Something witty that way went. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nothingtoregret) wrote2010-07-23 12:42 am
nothingtoregret) wrote2010-07-23 12:42 am
Entry tags:
Arkadian - Expected, Unwanted
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1459
Summary: Arkadiy's persistence gets him nowhere with Doctor Lebedeva... again.
Notes: Originally written on the 22nd February 2008, apparently, as a NaNoWriMo prompt.
I'm sitting here and staring down at my legs. Technically they're my legs, anyway – very technically. You can't get more technical than a robotic, metallic pair of legs nailed, stapled and hammered onto your lower torso and hips, when you think about it. I'm staring and waiting for the current, as currently (get it?) these legs aren't actually doing anything.
Very frustrating.
The girl – scientist, actually; doctor in fact – smiles at me, all big brown eyes and stark white lab coat, and she's really very cute but you can't really flirt with a girl when you're half naked and a large amount of your blood is hanging around in a bucket beneath your left thigh – or not my left thigh, whichever you'd prefer. I really do wish I could kick that bucket away, but she'd tell me off and I don't want to make that pretty face frown. (I'm going to pretend that kicking it would be viable, even though my legs still don't move and haven't moved for a week, longer in fact, since the accident that removed them.)
She's also quite handy with a scalpel, and that's the other reason I would prefer not to annoy her. “Come now, Captain Olenov-”
“Arkadiy.”
“-Captain Olenov,” she repeats firmly, giving me a reproving glance – damn, she's seen through my ruse already – “you shouldn't pout so at me.”
“I'm not pouting,” I pout, hoping she happens to like men with big blue puppy-eyes. “I'm not even sulking.”
“Why would you sulk?” She turns her back to me, busying herself with a tray. Whatever is in it is obscured by her body; I hope to God it's not anything disgusting that used to belong to my lower half. “Have I done something to upset you?”
You know, even when she turns on the sadness, I can spot the smile in her voice a mile off. “Nothing really. You only hacked both my legs off.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, a beautiful smile lighting up her face. Damn but that girl can be so morbid at times. She finds humour in the most macabre things, so I suppose it's no wonder she became a Forces surgeon – not that she will talk to me about those days when she used to repair wounded units on the battlefields on as many planets as years to her name. Each time she tells me, “it's not something you should concern yourself with; you should be concentrating on your surgery!” in a sing-song, light hearted voice that I can see so clearly never reaches her eyes.
I must be looking at her strangely because she turns around fully, wiping a terrifyingly sharp knife on a clean but clearly old cloth, raising one eyebrow at me. “Is there something you want to ask me, Captain Olenov?”
I lean forwards, resting one elbow on the black and white leg glued onto me like a badly repaired child's toy (not that I would criticise her work, no. And especially not with her holding that knife), place my chin in my hand and smirk. I know it's a smirk, I've been told so. “I was wondering, Doctor, if you would have a meal with me.”
This time she laughs and turns away from me again, shaking her head from side to side as though she can't believe I just said that. I've only been asking her once a day for a week, you would think she'd be used to it by now. “There are many rules regarding a Doctor's relationship with her patient.”
What kind of answer is that? “Rules are made to be broken, you know.”
Still with her back to me, she shakes her head again, her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug I can't quite see properly beneath that oversized lab coat of hers that hangs from her like a sheet from a coat hanger. Not that I'm saying she's skinny or anything. More like, just right. “Captain Olenov-”
“Arkadiy.”
“-Captain Olenov, you have asked me that question non-stop for a week now.”
Well, at least she noticed.
“And,” she continues, “I keep telling you that I cannot, but you will persist in asking me. Why can you not anticipate the answer?” She's turned to me now, large brown eyes filled with reproach behind those rectangular glasses she wears – I didn't used to like girls with glasses, but she's just too cute to ignore. I'm one track minded about these things. You might have guessed. “Surely you could expect my response after a week?”
I close my eyes. I have to; I can't bear those sad eyes boring into my soul. “Just because I expect it, doesn't mean I want to hear it.”
“And you think perhaps that the more you ask, the more likely I am to agree?” Now she just sounds unimpressed, and I think that maybe, just maybe, that's worse. The reproachful look has turned into something quite annoyed and she's still holding that Big Damn Knife and, you know, the stuff she's been doing with that knife has – quite rightly, I think – made me pretty nervous of it.
So I sit there and stare down at those legs that aren't mine, and I can only be honest. “Yes.”
