Harold had fled after his disaster with Ensign Spottacus, jogging in a random direction. Thank god she hadn't followed. He felt geniunely sorry about it, he did, but he just couldn't stomache it.
No idea where he was and not even sure the PADD in his back pocket would work off-ship if he did need help, he'd taken to wandering the tourist shops.
Turns out, asshole shopkeepers didn't like it very much if you manhandled their stuff but had no money.
Lost, angry and still actually wearing the rumpled clothes he'd slept in, he headed toward the waterfront.
He thought he might be going crazy when he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd. He latched onto the thought, desperate for something familiar.
Despite feeling like he had no particular right to it, the name still pulled him up in his walk towards the docks. He knew that voice, and looked around until he spotted a somewhat ragged-looking Harold; his expression softened a little, and he stepped back to the quieter edge of the boardwalk so the other fellow could catch up.
Harold jogged to catch up, and the knot in his stomach unwound slightly. As much as he couldn't deal with Spottacus, he didn't actually want to be alone. He couldn't take a crying woman at the best of times.
Scotty was the furthest thing from a crying woman he could think of, and a friendly face to boot.
"Will ye stop doin' that?" It wasn't a frustrated statement, more... somewhat good-natured exasperation. "Stop thankin' me." And he eyed the other man's somewhat disheveled appearance, eyebrows drawn a bit. "Ye a'right?"
It was a hell of a question. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking.
"Uh- The thing about me, dude, is that when shit happens to me, it's never-- one thing. It comes in waves," he laughed, shaking his head. "I'm used to it. I'll be okay. Thanks for asking, though."
He raised his eyebrows, taking in his friend. "What about you? What's all that for?" he asked, gesturing at items Scotty held.
Waves. That was a good way of putting it. He just grinned a little wryly at being thanked again, then looked down at the toolkit he was carrying and at the bundle of clothes under one arm. "Work. Gonna see 'bout earnin' some credits down on the docks; maybe enough for dinner, an' if I get some good tippers and dinna get thrown behind bars for workin' without papers, enough for a place to sleep t'night."
Harold was not a hard labor sort of guy, usually. His parents' expectations were not at all the only reason he'd become an investment banker.
Still, working with Scotty before had been a odd sort of satisfying. Made him feel useful; give a little back to the crew he'd taken so much from.
Presented with the idea again, he was surprised to find himself not at all put off. That, and he could use some money himself. He wanted to get good and shitfaced later, and there's no way that was happening for free. No way he was hot enough to get free drinks from random bar guys.
"Uh- do you think they could use two sets of hands?" he asked, feeling strangely shy.
"Aye, why not? Ye're a good hand." He used his head to gesture towards the docks he'd been aiming for. "I mean, I canna make any promises, 'cause I'll have t' get a lay o' the land, as it were, but it wouldna be the first time I've gone an' worked under the table. So, we might get lucky."
No idea where he was and not even sure the PADD in his back pocket would work off-ship if he did need help, he'd taken to wandering the tourist shops.
Turns out, asshole shopkeepers didn't like it very much if you manhandled their stuff but had no money.
Lost, angry and still actually wearing the rumpled clothes he'd slept in, he headed toward the waterfront.
He thought he might be going crazy when he caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd. He latched onto the thought, desperate for something familiar.
"--Scotty?"
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Harold jogged to catch up, and the knot in his stomach unwound slightly. As much as he couldn't deal with Spottacus, he didn't actually want to be alone. He couldn't take a crying woman at the best of times.
Scotty was the furthest thing from a crying woman he could think of, and a friendly face to boot.
"I meant to thank you again."
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It was a hell of a question. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before speaking.
"Uh- The thing about me, dude, is that when shit happens to me, it's never-- one thing. It comes in waves," he laughed, shaking his head. "I'm used to it. I'll be okay. Thanks for asking, though."
He raised his eyebrows, taking in his friend. "What about you? What's all that for?" he asked, gesturing at items Scotty held.
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Harold was not a hard labor sort of guy, usually. His parents' expectations were not at all the only reason he'd become an investment banker.
Still, working with Scotty before had been a odd sort of satisfying. Made him feel useful; give a little back to the crew he'd taken so much from.
Presented with the idea again, he was surprised to find himself not at all put off. That, and he could use some money himself. He wanted to get good and shitfaced later, and there's no way that was happening for free. No way he was hot enough to get free drinks from random bar guys.
"Uh- do you think they could use two sets of hands?" he asked, feeling strangely shy.
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He gave a little half-grin. "No promises is fine. Good, actually. Perfect."
The fracture in his soul pained him deeply still, but in following Scotty, he could muffle it for a time. Thanks.
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