notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

He doesn't even have time to complain about the blatant cheating before exhaustion drags him under. And he stays there for hours, longer than a simple nap.

Slowly he wakes up, hitching himself up by stages. The dark behind his eyelids is still very inviting, but it is no longer irresistible when he blinks blearily at the ceiling.

The... ceiling? For a long moment he cannot remember where he is, or how he got there. It's familiar, but not the ceiling he has been staring at for the last week. Not the ship either... oh. Memory finally catches up with him, and he relaxes back against the bed.

Now. To get up. ... And, evidently, parade around the apartment stark naked.

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Her fingers twitch an instinctive ward, her expression never shifting away from supreme contentment. She looks rather like the cat who ate the canary, it has to be said.

"Silver tongued devil," she drawls. "Still not going to cook for you. Often."

She tucks her nose in her wine glass at that confession.

He chuckles, and he wonders if anyone ever called her adorable. Maybe he'll get to be the first.

What is clear is how happy the whole situation has made him. He'd hardly be recognizable to the poor souls who had to put up with him after his control over his temper frayed away to nothing under the effects of the virus. Just being here, with her, and a good meal, and a comfortable spot in front of a warm fire - he's perfectly content.

And that's no simple thing, right there.

"Right, my turn tomorrow." He agrees, cheerfully.

She snorts, and shakes her head, also ridiculously happy and trying not to think too hard on the fact. Recognising such happiness is a temptation to the gods to destroy it. Thus, this is nothing more than a simple night spent with a friend.

"No. Next week. When you're better. This week, it's cold borscht and pig's feet for you."

He pouts at her, a gesture that clearly illustrates just how relaxed and unguarded he is. He doesn't exactly go around doing that on board ship.

"Is that supposed to be a threat? Darlin', I grew up on pan-fried opossum and pickled frog's legs. And what am I supposed to do with myself if I can't cook?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, deeply amused at his expression.

"Rest. Relax. Catch up on your reading. Sleep. Heal."

He snorts at that list - while he'll never spend his free time in crazy athletic stunts like Jim, he always has to be doing something with his free time. Lazing about reading old journals sounds like a sure-fire way to catch cabin fever.

But he's pretty sure he's going to lose that argument. Scratch that - he's already lost that argument, back when it first started, without so much as a prayer of winning even a small concession.

Still, he doesn't look too put-upon sprawled somewhat bonelessly on the pillows, no.

Her eyebrows rise, watching him work through that little bit of logic.

"Heaven forbid we actually have -- oh, how do you say it -- a conversation?"

They have been rather in the can't-keep-their-hands-off-each-other phase of the relationship, and while she doesn't feel the least bit guilty about having done so, she doesn't want him to think that's the only reason she's interested in his company.

He blushes, embarrassed and contrite. That probably, thinking back on it, was one of the more pig-headed moments he's had in a while. She surely has better things to do than entertain a broken-down doctor.

"Sorry, darlin'."

Her foot has been resting against his thigh and she nudges him a bit with it.

"What are you sorry for, hmm?"

She looks genuinely confused.

He sighs, shifting awkwardly to ease the complaints of joints that seem to tighten whether he's moving or not. He makes a mental note to up the dose of terakine before he crashes again, to keep from waking up completely immobile.

"For being an inconsiderate ass." He might be brutal when chewing out others, but to be fair, he uses the same standard on himself.

Her cheek falls to her shoulder, her grey eyes peering up at him. She's really not understanding what he's trying to say.

"How do you figure?"

"Here I am grousing about being cooped up, and you're the one volunteering to keep the idiotic invalid from doing something spectacularly stupid. I'm sure you could find something more interesting to do." He points out wryly.

She blinks at him for a moment, and then snorts under her breath.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe this is where I am supposed to be."

There may have been the hint of a question in that last sentence.

"Unless you'd prefer to do your healing in solitary confinement?"

She can take a hint.

He reaches out to catch her wrist, urgent as though she were threatening to leave right now. He knows his own psych profile. Solitary is not a good place for him.

But that's not the reason he doesn't want her to go.

