olyabird | [oom: Sharing A Room]

Funny, she had exactly the thought process. Boots. Off. Now. She's settled onto the bed, and is unzipping her boots. The treads are caked with mud and bits of broken glass.

She cuts a glance at him, curious how they ended up here. They're not drunken teenagers. Hell, they're not even properly drunk yet. Her tone is teasing.

"Maybe in the morning. If you're as much of a gentleman as you say."

"In the morning, then." With those terms, he is confident. Starfleet reg boots are, in defiance of all logic, lace-up, making their removal something of a production. He groans with relief when he gets one foot free, stretching abused toes (covered with nearly-worn-socks, smooth McCoy) for the first time since his shift started.

"Why a ship's surgeon needs to wear boots, I will never know." But he will frequently complain about.

She grunts in sympathy, working on her other boot. She's actually wearing two layers of socks and both of them have holes in them. She is completely unselfconscious about this fact.

In fact, she seems completely unselfconscious about her body altogether, already stripping off her shirt to reveal a thin camisole beneath. There's a bulky two way radio clipped to her belt, and she sets it aside, carefully clicking it off to conserve the battery.

Her skin is pale, and she's lean without being wiry. For the most part, she appears about thirty five in human years. Elegant hands reach up to undo her braid, and she shakes out her long dishwater blond hair.

"Do you make it a habit to pick up strange women in bars and take them home with you?"

It's an idle question.

"Not at all." He's not entirely sure what to make of the question, so he settles with his usual policy - tell the truth as he knows it, and let the chips fall where they may. "And I'd protest that I still haven't. As for today... well." He yanks off the other boot and gives it a dirty look before setting the pair aside, "Sometimes a day just needs a bit of good shoved into it."

He tries to match her attitude - scrubs are quickly (and gladly) shrugged off, dropped into an untidy pile on top of the much-hated boots. The body suit underneath leaves a bit for the imagination to work with, sure, but not much. When he pulls the shirt half of it over his head, the result tousles his dark hair into something more appropriate for a boy than a professional. Thank the Lord the man's not vain.

Olga settles with her elbows on her knees, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she studies him, her gaze a little more brazen than before.

She makes a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and pushes herself up, stalking towards the bathroom.

"Pour me a drink, will you?"

He nods, eying the bruise darkening on his shoulder as she goes. Honestly, he should have treated that when it was fresh, but he had other things to do at the time. Chapel will have his hide, he's sure. Quietly he consigns that to the pile of worries he can't do anything about at the moment, and pads over to the kitchenette, snatching the bottle of bourbon up from the bed on his way. It takes a few minutes to find two tumblers, but when he does they seem clean enough.

He pads back, glasses in one hand, bottle in the other, setting up the drinks on one of the side tables, giving them both a healthy portion. No sense letting the bottle go to waste, after all.

He's really not sure what's going on here, other than what he's said already - a little good needed to happen after a day like today, and when he'd questioned her comment, she'd just... continued on. And as he's sure his psych evaluations would prove, he's just as red-blooded as the next man.

Besides.

It's nice.

Not being alone.

Olga disrobes quickly, and turns on the water, looking into the mirror while she waits for the hot water.

"What are you doing, hmm?"

Her reflection is no help at all. She slips under the hot water with a long sigh of relief, letting it wash over her face and into her hair. He's American for one. A surgeon, he said. He's definitely human, if his concern for her lack of sleep is any indication.

But he was certainly easy on the eyes.

Her hands continue on, lather and rinse, and she can't get the idea out of her head. She laughs under her breath at the idea of her day having a little 'good' shoved into it.

She emerges about ten minutes later from the shower, her hair damp and a towel tucked around her. She pauses in the doorway, giving him another appraising look, the hint of a smile ghosting over her features.

At the moment he's more properly sprawled in the chair he first claimed, his tumbler of bourbon loosely held in one hand as he mentally runs down his current patient list. Sure, he has no actual plans to go back to the medbay and sort anyone out right at this very moment, but if he doesn't put them away for the night, they'll only come back later.

The rugby teams... Chapel and the rest of the nursing staff can handle them, and he'll be back before they know it.

Captain's due for a physical... if he doesn't come in of his own free will in a week, he'll hunt the boy down to ground and make him. Honestly, after all those speeches about command setting a good example.

The pretty little yeoman turned iguana... they're going to lose her. The last psych eval did not go well by any stretch of the imagination. They'll make base 34 soon, he'll have to make arrangements to leave her there. It'll be better that way. ... Some day he might even believe that.

Spock is still a pain in his backside. No problems there, seems like.

No one's shown any signs of going completely la-la in the last week or so. Is it bad he's begun getting suspicious when things are normal for too long?

Then he blinks, and looks up at her, his lips curving into a sweet smile. She looks more relaxed, if nothing else, which makes the doctor part of him that never truly ever switches off pleased. The rest of him isn't feeling too bad about that either, to be honest.

"You're up."

Olga doesn't do kittenish, or femme fatale. She does have the grace of a woman who is comfortable in her own skin (especially since she spent so many years not in it).

She crosses to the side table to retrieve her drink, downing it again in one go, and pouring herself another.

He chuckles at her, but damn if a hot shower doesn't sound like a little slice of heaven just about now - made even better by the fact that the shower is not on board ship, where everything is recycled.

Everything.

Think about it for a bit.

"Try and leave me some." He calls over his shoulder as he heads off towards the abandoned bathroom. Perhaps other men (Kirk) would be insulting his sense of timing just about now, but there is no way he's going to rush her, or take more than he's given. He just wasn't bred that way... which isn't to say that good ol' boy Southern Charm hasn't done him some good, over the years.

