olyabird | [oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

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[oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

[ after this ]

She still eats as if it is a privilege, a throwback to the many times when it was. Proteins first, to sustain the body, and yes, while battered poultry is a novelty, she still manages to enjoy it. Carbohydrates next, and fresh baked bread is fresh baked bread the world over. And finally, because it has a strange scent, and it looks to be rather messy to eat, finally she delves into the watermelon slices. Juice ran down her chin and she had a sense memory of eating apples fresh from the cider press, only this was more like pears, she thought. No, not at all like pears. Something completely new and different.

Not unlike the man seated next to her, his startlingly blue eyes glittering with mirth as she chased bite after bite with a swipe of her napkin.

"This should be served in a glass," she murmurs, taking another bite of the almost ethereal fruit. One could eat for days and never fill up. "What are you laughing at, hmm?"

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"I thought I was the one wasting away?" He asks, still making his leisurely way through his own meal. The cool crunch of the slaw with the buttery fluffy biscuits and the sweet-salty taste of the chicken brings back memories of lazy weekend picnics in the relative safety of the screened-in porch - only a few of the swarming mosquitoes could get past the netting. Grandpappy had always insisted on old-fashioned netting rather than any of the more effective high-tech devices.

"What? I'm hungry," she says, reaching her fork out and stealing a bite of his slaw, her eyes rolling back a bit as she chews. "Pass me that, would you?"

She'll eat right out of the container. Manners are for other people, apparently.

Don't think he won't bring this up next time she disses his home region's cooking. Just wait until she's had pecan pie. That right there is a little slice of heaven.

But he hands over the container without complaint. It actually pleases him - some part of him that never stops being a doctor, that is glad she's eating and has a good appetite. He knows that it's a bit arbitrary, what with what she told him earlier, but it still checks off one entry on the mental list of 'is she doing alright?'. It's somewhat idiotic, and he knows it, so he doesn't comment.

"As the lady demands, of course."

Her brow furrows as she chews, looking at him over the top of the container.

"You keep calling me that." She gestures idly with her fork.

She's never thought of herself as anything other than a peasant. As much as any number of people tried to hold her in grand esteem, she never sought out a place in the limelight. Perhaps Gesar did her no favours by making her the instrument of his right hand, friend and sometimes lover, but mostly the one who held her leash. Even with the Revolution, a political movement that moved strangely through the world of Others, she refused to take a position of leadership, of power, even though some would say it was hers by right of birth.

"I know, it is how you were raised, but you know, there is probably more shit caked to my boots than yours."

He considers what she's saying, scooping up the last of the slaw dressing with the biscuit.

"I think it is the upbringing." He agrees - being part of a universe with so many utterly diverse cultures helps a bit in sorting out why one does things. It's easier to self-evaluate when you have to check your culture against another's fairly constantly. "Call it the parts worth preserving out of the old South - my grandpappy would preach them all the live-long day. And he had no problem tanning my hide if I stepped out of line." Little Crissy McGallister - he'd tweaked her braids once and made her cry, long ways back as a boy, but he never forgot her name thanks to the punishment dealt out afterward.

And, as an adult, he will freely admit that extra bit of kindness, as old-fashioned as it seems to some, comes in helpful, especially when things all go to hell.

She hums, nods a little. Kindness is often a weakness in her world, given or accepted. People who are kind often want something in return, and the cost is rarely balanced with the price.

"I like it."

She takes another bite, crunching unashamed as she ponders. He would last about half an hour in her world, with his genteel manners. (She's never seen him have to be intimidating.)

"You said, you'd find it difficult -- to be casual."

She's picking her words carefully again, trying to find her way towards something, though what, she's not even sure.

He bides his time in answering, finishing off that last bit of biscuit before setting the plate aside. Surely he has hopes, though he hasn't let himself think about it too much. Susan has, and is still doing, quite a bit of damage to his confidence in this arena. Sure, he can be a gentleman, be charming... but a long-term relationship? The last one ended so well, didn't it?

So he falls back on his strengths - he has never been afraid to tell the truth as he sees it, no matter who he's telling it to.
"I like you, Olga. Quite a bit, actually, and I think it could be something more. Actually, I rather like the idea. If you didn't want that, well, that's how it would be but... I would regret it."

Grey eyes fix on his face as he talks, and her expression gives nothing away. She finishes off the last of the slaw, and in the languid manner she has, fishes out her cigarettes. The empty container makes a suitable ash tray.

"It's been a long time since anyone ever asked me what I want. They always assume they know."

McCoy's opinion of the people she associates with outside of the bar drops by a fair margin. Idiots.

"Assuming has been what's gotten me into the worst trouble." He notes, settling a little deeper into the couch and steadfastly saying nothing about the cigarettes. "Besides. Why guess on important things?"

She takes a long drag, her thoughts a chaotic ramble behind her eyes. Times like these are when she misses being an owl. Owl mind is so much simpler.

"There was never any time to ask. Free will is an illusion, you know."

She doesn't know where he is, or what he's doing, but she knows, if he turned his mind to finding her, she couldn't stay hidden forever. And she has no one to blame for that but herself.