My God, for a second there I think she's going to skewer and dissect me with that Big Damn Knife and there's a real look of anger in her eyes. She looks... probably more dangerous than I've ever seen her before and I think I can see now how she survived all those battlefields. Then she sighs and it's like all the anger just drains from her, although God only knows where it's going – maybe into that bucket – and she stares at me long and hard, enough to make me squirm like some naughty little schoolboy caught in the gaze of his most revered teacher. “Arkadiy, you should learn that the expected answer is expected for a reason. That it will not happen.”
I'm about to yell “you used my name!” because, well, it's taken as long as I've been asking her out and longer, but another piercing brown glare pins me in place (metaphorically speaking). I've not felt like this in years – being told off – and I really don't know if it's a good or a bad thing. So I'm back to staring at these legs and kind of wishing I could apologise, stand up and walk off, except if I tried to stand up I'd just fall off the bed and that would be even more humiliating than this is, with the added amusement of possibly breaking an arm or two on the way. I want to speak but the words feel stuck, hanging around at the back of my dry throat. “I'm... sorry.”
She shakes her head again and pushes her glasses further up her nose with the hand still clutching the knife – one of the most nerve-wracking moments of the week! I'd got mental images of her accidentally slicing herself open in that one gesture – and turns away from me again to put down the knife. I can tell without even needing to see, it makes such a distinct metallic clink as the blade meets the ceramic surface. It's a sound I know well these days. “Captain Olenov-”
“Not again...”
“-Captain Olenov,” such a long-suffering tone, “if you can keep from your flirtatious persistence-”
“That's the first time I've heard it called that.”
“-persistence and rein yourself in, we will probably get along perfectly well.”
For a minute there's silence between us, until I say slowly, “wouldn't 'persistent flirtatiousness' sound better?”
It's a very impressive sound of annoyance she makes as she flings her hands into the air (I'm so glad she'd put down that knife) and turns on her heel. Award-worthy, I'd say; it makes me wonder what she sounds like in bed, before I quash the thought. God, if I accidentally said that I've got no doubt that knife would find its way into my chest.
“Captain Olenov,” she sighs, busying herself with something at the far end of the room, far far from me and these damned legs now, “if you do not learn to behave, when I activate your legs I will ensure you get a nasty electric shock.”
I smile and stare down at these black and white monstrosities and wish with all my being that I could stand up and walk away. When she turns back to me she's holding a damn screwdriver and we both smile, but there's this heavy, unwanted feeling in my heart.
And she did gave me that electric shock anyway.
Word Count: 1459
Summary: Arkadiy's persistence gets him nowhere with Doctor Lebedeva... again.
Notes: Originally written on the 22nd February 2008, apparently, as a NaNoWriMo prompt.
I'm sitting here and staring down at my legs. Technically they're my legs, anyway – very technically. You can't get more technical than a robotic, metallic pair of legs nailed, stapled and hammered onto your lower torso and hips, when you think about it. I'm staring and waiting for the current, as currently (get it?) these legs aren't actually doing anything.
Very frustrating.
The girl – scientist, actually; doctor in fact – smiles at me, all big brown eyes and stark white lab coat, and she's really very cute but you can't really flirt with a girl when you're half naked and a large amount of your blood is hanging around in a bucket beneath your left thigh – or not my left thigh, whichever you'd prefer. I really do wish I could kick that bucket away, but she'd tell me off and I don't want to make that pretty face frown. (I'm going to pretend that kicking it would be viable, even though my legs still don't move and haven't moved for a week, longer in fact, since the accident that removed them.)
She's also quite handy with a scalpel, and that's the other reason I would prefer not to annoy her. “Come now, Captain Olenov-”
“Arkadiy.”
“-Captain Olenov,” she repeats firmly, giving me a reproving glance – damn, she's seen through my ruse already – “you shouldn't pout so at me.”
“I'm not pouting,” I pout, hoping she happens to like men with big blue puppy-eyes. “I'm not even sulking.”
“Why would you sulk?” She turns her back to me, busying herself with a tray. Whatever is in it is obscured by her body; I hope to God it's not anything disgusting that used to belong to my lower half. “Have I done something to upset you?”
You know, even when she turns on the sadness, I can spot the smile in her voice a mile off. “Nothing really. You only hacked both my legs off.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, a beautiful smile lighting up her face. Damn but that girl can be so morbid at times. She finds humour in the most macabre things, so I suppose it's no wonder she became a Forces surgeon – not that she will talk to me about those days when she used to repair wounded units on the battlefields on as many planets as years to her name. Each time she tells me, “it's not something you should concern yourself with; you should be concentrating on your surgery!” in a sing-song, light hearted voice that I can see so clearly never reaches her eyes.
