notabricklayer | (no subject)

"Oh." The word is emphatic, and tired. He shifts in his chair to settle in more comfortably, making sure with a quick glance that his patient is still doing well. The read-out is comforting.

"Doctor Helen Noel. She is one of the staff psychiatrists."

He shifts and she has to balance, her talons gripping his fingers with a strength far beyond what one might imagine for such a small creature. Luckily she doesn't pierce his flesh, but it's a close thing.

Once he's settled, she sniffs again, this time preening her pin feathers on one wing back into the proper configuration.

She thinks she can crook her finger and the men will trail along behind her.

Olga does not approve.

He gently pets the tiny feathers over her head, an almost absent-minded gesture.

"Not all the men." He sighs, a portion of his attention always on the steady beat of the heart monitor. "Just the one. She'll come to her senses sooner or later."

The bird ducks a little, and glares at the fingertip.

Petting? No one pets Olga. Not without risking a fingertip.

No, not even him. (Okay, so he still has his fingertip. That's concession enough.)

The captain, you mean.

He isn't clear on the detail that he almost lost a finger, but he gets the point of the glare. The petting stops (even if he likes the feel of those tiny little feathers).

"Jim. She's taken a liking." His tone is terse, angry at something he cannot ever hope to define. He's been warning Kirk about this for months. He shouldn't be angry at the poor girl for falling for Jim's charm.

But he is.

The owl sniffs, fluffs up a bit.

She'll learn.

One way or another.

Lyonya? Is there some place warmer on board?

"The officer's lounge is usually pretty warm, and you can change the thermostat in my quarters, if you like. Or you could go hang out with Spock." He jibes, wry grin in place. "Though I'm not sure he can deal with the intrusion."

She smiles at him, which is impossible because owls can't smile. No, it's merely the impression of a smile.

And then the impression of a warm body, unclothed, perhaps fresh from the bath? Pressing up against him.

Where are your quarters, hmm? It is too cold here.

(Strange, coming from a Russian, the phrase 'too cold'.)

At least part of him is very interested in this notion of hers. He sucks in a shaky breath, shifting again.

"I can't let the boy wake up alone, Olya." He mutters at her, with a warning glance.

She blinks at him. And sighs.

And then glances around the room. She shifts on his hand and launches herself into the air, heading for the highest spot. Thus ensconced, she preens a bit more and then settles down, tucking her head under her wing.

"So there, huh?" He cracks, quietly, as he goes back to his vigil. The night watches wear away, and McCoy shifts for the umpteenth time, wondering if one of the technicians would be so good as to go get him some coffee, when there is a low moan from the bed.

For the record, it goes about as well as McCoy thought it would - a young man, just starting his career in a heavily active field, suddenly learning that it has all come crashing down?

He has to sedate the boy again, to keep him from doing damage to himself.

She is there, keeping vigil with him. That sense of warmth in the back of his brain doesn't fade with her reduced proximity.

And when he's ready to retire for the night, she'll go with him.

She's seen all she needs to of the rest of his ship. He is the sole focus of her regard now, even when she's dozing with her head under her wing.

After the boy has been dealt with, he is more than ready to seek his own bed. There's just a small problem.

It is now well into the daytime shift, and a new, energized, fresh-faced staff has replaced the last rotation. They are very unlikely to miss an owl - even a small one. Very studiously he avoids looking up at where he last saw her, perched above a diagnostic screen, visible to anyone who looks up high enough.

Maybe if he told everyone he saw a mouse on the ground?

"Good morning, Chris." He offers a grin to Nurse Chapel, who is already efficiently getting the Sickbay back into fully working order after its downtime overnight. "Think you can keep a lid on it without me?"

Christine Chapel, still a bit rocky emotionally after the events surrounding finding out about the death of her fiancee, offers a tight smile in reply, and nods. Of course she is. There's nothing they can throw at her that she can't either handle, or keep under control long enough to wake him and get him back to his post.

"Alston woke up, and I've sedated him. Make sure M'Benga has all his files."

He still has no idea how to get Olga successfully out of here, despite the frantic brain-wracking he's doing.

