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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The wave of loss takes her by surprise. It's as sharp as a winter wind, and it cuts deep. Her brow furrows and she leans a bit to one side, trying to catch his eye.

"Talk to me," she says, her voice gentle and soft.

He knows what she's doing, he's done it himself a time or two (or ten or twenty) - there's no ship's psychiatrist. If someone has a problem it falls on him to get them to talk it out. It's harder to talk your way around someone if you have to look them in the eyes while doing so.

He doesn't particularly want to go further down this road.

He turns, leaning against the counter, his hands still tangled in the towel, a flash of steel in his eyes.

He saw her once, after he left. She was five. She was beautiful.

The memory is so vivid, so perfect in his mind, she can't help but see the child.

His child.

She slips down off the counter and moves to stand behind him, her hand brushing down his back. When she speaks, her voice is pitched low, tinged with a wistfulness that verges on haunted.

"I have told you more about my life, Lyonya, in the passed few hours, than I have spoken of in decades. If you don't want to speak of it, I understand, but please remember -- you asked."

Asked her to stay. Asked her for a chance to be a part of his life.

He did. He just did, understanding what he was getting into. She's right. He doesn't want to do this, but she's right.

"Right before the divorce... we had a girl. Joanna." He remembers standing in the nursery, in full scrubs, holding his newborn daughter and watching the sun rise. "We shouldn't have. We were barely functioning as a couple. But she wanted a child so badly, and I did too."

When he'd arrived home from the hospital that day his world was re-arranged, they were already gone. There had been a lawyer waiting for him.

"Sometimes there are letters." There is a very small locked box he keeps under his bunk, halfway full of letters written in childish script. The last was sent over a year ago.
"I couldn't risk missing out on another life."

She rests her forehead against his shoulder, and he can feel her nod. A tragedy, and one he feels deeply, so she bites back her instinct to tell him, 'At least the Ottoman Turk didn't bash her brains out against a rock.'

She's seen the horrors that humans can inflict on one another. The theft of a child is tame compared to some. Eventually she finds the words, and even knowing how pale and useless they are, she uses them.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

McCoy turns, setting the towel aside to hold her instead. He fills his lungs with the scent of her and closes back the pain of the family he didn't have.

"I am too, darlin'."

She slips her arms around his waist and nuzzles under his chin. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, content to hold him for a long quiet moment.

Eventually, she pulls away enough to look into his face, capturing his hands.

"That which does not kill us, eh?"

He snorts, rolling his eyes dramatically at her. He uses a variant of that line on certain high-ranking crewmembers when they complain about quarterly physicals.
"You must've been talking with one of those crazies up in Command Central who give us our missions."

She smirks. Better. She hadn't meant to sour the mood so distinctly.

"Come on. I want the tour."

She backs away, still holding onto his hands. Dark grey eyes hold his gaze, and maybe he can see the colour rising in her cheeks.

He only has himself to blame - he knows better than most about the importance of not letting things fester like that, but he still refuses to do anything about it other than go on ignoring it.

He follows where she leads, instinctively stepping around floorboards that used to creak at odd moments.
"The tour, huh? But of what, I wonder?"

And where Olga comes from, ignoring it is the time honoured method of dealing with such things. So she'll be no help at all.

"The oddly draughty linen closet, what else?"

There might be a door to a bar in another dimension in there. Who knows?

He raises an eyebrow at her, but there's a mischievous grin on his face that utterly ruins any sort of sternness he might be aiming for. Call it a reaction of the two extremes of then and now, call it whatever you like, but there's something daring behind his bright blue eyes.

Lest she think he has no reflexes at all, he'd remind her that he is a combat surgeon, and while he doesn't fight as a rule, he often has to contain those that do.

He ducks forward suddenly, hoisting her over his shoulder in a traditional fireman's carry.
"I think I can find somewhere more interesting than the linen closet." He informs her, cheerfully bright.

Olga squawks. There is no delicate word for the high pitched, indignant noise that erupts from her throat.

