Before the Anvil Falls - [Crew Laundry, Deck 14]
The night watches on the Enterprise were surprisingly quiet, and that had left Scotty to mostly work unaccosted and uninterrupted. It was a bit more tricky without some kind of repair list, but he'd kept himself busy. All the minor, silly things that weren't critical. Well, and shower sabotage, but that was more for the sake of principle than anything else. He had a lot of issues with doctors, but he had even more of an issue with Harold's acceptance that what McCoy threatened was remotely acceptable. If someone would have threatened him like that, he probably would have tried to tear their throat out.
And likewise would not have realized that he did until it was too late.
He shook off the disturbed threads of his own mind while he worked, almost literally, but when the work was done and he'd about run out of things to do, they descended again inevitably. Now that danger wasn't quite so immediate (real or perceived), he found himself back to the scramble of moments and minutes and trying to process the universe and battle it all at the same time. The moments where he was all right, he was genuinely so; the moments where he wasn't, he really wasn't. He was used to living like that, in singular periods of time. To others, it made him mercurial and unpredictable -- wild -- and to him it was just the way life was. He never had known anything else.
He had worked all night, and when the night was over, he'd stopped back in his quarters. He had missed the message meant for him, not being near any terminals, and being so turned inward. Harold was still there, fitfully asleep; Scotty didn't have the heart to wake him up. He could have the quarters, for all Scotty cared about them himself.
He gathered his clothes, slowly, falling into long moments of motionlessness -- falling still outside, scrambling mentally inside -- then managed to drag his head together enough to go do laundry. He had to return the other Scott's clothes, then he would really be scores-even with the universe. And he'd never conceive of sending them back dirty.
The clothes he wore now smelled worryingly familiar, and though they were a little big, they fit fairly comfortably, too. Black t-shirt, black trousers, black socks, black boots. He almost felt like a cadet for a few minutes when he'd gotten dressed, absent the gray, high-collared over-shirt, but then it just faded away again. He didn't know what he was anymore.
He found the most out of the way laundry room he could, deep in the ship, near guaranteed to be empty. He didn't know he was following the instinctive tracks of his older self, the original he was a reflection of; that the both of them, in quiet and more gentle ways, sought out mechanics, even noise and warmth when they wanted some outward comfort to combat inner turmoil.
He didn't know; it would have leveled him if he did.
He just put the clothes in, then nestled himself in between the washer and the back wall, curling his arms against his stomach and drawing his knees up to be as invisible and insular as possible.
Always fighting for his peace.
And likewise would not have realized that he did until it was too late.
He shook off the disturbed threads of his own mind while he worked, almost literally, but when the work was done and he'd about run out of things to do, they descended again inevitably. Now that danger wasn't quite so immediate (real or perceived), he found himself back to the scramble of moments and minutes and trying to process the universe and battle it all at the same time. The moments where he was all right, he was genuinely so; the moments where he wasn't, he really wasn't. He was used to living like that, in singular periods of time. To others, it made him mercurial and unpredictable -- wild -- and to him it was just the way life was. He never had known anything else.
He had worked all night, and when the night was over, he'd stopped back in his quarters. He had missed the message meant for him, not being near any terminals, and being so turned inward. Harold was still there, fitfully asleep; Scotty didn't have the heart to wake him up. He could have the quarters, for all Scotty cared about them himself.
He gathered his clothes, slowly, falling into long moments of motionlessness -- falling still outside, scrambling mentally inside -- then managed to drag his head together enough to go do laundry. He had to return the other Scott's clothes, then he would really be scores-even with the universe. And he'd never conceive of sending them back dirty.
The clothes he wore now smelled worryingly familiar, and though they were a little big, they fit fairly comfortably, too. Black t-shirt, black trousers, black socks, black boots. He almost felt like a cadet for a few minutes when he'd gotten dressed, absent the gray, high-collared over-shirt, but then it just faded away again. He didn't know what he was anymore.
He found the most out of the way laundry room he could, deep in the ship, near guaranteed to be empty. He didn't know he was following the instinctive tracks of his older self, the original he was a reflection of; that the both of them, in quiet and more gentle ways, sought out mechanics, even noise and warmth when they wanted some outward comfort to combat inner turmoil.
He didn't know; it would have leveled him if he did.
He just put the clothes in, then nestled himself in between the washer and the back wall, curling his arms against his stomach and drawing his knees up to be as invisible and insular as possible.
Always fighting for his peace.