like to be human, and why she chose this form over the myriad other options she has available to her.

But that day is not today. Today, she is just going to lie here and let him work his own brand of magic.

He smiles, enjoying being able to do something for her. This is basic for him, hands-on work that he learned as a first-year medical student years and years ago. Beyond being an excellent way to learn major muscle groups, it was a great way to keep from being an utterly starving student.
After every single major muscle group has gotten some personal attention, he moves on, pausing only to pour a little more oil onto his hands. Now he puts a little know-how into working the heavy muscles of her thighs, her calves, the tiny hard-working muscles and ligaments in her feet.

A thorough rub-down is what he promised. That's exactly what he intends to deliver.

The more he explores, the more he discovers about her. The pale scars that dot her skin are old, paper thin in places. The deep scar on her right calf (a bite mark of some animal, it looks like) makes her wince and then sigh.

Even the soles of her feet are scarred. Faint, but evident in the firelight.

The longer he works, the more relaxed she becomes, until it seems as if he's controlling her breath with each touch.

He has to keep reminding himself what she told him - he's not going to be called on to heal these sorts of wounds on her. He would do it, no doubt about it, but he might have to drink himself into oblivion afterward to keep his imagination from going into overdrive.

He chooses to focus on this instead - he's never seen her so relaxed, and considering the taste of what she's shown him of what she can do, it is a compliment. He's made a running list in his head of where she seems to accumulate stress, in case she allows this again.

He finishes as he starts, his hands sliding over her back, erasing the last lines of tension with a confident touch. Finally he lets her go, quietly rising to his feet to find the blanket he knows he used to store around here somewhere.

She feels him leave, and rolls to her side, her head pillowed on her arm.

"Your turn," she murmurs, her voice drowsy and low.

"Shush, darlin'. You let that set in for a bit first." He drawls good-naturedly, finding the loose knit tucked away underneath the couch and carrying it back to her, to have if she needs it. He settles in beside her, sprawled against the coffee table, idly working out the tension on his hands. It's been a while since he was called on to do that.

Well, if he doesn't want payment in kind, who is she to argue? She does reach out a hand to touch his foot, the pad of her thumb drawing a firm line down the arch.

"Thank you."

He doesn't exactly want to say no to payment like that, but he doesn't want good work going to waste. Let those abused muscles get used to being relaxed for a while, before they have to back to work.

"You're welcome, Olya. Any time." He assures her quietly.

And if that touch is an indicator of how she would intend to continue, he imagines that there's considerable talent there.

Somehow, he's not surprised.

If there's any talent there, it'd be pure instinct guiding her hands. She's never really had occasion to be so intimate with anyone, yes, including what's his name.

She watches him with grey green eyes, half-lidded with contentment.

After a long moment, she draws herself up, the movement self-contained, almost predatory. She moves to her hands and knees, and stalks up his front, nuzzling along the line of his jaw.

"You are wearing too many clothes, Lyonya."

He's watching her fixedly, his eyes dark and hooded, his heart rate and breathing accelerating because that?

Is hot.

"I'm beginning to agree with you, darlin'." He nods, grabbing the edges of tunic and underlying bodysuit and pulling both up and over his head, tossing them somewhere couch-wards.

She doesn't touch himm, not yet. Even though she really wants to. No, she hovers nearby as he strips out of his shirt, and then returns, her breath shimmering over the peak of his shoulder. She keeps that distance, bare inches from his skin, tracking up to the hollow of his throat, up his neck to the shell of his ear.

"More," she whispers, one hand plucking lightly at the fabric of his trousers.

He swallows, convulsively, his mouth suddenly too dry and the room suddenly too warm. But he plays by her rules as he understands them, not reaching out for her, despite a longing to do just that.

Instead he nods, and obeys, shifting awkwardly to pull the remainder of the clothing off. And while this is fractionally more comfortable... it is also decidedly not, with more room for her to play.

"Better," she purrs, one hand ghosting over his skin, hovering so close he can feel the heat of her palm radiating against his chest. Slow as molasses in January, she paints an invisible stripe down his center, veering at the last moment to continue down his thigh, her lips still near his cheek.

A wicked smile blossoms on her features.

"May I?"

He shifts, slightly, but with effort manages to stay put for the most part.

With a lot of effort. His almost whimpering groan is practically involuntary at this point. There's another nod, while he tries to remember words.

"Yes. Yes please."

She pulls away, crooking a finger at him, gesturing for him to take her place on the pad. The heat of her hand remains, a phantom caress that seems to keep moving of it's own accord, down the front of his shin, along his insole, and back up the inside of his knee and thigh.

She rests on her knees, hands between her legs, smirking at him like a kitten in cream. Her expression softens a bit. "If it is too much, you will tell me, and I will stop."