She's not a large woman, and the reflexes she relies on are not physical, but instinctual, ingrained through years of combat experience. Thankfully she trusts her senses, and instead of her fingers twitching or her body slipping sideways into the Gloom, she feels only his enthusiasm and a delicious pulse of something else, something hungry and playful and good.

Her hands fist in his uniform and when she gets her breath back, he is treated to a blistering earful of rather creative invective, and maybe a little awkward laughter. She doesn't struggle though, choosing instead to bide her time and wait for an opportunity to react accordingly.

"Such language." He tuts as he carries his prize, snickering at some of the more anatomically impossible curses, and perhaps cataloging a few away for future use. Instead of showing her the closet, as interesting as it might be, he heads for the bedroom instead.

It too is just as he remembers it - down to the chipping crown molding around the ceiling and largish bed he'd gotten in pure retaliation against his newly single status. The flame in the fireplace doesn't look any less pitiful than it did from the other side of the double-sided hearth, and he admits to himself that she may have a point about that device.

"Now then. Isn't this much more interesting than the closet?"

"Put.

Me.

Down."

Indignation is winning over playfulness at the moment.

He promptly complies, carefully dropping her onto the bed before flopping onto it himself, knowingly leaving himself open to retaliation.

Not that he'd be particularly effective in fending off any serious attempts. Honestly, it's a miracle he survived enough military training to be considered in Star Fleet.

Retaliation is swift and decisive.

She doesn't let go of his shirt, following him over until she's straddled his hips, pinning him down with a force disproportionate to her size. The sound of his shirt tearing is loud in the small room.

She bends to catch his mouth in a punishing kiss, her entire body vibrating with the rush of endorphins brought on by his attack.

Oh.

Note to self:

Do that. Often as possible. Oh hell.

He responds viscerally, his hands sliding up and under her shirt, deftly undoing the clasp of her bra and sliding under that as well, tweaking and teasing and the heat of her mouth is melting his brain in a somewhat catastrophic fashion.

Definitely do that as often as possible.

When she breaks the kiss, she's breathing hard and grinning like a mad woman. She sits back and tosses her shirt and bra aside with a vicious motion. The rest of his shirt is dispatched with a similar ferocity, her hands skimming over his chest, blunt nails grazing over his skin.

"Do not start something you do not mean to finish, Lyonya. I have been known to carry a grudge," she murmurs, her grey eyes flashing green.

He arches into her touch, his delight in her obvious, the blue of his eyes darkening with pure lust. She is magnificent like this.

"Who said anything about not finishing?" McCoy growls throatily, his hands resettling firmly over her breasts.

She leans into his touch, her hands rising to her head. Her eyes fall close as she undoes the few pins, dragging her hands through her mouse brown hair as she shakes it loose.

"You carry me off to bed, like you're some great -- beast. And then you lay back, and let me stroke your belly?"

She looks down into his face, chewing on her lower lip. Her hips roll against his, the motion direct and unequivocal, and a tight little moan escapes her throat.

He makes a mental note of that - never let it be said that the boy can't learn. Pushing himself up, he slides his hands around her shoulders to suckle and nip urgently at her breasts. Her challenge is not going unanswered.

She smiles, her arms melting around his neck, her fingers dragging through his hair, looking down into those impossible blue eyes. She licks her lips and bares her teeth at him, urging him on, hunger radiating in every line of her body now. There's an urgency in her touch this time, and he has no one to blame for it but himself.

Oh, he will happily take the blame for this. And possibly every other time he provokes this sort of response as well. One hand stays firmly between her shoulder blades, but the second slides down over the curve of her ass. He bucks up to unsettle her, then twists, pressing her back down against the bed. Positions reversed, he mimics her fierce and brutal kiss, taking no prisoners.

Oh yes. This is one of those fantastic moments where she discovers that he knows exactly what she wants before she knows it herself. She yields without yielding, flexing beneath him, her fingers gripping in his hair, her heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

Her moan is considerably louder this time, poorly soundproofed walls be damned. She wants him to know just how much she's enjoying this.

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