notabricklayer | (no subject)

Her brow furrows at that, and she's quiet for a long moment.

"I don't snore. Do I?"

"Not at all." He assures her, managing to keep his laugh to himself. "Besides, you were up and about early this morning, or maybe late this night." That's the doctor speaking, and he knows, he knows, but... still. He can't muzzle it.

"If you want me to sleep through the night, Lyonya, perhaps you'd better wear me out first."

It's not like he hasn't come close.

"Noted for the future." He grins, setting the mug on the windowsill and turning in her arms.

Oh, he's going to miss this. Miss her.

"Good morning, love."

In the morning light, her eyes are the green blue of the ocean, and the Mona Lisa smirk she usually gives can be called a proper smile. One hand rests on his cheek and she beckons him down for a kiss.

"Lyubimaya." She murmurs the word against his lips.

My beloved. The part of her that needs no translation field whispers across his thoughts.

He smiles against her lips, warmed by the emotion behind this Russian word he didn't know at the beginning of the week. His fingers in her hair, he pulls it back away from her face gently, so he can memorize her face. He can't bear thinking about forgetting any details.

At his touch, her eyes drift closed, and her chin tips up. Her smile grows a touch wistful at the taste of his emotions.

"How long will you be gone this time?"

"I'm not sure, darlin'." He sighs, for the very first time in his life worried about his ability to get back to a magical bar at the end of the universe. "I never control when it shows up - it just does. Otherwise I would have found something more presentable to show up in last time."

Her brow furrows just a bit, mirroring his concern back to him.

"You don't -- call for a door?"

"Haven't had a door exactly when I wanted it since I started coming here." He admits, with a raised eyebrow. "Doors generally go where they were meant to go in the first place."

"Doors yes. Portals... Hmm." She cocks her head to one side, studying him.

"I might be able to fix that for you. But I would need some things."

Her hands skim down to his, tangling her fingers with his, and her gaze drops, a subtle look of mischief playing across her features.

"Some things? For a permanent door? Somehow I doubt wood is on that list." He drawls, allowing his accent to grow more pronounced.

"No, not a permanent door, like you think. Something -- to help you call a door, to this place. Whenever you like."

Her chin drops and she looks up at him, her lips crooked into a smirk.

"Magic," she teases.

"Magic indeed." He teases back, grinning, tweaking a lock of her hair. Sure, he knows she can, she's made that point abundantly (and wonderfully) clear. But just like Spock and his logic, he can't quite help giving a little bit of hell about it.

"A talisman, specifically."

Her hands slip around his waist, fingertips stroking the small of his back.

"Something that you need only touch briefly, while thinking of this place. And a door would appear."

He settles closer, his arms settling around her shoulders. A door whenever he wants it? If Christmas hadn't already come and gone in his universe, he'd say that was the best one he'd gotten yet.

"I'll never go to staff meetings ever again." He snickers.

Her lips curl in a slow, lazy smile. She loves this, this warm, quiet place between them. She steps in close, nuzzling under his chin.

"Maybe you can come more often then?"

McCoy laughs, a low rumbling sound in his chest. "I think you're doing a fine job arranging that." He points out impishly. "I've certainly come more since meeting you."

"Is that a complaint?"

Her lips thin and she mock glares at him, rocking her small body into his, and then rising on her tiptoes to catch his mouth again. Her grip on him tightens, her fingernails just barely biting into the skin of his shoulders.

In the beginning, she was reticent to show much attachment at all, but now, after this week spent crawling inside each other's skin, she's become far less shy about showing him how much she wants him.

This is a change he's deeply appreciative of - he's flattered that she relaxes so much around him. He's still not sure he's worthy of that kind of trust.

But he's not going to argue it. She's seen everything about him, and she's still here.

Too much thinking. He returns the kiss, making sure she gets that all-important proper greeting.

The part of her that is made of wings flutters around him, shivering with the heat of his kiss, the genuine warmth that his touch brings.

It's been so long since she's had this much goodness shoved into her life, and she's so grateful for it. Grateful she took him up on his offer. Grateful she didn't let that first little hiccup rob them of that odd little encounter. Grateful that he was still there in the morning.

Grateful that he stayed and listened to the strange tale of her life, so very grateful for that.

She pours herself into that kiss, pours her gratitude and her love over him, one soft mouthful at a time.

He pulls her closer, just a little (lot) desperate. Thinking about leaving, and the reality of this are two different matters entirely. His sense of duty is strong... but he didn't join Starfleet until there was no one to miss.

This is an entirely new problem.

She tastes his desperation and gives him back her own, moaning against his mouth, her nails digging in a bit deeper, waking up his skin.

