notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

It is a day that calls for overcast clouds - his sickbay has been packed full of ensigns all day long after a training drill went horribly wrong. No one died, no one was even permanently mauled, but by the end of the shift, his patients were practically running away from him. So after Alpha shift ended and he ensured that the ensigns that needed further observation were staying put, he put that tattoo to the test.

He stopped by the bar to fetch something to eat on the off chance Olga was at the apartment - catfish and collard greens, and heads on up. He's not sure how other CMOs do it, but for him? Nothing's better after a long day than not being on board ship.

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"I am a lucky man, and I will be here as long as you let me." He assures her, reaching over to grab the washcloth off the sink so he can wipe off some of that dust and cobwebs.

She huffs a sigh, and closes her eyes, tipping up her chin like a small child.

"S'nothing a hot bath won't cure," she grouses.

"Food first, unless you can honestly tell me you've eaten something substantial in the last twelve hours." He knows, he knows, but she looks run ragged. The fastest way he knows to fix that is to make sure she gets all the care she's been ignoring for God knows how long.

And really, her gesture isn't helping to mute his protective tendencies at all. It reminds him entirely too much of Joanna, pouting as she was cleaned up for dinner, in one of the rare videos he managed to get a hold of.

Again, her eyes narrow and she casts a glance at the foil packages on the counter. She looks back at him, running her hands through her hair and flicking away a dry leaf. (Or was that a beetle?)

"It smells delicious."

Katya would mock her for being soft, and she doesn't care. He's here and she doesn't have to be a Grand Sorceress for a little while.

"It's proper Southern cooking - of course it's delicious." He huffs in mock outrage, leaning back in for another kiss before going to rinse the washcloth off.
"Vodka for you tonight?"

What?

It's been a long day. They've both earned alcohol with dinner.

He moves away and she doesn't open her eyes. It takes her a long moment to answer, again, as if she's remembering how to speak actual words.

"Yes. Vodka."

He is so attached to his creature comforts. She wonders if it's wearing off on her. If he's making her soft.

She wonders if it matters.

He pulls a bottle out of the liquor cabinet and twists off the cap, breaking the seal and pouring two glasses out before setting the bottle aside.

Then he takes the glasses back to Olga, setting them beside her before hopping up to seat himself on the counter as well. After that, he settles to the work of sorting out the food situation.

"What am I going to do with you, Olya?" He chides gently, worried about his overworked gal.

She takes the glass, peering down into the clear liquid for another long moment as he settles himself. Just having the warmth of him near is good for her, she thinks.

She watches as he unwraps the plates, that warmth translating slowly into human terms. Affection. Love. Reasons to stay on this side of the void. Good reasons.

"Get me drunk and take advantage of me," she deadpans just before taking the whole glass down in two swallows.

"I don't have that much alcohol up here." McCoy deadpans, tucking into his meal with a will. "But I won't need its help."

That's confidence right there. Confidence, and determination.

She slips off the counter and retrieves the bottle, returning to stand beside him. The glass gets refilled and emptied again before she attacks the foil packet of fish and greens. (Fish, and greens. She must be fond of him, she thinks.)

"They deliver," she murmurs around a mouthful. What? It's warm. And doesn't taste like paste.

McCoy would like to protest that nothing he's brought back for supper tastes like paste. Grits are the only thing he's inflicted on her that might be paste-like, if not prepared properly.
"I don't want to treat rats for exhaustion." He counters, plowing through the food (which is, for the record, delicious).

She's picking at her food, making headway, slowly.

"From making so many return trips? Or carrying up the entire jar?"

She doesn't sound too concerned. It is a magic bar, after all.

"For whatever reason. I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian." He grumbles, in a tone that speaks to many previous repetitions of that theme. It's amazing what people expect to be in his skill set.

His plate is empty - clearly someone here was a hungry boy. He briefly considers licking the inside of the foil, consigns himself to adulthood for another day, and pitches the wrap into the trashcan.

She smirks at his righteous indignation, shaking her head lightly.

"Do you feel obligated to tend to every poor soul you lay eyes on, hmm?"

He gives her a sidelong look, because he hasn't relented in his first intention to do his damnedest to erase all of the damage she's done to herself since he last saw her.

"Some more than others." There's a 'yes, yes I do, and I don't think that'll ever change' hidden in that answer, if you turn your head and squint, and both answers are the truth. "You need a bath."

She blinks at him, owlishly.

A hint of that mischievous smirk returns, making her eyes a little greener.

"Is that an order or an invitation?"

"Whichever works." He grins, briefly, before hopping down off the counter. "You finish your dinner, I'll go work on that."

The boy has plans. Big plans. Plans that involve Olya being so obscenely relaxed by the end of the night that those 'friends' of hers that let her get so run down won't even recognize her.

Idiots.

She watches him go, the corner of her mouth lifting a bit. Just being around him lifts her mood, which is no small feat, as Katya will attest.

