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[notabricklayer]

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.

Comments

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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?"

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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?"

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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'."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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?"

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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?"

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"Better." He agrees, scooting just that little bit closer.

It is winter someplace that isn't Georgia. That is plenty of excuse for him.

"So, Istanbul? I'll admit I've never been." Ironically enough, he didn't travel much before joining up with StarFleet.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She hums, leans up to stub out her smoke, and then nestles along his side, resting her weight on one elbow.

"It's not Rome. But then again, it's not Siberia, either."

It's a warmer shithole, she thinks, where the hashish is sweet and the coffee is strong. And where she's close enough to return to Moscow if she's needed.

"I haven't been back -- since..."

Her voice tapers off, only just realising how many days that's been.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"Since?" His attention sharpens a bit, at the hint of a story. He's curious about her, but he doesn't want to rush her - she's already admitted she doesn't tend to give out information. "A bar at the end of the universe is that much better than Istanbul? It's clear you aren't working for their tourist department."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

There's another little hum, and she looks down into her wine glass, swirling the last few swallows around and around, watching the liquid coat the glass and film down.

"Not just the bar," she murmurs, feeling terribly vulnerable after the words have already escaped.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He has a strand of her hair twisted around his fingers, spinning it first one way, and then the other, careful not to pull.
"I'd be flattered, darlin', but I'm in the same category as a pub with rats as servers." He teases, gently.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her grey eyes flit to his face, narrowing for a half a heartbeat before she catches that he's teasing her.

"Oh yes. This place -- such a shit hole. And the patrons."

She scoffs, and drinks down the last of her wine.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"I know, would you believe they let just anyone drink here? You come to believe a place has standards. I heard they let in common doctors - what was it they were called? Filthy butchers?"

Definitely teasing now, as he remembers a particularly annoyed Olga with coffee spilled down the front of her shirt.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

"Barber surgeons," she corrects, grinning outright now. "And bone shakers. Witch doctors."

She looks up at him, her eyes far more green than grey.

"Like some kind of -- pandimensional meat market."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"The goal being to get the best cut before the prices go up?" He asks, raising a pseudo-haughty eyebrow. "And you picked the chuck roast." He tsks under his breath.

Maybe, some days, he can aspire to prime rib. Right now he feels like ground beef. And, he decides, that metaphor probably has been drawn out long beyond what is was meant to tolerate.