It's a horrible thing, being kept from someone you care about. She knows, all too well. So even the hint of an idea of what he's faced with sets off tremors within her, stirring up long forgotten emotions.

Her arms encircle his neck and she almost scales him, one thigh wrapped around his leg, pulling him so close.

He doesn't know, or at least fully realize yet, how much of his emotion she can read so easily. He just knows that somehow she just knows he needs her close, and is good enough to comply. One more thing to love.

He dismisses thoughts of his upcoming departure for the moment, and focuses on the now of the warmth of her mouth, her body pressed up against his, the sting of her nails making the blood rise. He shifts his hold so he can pick her up entirely, keeping her close.

He lifts her and she moans against his mouth, fingers delving into that dark, thick hair of his, nails lightly grazing his scalp. His hands curve around her hips to her ass and she shifts higher, wanting more of this amazing creature next to her skin. Under her skin, in her bloodstream. In her head and in her heart.

She breaks the kiss long enough to murmur, "Bed."

Today she doesn't need wings. She just needs him.

He shouldn't. He knows that - the longer he waits, the harder this is going to get.

But he'd hate himself if he said no. That makes the decision easier. Somewhat.

So he recaptures that amazing mouth of hers, carrying her back towards the bedroom.

A kiss can be a very intimate thing, and Olga knows this. A walking while being carried kiss tinged with a little desperation is no different, but a little more awkward. She grins, laughs a little as they make their way, navigating around the couch and down the hall.

And then she's lost again, lost to the heat of his mouth and his hands, lost to the sweetness of his hunger and his ache.

Laughter is no bad thing, at least in his book. He's trying to remember every detail, mark it down permanently to have later. To that end, when his shins bark up against the bed frame, he gently lays her down, and breaks the kiss to work his way down her neck and over her breasts. If a proper greeting is important, surely saying goodbye properly is just as important.

Edited 2010-11-29 04:50 (UTC)

"Don't," she whispers, her hands pulling his gaze back up to hers, her eyes gone grey again.

"Make love to me, not as if it were the last time, but as if it were the first all over again. And the first of a thousand more days to come."

He looks up at her, studying her face before offering a tremulous, heartfelt smile.

"I love you, darlin'." It's plain, an ungarnished admission, but it's the truth... and he's always been truthful, if nothing else.

Her expression softens by an order of magnitude, her smile mirroring his own. Her thumb caresses the line of his lower lip and she studies each of his features in turn, waiting for the heady rush of his confession to wash over and through her.

It takes a moment.

"Ah, my Lyonya. Heaven help me, but I love you too."

His smile broadens, joyful and bright. It is... beyond good to belong with, belong to someone again, especially someone as marvelous as her.

"Come in here, Olya. Let me see you." This is leap, for him - to not just allow her in, or accept it in the heat of the moment, but choose to let her into himself, into his mind.

It is a leap, and she knows it, she can taste it with senses he'll never understand.

And it astounds her, the trust he shows her. Simply and utterly astounds her.

He reminds her what it feels like to be of the Light.

And to honour that above all else, she does as he asks. She takes his hands between her palms and pulls him down again, kissing his mouth, soft and slow. The whisper begins at the outside edge of his senses, burnished gold struck through with lines of heat, a sensation of air rushing passed, and something cold and clear, bright as the dawn.

Lyonya.

She whispers his name once and the power of it thrums in his veins.

He shivers, seeing and hearing and feeling the impossible, and accepting it as true. He is clumsy on this field - he is not naturally gifted in any special mental abilities other than to withstand rigorous medical training. He knows that this is a weak spot for him.

He devotes himself to this kiss, warm and tender, all the while trying to relax, letting her in as far as she likes. He tries to answer her, but... Well. He's not terribly good at it. Maybe there is the impression of him calling her name, somewhere in there, but give the boy some credit for trying.

There's something delicious and decadent about being allowed into him, something that makes her press deeper, slowly filling his mind with her essence. He calls to her and his voice rings through her like a bell, sending a shiver of delight resonating through her.

Here. Touch me here.

In the physical plane, she draws him down to her, the increased contact making it easier for her to direct his limited senses to where she needs him the most. Tangling with him, sweet and slow, she crawls along his long bones, breathes along his nerves, drowns herself in his essence, fearless, boundless, ageless.

He is as fumbling and clumsy as a teenaged boy, uncertain, but at least willing to take direction. He cannot even begin to define what she wants, what she's doing to him, but... as he curls around her, holding her close, he can feel her surrounding him, somehow knowing she is where he can barely recognize himself.