He determinedly does not think about his ex-wife. Or Joanna.

Maybe a little about Joanna, as he makes sure all the necessary bits for a good shower are around. He hasn't gotten a message from her in months now. She'll just about be through the first half of second grade, if he hasn't gotten the years wrong.

But then there's hot water and real soap and frankly, the rest of the universe can go hang. A short while later (a little too short, he decides as he gives the shower a lingering look when he grabs the towel, but there is that promised shower in the morning) he's out, a towel tucked around his waist, and he's using another to try and dry his hair to something approximating respectable.

Olga found the change of clothes left by bar, and has slipped into a clean camisole and white cotton boxers. Yes, boxers. What? They're comfortable. She's sitting propped against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, the glass of bourbon resting on the sheets between her fingers. Her head has tipped back and her eyes have closed.

She's turned out all the lights, but for a lamp on the bedside table. There's also music playing, something quiet and classical.

He pauses to study her, still scrubbing at his hair idly.

He can tell she's had a rough life. How she's managed to break every single one of her digits he'll never know, or at least he never wants to know. And her nose, he decides after a moment - broken and reset, but slightly off. The scar on her shoulder makes him wince - a couple inches down and over... and all that on a woman who doesn't look any older than he does. Now, he's traveled enough to know that means next to nothing, but still.

That's a lot of hurting, no matter how spread out.

Quietly he takes her lead, finding where the Bar had stashed his clothing replacements and digging out something suitable before padding back into the bathroom. He returns moments later, sans towels, but plus boxers.

His glass is recaptured on the way toward the bed in expert fingers, and he can appreciate the softness of the sheets when he sits, cautiously, on the edge.

The look he sends her direction is calm, waiting. If she's thought better of it in the meantime, he won't judge her.

She may have her eyes closed but she is exquisitely aware of his presence. The chemicals and the blood washed away, she can smell his skin now.

She cracks one eyelid to glance at him, and her head comes up with a snort of disbelief.

"Smiley faces?"

"Perhaps Bar is trying to tell me something. That, or the laundry got mixed up." He retorts, taking her lack of protest as a cue and settling against the headboard himself, stretching out with no small amount of gratitude.

The bunks on board will never be this comfortable.

She chuckles as she settles back, finishing her drink and setting it aside. She turns back, shifting to rest her weight on her hip, one arm resting across her chest. The gesture is almost shy.

"Tell me what they call you, Lyonya. When they are not calling you Doctor."

They, the mythical they. Well, not all that mythical, but he knows for a fact life on board a starship is decidedly different than the civilian life he left behind.

"Some call me Bones. Most call me McCoy." A very very small handful ever have called him Leonard - Urhura did, once, Scotty when he was beyond blind drunk...

Nancy...

That train of thought gets shoved into the same pile of 'not thinking about it' that the iguana yeoman got sent to.

"What about you?"

She scoffs again, the corner of her mouth twisting upward. Her fingers twitch, the nicotine urge reasserting itself.

"Names are a tricky business where I come from." She'll never get used to the way they are cast about so freely here.

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't comment. Considering that he spends a fair amount of his time on board ship (both while performing his duties and not) in commenting on things, this is something of a minor miracle.

"So what will you call me?" He asks, softly, curious.

She lifts her chin, thinking for a moment.

"Hmm."

She shifts, kneeling up to reach across him. She stretches one hand out to turn off the light on his night stand.

"Lyonya suits you, I think."

In the darkness he dares, reaching out his free hand to brush along the side of her face, pushing her hair back.

Slow, slow, like he would with an untried filly. Frankly, it's not in him to be any other way.

She settles against his side, turning her cheek into that touch.

For as much as she of the Light, she is a creature of shadows, and the darkness is a comfort to her. Her eyes adjust quickly, and she can see the lines of his face. There is no bravado there, no, just a simple kindness.

She leans closer, breathing in his scent, her fingertips brushing along his jaw.

"Finish your drink," she whispers.

He swallows, heavily, savoring her warmth, her softness against him, the smell of her, unfamiliar and tantalizing. He cannot see her that well, an impression in the darkness, but he still means the smile that stretches across his face.

"As the lady commands." He replies cheerfully, tipping the drink back with the practiced ease of a long-time dedicated drinker. As he blinks off the burn of the alcohol, he settles the glass back on the table, out of the way.

She can hear his heart beating faster, can feel the heat radiating off his skin beneath her palms. He's fit, not overly muscled, but not soft either. He smells of soap and something else, something masculine.

He turns to set the glass down and she takes advantage, dropping her chin and brushing her lips against his collarbone, just the barest caress. The need flaring in her skin surprises no one as much as it surprises her.

It focuses his attention marvelously, and for a brief moment he stills (except for his heart, there is no stopping that runaway train now). He laughs, soft and low, delighted really. He still traces along the side of her face - cheekbone high and delicate, the curve of her ear, resolute jaw, but his other hand is exploring down the long planes of her body, delicate touches with fingers that have been trained for years to become a surgeon's most sensitive tool.

That laugh washes over her, steals her breath for a moment. If she couldn't taste the pureness of that emotion, she'd think he was laughing at her, but no. Keep it simple, she reminds herself. Her eyes flutter closed as he touches her face.

She nestles closer to him, the tip of her nose trailing up the side of his neck to the hollow beneath his ear. One hand rests on his upper arm, the other skims down his shoulder, all her senses tingling, human and Other.

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