[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?"
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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"Talk to me," she says, her voice gentle and soft.
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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.
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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"I am too, darlin'."
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Eventually, she pulls away enough to look into his face, capturing his hands.
"That which does not kill us, eh?"
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"You must've been talking with one of those crazies up in Command Central who give us our missions."
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"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.
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He follows where she leads, instinctively stepping around floorboards that used to creak at odd moments.
"The tour, huh? But of what, I wonder?"
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"The oddly draughty linen closet, what else?"
There might be a door to a bar in another dimension in there. Who knows?
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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Me.
Down."
Indignation is winning over playfulness at the moment.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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"Who said anything about not finishing?" McCoy growls throatily, his hands resettling firmly over her breasts.
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"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.
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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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