That hits a trigger that more than a few people have set off, in the course of his life. There has to be something like free will. Flat out has to. If there isn't, the depression that haunts every practicing medical professional will grab him and drag him under without so much as a token fight. It would be a lie to say he remembers all of his patients. He doesn't even remember all of the ones who died - thanks to being on-hand to a couple of the worst disease outbreaks in the last decade or so, when the front line of medical defense suddenly also became the last line, there have been so many he just couldn't save. But there have been quite a number he could, as well.
And it's only because he firmly believes that he can make a difference that he keeps going. Destroy that, and he'll go down like a house of cards.

"We'll have to disagree on that one, darlin'." He replies, but it's terse, his whole body language flipped from relaxed and content to nervy, prepped for a fight.

"Well, for you, maybe it's different." She feels it more than she sees it, feels it scorch her skin like the Gobi sun at noon. "Maybe that is your gift."

She rolls the cigarette between her fingertips, watching the coal burn down.

"If you ask," she says, pausing. "I will stay. But you have to know, it puts you in danger to ally yourself with me. Grave danger. And I may not be able to protect you from the consequences."

He's not so much of an idiot that he scoffs at the danger. He knows full well he's just not cut out to be a fighter, at least not in the traditional sense. Most of the command crew could easily lay him out - though he draws some comfort from the idea that if it came down to it, he could do fairly well against Scotty. Maybe. If the prize wasn't a stack of Engineering technical journals. Kirk, however? Spock? Uhura? It's not even approaching a fair fight.

"Darlin', I serve on board a ship of the line, the flagship at that. By all rights, what we've been through already, I have no right to be alive in the first place. I refuse to live my life in fear of what might happen down the road." His tone is vehement, but part of that is due to the adrenaline slammed into his system just a few moments before.

She looks up at him then, and levels her gaze at him.

"You might be safe in your world," she muses, wondering if Gesar could follow him through a door and knowing enough not to put it past him.

"But here?" She shakes her head. The best she could hope to do would be to hide his existence. And she's not sure she wants to live like that either. "I just want you to make -- an informed decision."

She pronounces the words carefully, and a little of the wry humour returns to her voice. He doesn't strike her as one to make decisions of the heart based on reason. It's one of the things that makes him so attractive to her in the first place.

He doesn't. He really doesn't - if he did, he wouldn't have once married someone who obviously needed more than he could provide, he wouldn't have been surprised when it fell apart, and he wouldn't have blamed himself so harshly for it.

He does a lot of things he wouldn't have, if he sat and thought every thing through. On the whole, he feels it's made his life better, not worse.

"With all that in mind... I'd still regret not having the chance."

She sits back into the couch, glancing around the room again, before returning her gaze to his face. He is very easy on the eyes, and so long as he doesn't expect her to cook, she thinks they might make a go of it.

"You are pig-headed, and rash. And you don't like my smoking in here, do you?"

She has strange ways of showing her affection.

"I've been called both of those before." He notes wryly, standing to collect the debris of their meal. He leaves her the makeshift ashtray. "And do you want my honest medical opinion on that?"

"I don't need it. I can hear your lungs crying out in outrage from here."

She grins at his back, a sudden wash of fondness taking her by surprise. She stubs out her last cigarette, grabs the bottle of vodka and follows him back into the kitchen.

"You need help?"

"I think I'll manage - the resemblance really is a bit eerie. Put a view of the bay outside that window and I'd swear I was back on Earth." He grumbles, more to cover his uneasiness on just how Bar got this information in the first place than any real displeasure at the rooms themselves. The smattering of utensils get dumped into the sink, and after a few moments of rummaging he finds a bottle of dish soap to pour into the warm water.

She hums, putting her hands on the island and hopping just a little bit to sit, her heels dangling. She considers getting a glass to pour a drink, and then thinks better of it, taking a swig right from the bottle.

"Good memories, I hope?"

"Can't complain. I'd just joined Star Fleet then, and worked long hours at the hospital. Junior officers tended to get the the worst shifts." A few more moments of rummaging reveals the drying rack, right where he thought it should be. He gives it a dirty look, but sets it up without comment and commences the washing up.

After a long moment of contemplating the sudsy water, he looks over at her.

"So, I'm pig-headed, and rash, and probably suicidal to boot, but... are we going somewhere with this, Olga?"

She frowns a bit, misunderstanding the question.

"I thought we were staying here," she says, and then it hits her. "Oh you mean," she gestures again, a tiny hand movement that indicates 'this'.

"I told you once. If you ask, I will stay."

"Please stay."

He's practically defenseless, and he has a fair idea of just how over his head he'd be of her kind of trouble came down on them, but he does really want this chance.

Her head falls to one side and she smiles at him. It isn't a broad toothy grin, and she'd never be someone they'd pick to sell toothpaste, but for Olga? It's a look that radiates.

She reaches a foot across the gap between them, plucking at the hem of his shirt with her toes.

"Alright. But I don't cook."

"Oh, that I think I can manage." He's no top chef, but he's had to make is fair share of meals. If he says so himself, he's not half bad at it. "I'm a bit rusty, but with the bar close at hand we won't starve."

His grin, bright and sunny and not in the least restrained, is the part that expresses just how very glad he is that she didn't deny him.

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