He doesn't have to worry. She can feel the rhythms of the room, can idly suggest to all his colleagues that there is a moment when they all should not be looking at the center of the room.

Especially not when there's a tiny owl winging her way across it and onto the shoulder of one Chief Medical Officer.

Where to now?

He blinks at the 'coincidental' synchronize turning away, but he doesn't protest it.

That isn't to say it makes him feel a little cold. But she isn't Charlie. She isn't.

He doesn't answer her out loud (because then they would see her, and that'd be them in the hot water, wouldn't it?), but instead strolls out of sickbay, heading for his own quarters. He probably should grab a bite to eat, but...

After last night's surgery, he finds he's not that hungry.

Nyet, love. If you are hungry, you should eat.

She is adamant on this point.

He doesn't change course, hands in his trouser pockets. He killed a boy's hopes and dreams today. In the face of that, he hasn't much of an appetite.

He's never said he's not a bit of a hypocrite, where proper care of oneself is concerned. If the Captain was telling him the same things, he'd still be forcing Jim to eat something.

CMO's prerogative. At least, that's what he's calling it.

The bird on his shoulder launches herself at a control panel, flying straight into the reflection and winging along the brightly lit corridor as if there was another world on the other side of the glass.

A group of crewmen appear a few moments later, passing him without comment.

What if I told you, you needed to keep your strength up -- hmm?

There's a tickle at the shell of his ear, as if her lips were hovering just against the short hairs there.

He represses a shiver, and eyes the bird (Olya) as if weighing the pros and cons of this situation. Eventually he sighs, shakes his head, and turns down the next cross-corridor.

The common room is fairly spartan - chairs, tables, a three-dimensional chess set in one corner, replicators along the far wall. There are a few people there - those who came off shift late, or who wanted to spend their off-hours somewhere with people, rather than in their quarters. McCoy nods to those who greet him, and orders a meal.

There are, to be fair, MREs that look worse.

There are also some that look a fair bit better. There's a reason McCoy orders food gleefully at the bar. Still, food is food, and since it isn't a special day on board ship, there's no hope of fresh stock. So he takes his tray (it's supposed to be lasagna. It's... well. It does the job.) and finds a seat.

The reflection of the bird twists into the reflection of the woman he knows so well. She smirks at him from the narrow strip of glass that serves as a portal here, leaning against the edge as if she did this sort of thing all the time.

The tickle at his ear becomes a warm breath passing down the side of his throat, and he can feel a palpable touch, warm hands resting on his shoulders, as if she were standing just behind him.

You make me think I should steal you away from this life, Lyonya.

You're not exactly catching the old girl at her best. He retorts, raising an eyebrow at the phantom image, and unconsciously relaxing into her touch, the tight hunch of his shoulders less pronounced.

Speaking of...

He could have sworn he left her in a certain bar at the end of the universe.

Edited 2010-12-19 06:47 (UTC)

I was curious, she drawls, her gaze dropping to her nails, as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room.

Her phantom touch smooths up to his neck, massaging gently.

It's hard to argue like this, for him, to not let the million random thoughts that normally crop up answer in a bizarre stream-of-consciousness ramble, rather than gathering up a solid, concrete response. Mostly he's using impressions of what he's getting at, which seems to be working pretty well so far.

Her evasion is noted, and a promise given to follow up on that later when he has a more ready vocabulary.

You're going to lull me to sleep in the middle of the common room. He warns her, though he will allow that this feels wonderful. It's not exactly helping him eat his meal speedily, however.

Her laughter, subdued as it is, fills his head, the touch at his neck turning into the beating of wings that leave his skin tingling.

The touch reappears at his ankles, skimming up his calves, accompanied by that same warm breath, this time along the inside of his thigh.

I have other ways to motivate you, she says, and the illusion is so strong, he can feel the words feathering against his skin.

That stops the eating altogether, as his eyes close - though whether it's to better savor the feeling, or to keep the reaction at bay, she can probably tell best.

There's another warning, this one about how one shouldn't scandalize young female yeomen, and how little leeway one has in a uniform.