I must be looking at her strangely because she turns around fully, wiping a terrifyingly sharp knife on a clean but clearly old cloth, raising one eyebrow at me. “Is there something you want to ask me, Captain Olenov?”
I lean forwards, resting one elbow on the black and white leg glued onto me like a badly repaired child's toy (not that I would criticise her work, no. And especially not with her holding that knife), place my chin in my hand and smirk. I know it's a smirk, I've been told so. “I was wondering, Doctor, if you would have a meal with me.”
This time she laughs and turns away from me again, shaking her head from side to side as though she can't believe I just said that. I've only been asking her once a day for a week, you would think she'd be used to it by now. “There are many rules regarding a Doctor's relationship with her patient.”
What kind of answer is that? “Rules are made to be broken, you know.”
Still with her back to me, she shakes her head again, her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug I can't quite see properly beneath that oversized lab coat of hers that hangs from her like a sheet from a coat hanger. Not that I'm saying she's skinny or anything. More like, just right. “Captain Olenov-”
“Arkadiy.”
“-Captain Olenov, you have asked me that question non-stop for a week now.”
Well, at least she noticed.
“And,” she continues, “I keep telling you that I cannot, but you will persist in asking me. Why can you not anticipate the answer?” She's turned to me now, large brown eyes filled with reproach behind those rectangular glasses she wears – I didn't used to like girls with glasses, but she's just too cute to ignore. I'm one track minded about these things. You might have guessed. “Surely you could expect my response after a week?”
I close my eyes. I have to; I can't bear those sad eyes boring into my soul. “Just because I expect it, doesn't mean I want to hear it.”
“And you think perhaps that the more you ask, the more likely I am to agree?” Now she just sounds unimpressed, and I think that maybe, just maybe, that's worse. The reproachful look has turned into something quite annoyed and she's still holding that Big Damn Knife and, you know, the stuff she's been doing with that knife has – quite rightly, I think – made me pretty nervous of it.
So I sit there and stare down at those legs that aren't mine, and I can only be honest. “Yes.”
My God, for a second there I think she's going to skewer and dissect me with that Big Damn Knife and there's a real look of anger in her eyes. She looks... probably more dangerous than I've ever seen her before and I think I can see now how she survived all those battlefields. Then she sighs and it's like all the anger just drains from her, although God only knows where it's going – maybe into that bucket – and she stares at me long and hard, enough to make me squirm like some naughty little schoolboy caught in the gaze of his most revered teacher. “Arkadiy, you should learn that the expected answer is expected for a reason. That it will not happen.”
I'm about to yell “you used my name!” because, well, it's taken as long as I've been asking her out and longer, but another piercing brown glare pins me in place (metaphorically speaking). I've not felt like this in years – being told off – and I really don't know if it's a good or a bad thing. So I'm back to staring at these legs and kind of wishing I could apologise, stand up and walk off, except if I tried to stand up I'd just fall off the bed and that would be even more humiliating than this is, with the added amusement of possibly breaking an arm or two on the way. I want to speak but the words feel stuck, hanging around at the back of my dry throat. “I'm... sorry.”
She shakes her head again and pushes her glasses further up her nose with the hand still clutching the knife – one of the most nerve-wracking moments of the week! I'd got mental images of her accidentally slicing herself open in that one gesture – and turns away from me again to put down the knife. I can tell without even needing to see, it makes such a distinct metallic clink as the blade meets the ceramic surface. It's a sound I know well these days. “Captain Olenov-”
“Not again...”
“-Captain Olenov,” such a long-suffering tone, “if you can keep from your flirtatious persistence-”
“That's the first time I've heard it called that.”
“-persistence and rein yourself in, we will probably get along perfectly well.”
For a minute there's silence between us, until I say slowly, “wouldn't 'persistent flirtatiousness' sound better?”
It's a very impressive sound of annoyance she makes as she flings her hands into the air (I'm so glad she'd put down that knife) and turns on her heel. Award-worthy, I'd say; it makes me wonder what she sounds like in bed, before I quash the thought. God, if I accidentally said that I've got no doubt that knife would find its way into my chest.
“Captain Olenov,” she sighs, busying herself with something at the far end of the room, far far from me and these damned legs now, “if you do not learn to behave, when I activate your legs I will ensure you get a nasty electric shock.”
I smile and stare down at these black and white monstrosities and wish with all my being that I could stand up and walk away. When she turns back to me she's holding a damn screwdriver and we both smile, but there's this heavy, unwanted feeling in my heart.
And she did gave me that electric shock anyway.