(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.

Comments

[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.