(no subject)

[notabricklayer]

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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[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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."

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

"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.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"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.