(no subject)

[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

[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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her hand clenches the front of his shirt for a moment, and her lips press together in a fine line as she suppresses a broad grin. Her laughter is nothing more than short, sharp breaths through her nose, but it's distinctive enough. Eventually she manages to catch her breath, laying back on the pillows and stretching her arms over her head.

"Doubtful," she drawls, considering he's the only other lover she's taken in the last century. And that other fellow -- he doesn't count. Not right now. Not in this room.

The sole of her foot smooths down his shin, enjoying the feel of the faded denim cotton against her skin. Enjoying the heat of him, her eyes still closed.

"Wasn't even looking, to be honest."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He snorts, enjoying watching her in turn, so relaxed and trusting. Nevermind that even if he did suddenly hatch some nefarious plot, she could take him down before he could even get out a good maniacal laugh.

"Lucky me, then."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her eyes blink open and she watches him for a long moment, trying not for the first time to read the bones in his face. Searching for some deeper reason for why her, why now?

"I don't believe in luck."

Not precisely true. She makes her own luck.

"And I'm sure -- out there -- you have your share of pretty girls trailing along behind you to chose from."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He laughs, shortly...

And bitterly. He falls back against the pillows and stares up at the crown molding along the ceiling.

"Only as a stepping stone, darlin'. Only that." There's things people want - a clean medical file, recommendation for a transfer without the hassle of traditional paperwork, access to the captain... so many things people want. And equally as many things they're willing to offer.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

"Mmmhmm."

Maybe she was just convenient. Free of complications. Ludicrous. She's been nothing but complications for him since she met him.

Her pride still bristles, a bit. She's told him he's the reason she's not gone back to Istanbul yet. Told him she wasn't even looking for a lover. (Didn't dare explain why.) Told him she doesn't believe in luck.

There's a long drawn out silence as she deals with the unpleasant sensation behind her breastbone. Jealousy. How very odd.

"Then I won't be forced to kill them?" She tries for a light-hearted tease. She may even succeed.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

It is a very good try. If she'd been up against a fair number of other people, that would have passed.

However, she's not up against any of those people. She's up against someone who has been trained to read people, and often has to drag certain truths out of his captain by force. His gaze is searching, sad as he studies her face, the sudden tension he hadn't noted before.

"Olya. Tell me what you're thinking." It's not quite a request, echoing what she's said frequently.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

He looks right through her sometimes. It's disconcerting. (And worse, she's glad of it. After so many years of being invisible, it's a welcome relief.)

She catches his hand and brings it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. Her eyes close and she tries to honour his request, nuzzling against his skin, against those devilishly clever fingers.

"I think..."

She starts and stops again, her brow knitting, the revelation surprising her even as she forms the words.

"I think I'm falling for you."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

That little ember of joy right there, that's worth all of the pain of last week and all of the frustration of this week, and some more besides. This is... ever since that first night he's been more and more fascinated by her, it's become more important to have her good opinion.
It is so very good to know he's not the only one.

"Oh darlin'." He shifts to bring his other hand up along the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin up so he can smile at her. "I am very glad to hear you say that."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

It takes a bit of coaxing, and then she feels the flare of emotion in response to her words, and she draws a sharp little breath. She looks up, meeting his impossibly blue eyes and leaning into his touch.

There are no words, really. The odd sensation behind her breast bone twists into something sweeter, though still an ache. It has been so long, and it's not a little frightening. And the implications are clear: she is still human, still rooted in this world, and that in itself is a bit of a knee-wobbling relief.

Her eyes drift closed again, her cheek resting against his palm. Desire is flaring again, and she knows he's still not feeling well, so this simple touch will have to suffice.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

This is a first, after the emotional nuclear war that was his divorce - not a fling, not a temporary tiding-over before the next big event, but an actual, real relationship. He wonders, briefly, if his father would have approved of her. Most likely he would. He would like anyone who could drink him under the table. He abandons that line of thought before it can get dragged into the if-only cycle.
He would like to show her just how happy she's made him, but he's fairly sure he wouldn't be able to finish that promise, and he already knows her opinion on that. So he kisses her, gentle and almost chaste. That will do, for now.