"Hey now, I seem to remember a deal being made."

She feels both grasps, physical and the other, more emotional pull, as if they were one and the same. She looks down at his hand on her wrist, and back into his eyes, her expression unreadable.

"Lyonya. If I did not want to be here, there is nothing you could do or say that would keep me here. You understand?"

He watches her in return, unsure. Maybe it's a side-effect of the toll the virus took on his system. Maybe it's residual uneasiness of his own ability to maintain a long-term relationship of any sort, thanks to the disaster of his marriage. Maybe it's just the twitchiness from the dream-ghost's visit.

So he's trying to be reasonable. Trying. It's hard. He doesn't want her to go, and he's not sure... well. He's just not sure. His smile is awkward, a little strained, a little worried.

"I hope I do, darlin'."

She sighs, and her chin drops, her look taking on that of a teacher speaking to a very small child. Apparently, these things need to be spelled out.

"One week of you. Resting. Healing. In bed. We will," her eyes widen and she gives a little half shrug, "play cards; watch a movie perhaps; read or talk or what have you. Nothing -- overly strenuous." At this last, he can hear a hint of the purr he knows so well.

"A deal. Is a deal."

And perhaps it is a bit silly, but he's reassured even if he is a bit embarrassed all at once. It doesn't matter. She's staying, and that does matter.

He pulls her captured hand closer, to press a kiss to her fingers.

"Sorry, darlin'. I'm not very quick on the draw, sometimes."

This is, very obviously, not par for the course. But there's some things he doesn't trust his instincts on anymore.

Her brow knits for the briefest moment, and then resolves into a look of concern. Her hand twists gently against his lips, turning to curl along his jaw and pull his face closer to her own.

Grey green eyes meet his sky blue gaze and hold it.

"I am drawn to you for more than just your cock, you know."

The words are spoken softly, with a deep affection, but that edge of tolerant exasperation as well.

He laughs, a sharp bark of laughter that is mostly at himself.

"Understood, Olya. I understand. Thank you." He'll try not to fall in that trap again, but he knows the danger of making promises.

She nods, then, just the barest movement, and sits back with a smirk.

She hasn't quite put her finger on why he's here with her, or why he has given her such unprecedented attention. If it were possible for him to lie to her, she might be paranoid about that particular truth. As it is, she knows he feels something.

She's content to wait and find out just what that is, however long it takes.

She licks her lips and gestures with her chin to the remains of their feast.

"Had enough?"

He groans, contemplating another few slices of that cucumber, and deciding that yes, he probably would explode.

"I think I am, darlin'. It was marvelous - for someone who doesn't like cooking, you certainly do it right."

She just hums under her breath, clearly pleased by his praise but stoic as always. She slowly eases herself up, gathering the plates and stacking them before heading back to the kitchen.

"Find us some music, would you?"

It seems he is to be closed out of the kitchen entirely - seeing how effectively his protests were dealt with last time, he goes to see what sort of radio stations they might have around here rather than trying that battle again.

Bizarrely, the stations seem to be the ones he remembers from San Francisco - a mix of popular music with a disproportionally high number of Spanish-language stations, the rare talk radio, the occasional jazz or classical station.

He settles on one of the more eclectic stations, the one a nurse at StarFleet General got him listening to during long overnight shifts - they play anything and everything, depending on the DJ's mood.

That done, he settles back into the nest of pillows, trying to find the best position to ignore his body's complaints.

Less than twenty-four hours into recovery, and he's already decidedly tired of the low-grade ache.

She pauses, listening for a moment. American music. Of course. She sniffs, and fishes out a cigarette before diving in to do the dishes. It's quick work, really, even considering the spread she laid out.

She can feel the ache in his joints and his skin, and considers healing him. And then decides against it. After pulling a boneheaded move like that, if he wants healing, he can ask. (Besides, then he wouldn't need to stay for a week. And she's rather looking forward to that now. Not that she'd ever dare say that out loud.)

She returns to settle beside him, pack of smokes in one hand, glass of wine in the other.

"Better."