She mutters something under her breath and the fish warms up a few degrees in her hands. Maybe tomorrow she will wander down and see if the kitchen has proper dark bread, to go with salt cod. It's an old craving, but one that resurfaces occasionally. She wonders if he'll like it.

She'll not move from her perch until he comes back for her.

There are sounds of taps running, and eventually steam wafts gently out of the open doorway. McCoy is humming to himself as he works, something bluesy, an old song turned earworm.

Eventually things are set to his satisfaction (for now, he might get some other ideas later), and he returns.

Sans shirt.

It was getting warm in there.

She's done eating and is licking her fingers clean by the time he emerges. Yes, her hands are filthy, and no, she doesn't really care.

Her eyes open wide when he emerges.

"Lyonya. Now I know you're trying to take advantage of me."

There's a warmth in her tone that tells him, she doesn't mind at all.

There's a faintly pinched look between his eyes that speaks to how very hard it is for him to not rant about how ridiculously unsanitary that is. But he's trying.
He really is trying.

It still doesn't turn off.

But he can at least, sometimes, hit the mute button.

"Say 'use baser desire to get what I want out of tonight', and you're closer." He admits readily, offering a hand (and a shoulder, and a carry if necessary). "Pardon the phrasing, but you look done in, darlin'."

She scoffs, taking his hand, her gaze playing over his chest before returning to his face.

"I've been worse." Really. He probably doesn't want to know.

"And so have you, one might think."

He gets the feeling that this is going to turn into a scar-displaying competition. He huffs in fond exasperation before leaning in to scoop her off the counter.

He'd lose, if her scars were visible. And truth be told, she doesn't want to frighten him.

Her arms thread around his neck, and she buries her face in his throat, grinning properly now.

"My legs are not broken," she grumbles, her tone nothing but affectionate.

She weighs almost nothing, as if her bones were hollow, and all her clothes made of nothing more than feathers.

He cannot help the worry - he knows the weight of her by now, he's trying not to think of why it's different, and definitely trying not to comment.

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, keeping her close.
"Oh, let me be a macho man for once. It's not something I get to do often."

Or ever.

Oh well.

She grins against his chest, nuzzling ever so slightly, rather enjoying this side of him. (Not that she'd ever let anyone else know that.)

"You forgot the vodka."

"What am I, a doctor or a bartender?" McCoy asks querulously, but he turns around anyway. After all, she's hardly straining his weight-carrying limit.

Besides. It's nice, holding her. He isn't exactly in a hurry to put her down.

She reaches out for the bottle, still hanging off his neck.

"You're the one who insisted on carrying me. Don't start complaining now."

There's a hint of a smile in her voice, just his mere presence having a warming effect on her entire demeanour.

"Who's complaining?" He drops a kiss on the top of her head, then wrinkles his nose at the smell of crypt dust. "Into the bath with you, dirty miss."

She leans back and fixes him with a Look. She hasn't been called Miss in centuries. (At least he thinks it's crypt dust. Vampires are messy kills, in their own special way.)

"Fine," she mutters, "But it will be awhile before the water runs clear."

He can tell she's tired. Her accent is getting thick again.

"Just leave it to me, darlin'." He'd... just prefer to think it's dust. Ignorance being bliss in some arenas, and all of that. He's also ignoring the Look with the same aplomb that he ignores the captain's Looks. Well, maybe not quite - he's not quite as attached to the captain.

She does just that, relaxing against him as he carries her through into the bath.

"Are there bubbles?" It is a question asked with much trepidation.

Katya would laugh her ass off if she saw the Grand Sorceress in a bubble bath.

There are... quite a lot of bubbles, actually. Bubbles, and steam, and those fizzy things that make the water include bubbles, rather than just having bubbles on top.

McCoy pauses in the doorway, studying the ceiling so he can ignore just how many bubbles there are. He blames the Bar, truly. After all, she gave him all those supplies... After he may have mentioned needing some. Details.

Olga sniffs, and turns her head. Her eyes go wide, and she laughs, groaning at just how many bubbles there are.

"Oh you are so lucky I like you."

It smells like a French brothel in here.

"I think," He says, carefully setting her on the counter and starting in on getting her boots off, "You've earned a few bubbles in your life."

Or a lot of bubbles.

Bubbles are good.

"You have got to be joking..."

It's a half-hearted protest. This feels like decadence to her, which smacks of weakness. Corruption.

But then, he's the one doing it, not her. There's some small measure of comfort in that. She can protest, her austerity intact, and still be the beneficiary of all this.

"You Americans, and your creature comforts."

Her fingers brush through his hair affectionately.

"Guilty as charged, darlin'." He owns cheerfully, depositing her boots in the corner. He'll get to those later. Right now, he's going to get her shirt off.

He actually doesn't feel guilty at all. Not even a smidgeon. He knows what hell he has to go through - overloaded ERs, black-tagged kids who haven't figured out they're dead yet, necropsies on people he knew as fellow crew members. And what she does has to be worse...

They've earned all the bubbles.

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