notabricklayer | (no subject)

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.

The heat dissipates just as quickly as it appeared, and her purr coils through his body.

Finish your dinner. And then take me to bed.

She's hungry too, but she can wait to eat. Other appetites are rapidly eclipsing that one.

"Temptress." He mutters under his breath, but he flashes a small grin at the panel where she's hiding before tucking into his meal. Every few moments he is interrupted by one crewmember or another, mostly just to say hello or to see how the injured engineer is doing. Olga might consider the crew complement to be somewhat overlarge, but ties are close on board ship.

She is well aware of every life line that is crossed and tangled with his here. There's a reason she's being so patient with him.

He might not even realise how flattering it is to fall into that category, to be someone for whom she actively has to focus on being patient for, instead of someone for whom she settles into the wait like a fish in the water.

He doesn't, not right now. Maybe one day he will learn to appreciate it. Right now, he's dumping the tray into the recycling bin with a definitive clatter.

Soon he's off down the hallways again, hands in his pockets, navigating the busy corridors with a second-nature sort of purposeful wander.

She time slips ahead of him, waits for him in the reflection of the turbolift, the corner of her mouth elevated as he gets in with a handful of other people.

You're not angry that I'm here?

That earns a deeply disbelieving look, when he's fairly sure no one is looking. Angry? Hardly. Annoyed that he can't sneak away, but angry?

Surely she jests.

A few minutes later, he strolls to his own door, palms the lock, and slips inside. Finally.

Her scent is already here, a little musty from whatever catacomb she's been tromping through, and a hint of her tobacco lingers in the air.

Olga herself is nowhere to be seen.

(The reflections in here are all so small, especially in the half-light.)

He raises an eyebrow at the empty quarters, wondering, just for a moment, if he hasn't just been delusional these last few hours.

But no. Even delusional, he's not that creative. Right?

Using time-honored hunting methods, McCoy cheats, stripping off his scrub top.

A ripple of laughter comes to him across the open spaces, low and honey dark, and rich with an affection that brushes his nerve endings like a warm breeze.

Now who is tempting who, Lyonya?

He can sense her presence, as if she were standing in the room with him. She's pacing the floor of the room still in the Twilight, reading the things that his hands touch the most.

"I thought it only fair." He retorts, grinning, now that his non-delusional state has been confirmed. "I seem to remember something about not starting what you don't intend to finish...?"

His room is fairly spartan, but by his choice - after leaving Earth, he hasn't settled down in one place for too long. There is a delicate music box on the dresser, a 'gift' from his daughter (chosen by her, paid for by her mother). His work desk shows a lot of long hours put in there, after Nurse Chapel had shooed him from the sickbay proper.

There's also the random assortment of electronic books, journals, and knicknacks. But those aren't terribly important.

Before he even finishes the sentence, he feels the by-now-familiar ripple of the Twilight opening and closing, and there's a warm body, slipping her hands around his waist from behind.

"You cheat. I like this about you."

He shivers (the chill, like ice down his spine, will never be something he gets used to) then leans into the warmth of her embrace.

"What cheating, darlin'?" He asks, grinning at her tone. "If you want, I can put it back on."

Her nails graze over his ribs, and she growls a little under her breath.

"Don't you dare."