Before the Pacific - [Day 6, Risa, Morning]

[allmhadadh]

He half-slept, something between dream and reality; a restless doze, where he would stir himself awake just to make sure he was still breathing.  And then, confirmed, in the rain tapering to a sprinkle, then a mist, then the clear and clean and hazy scent left afterwards, he would drift back into that half-asleep state again. It wasn't that bad, really.  It hurt, but it wasn't that bad.  He knew he wasn't in any mortal danger from injury, just beaten.

He drifted there, in that place, breath shallow to avoid making the pain flare across his left side.  Counted himself lucky that all of the hurt was on the left, and he could lay on the right.  A matter of fact thought, like most of his waking thoughts.  His dozing thoughts were less settled; fragments and pieces and when he woke up to see the suns rising, he realized all over again that he was far more afraid of leaving this place than he was of any number of beatings.


It wasn't that he liked Risa.  He just wanted to have room to run.  He could not stand that sensation of being cornered and pinned; a good kicking had reminded him of why.  Here, he could go back to some quiet spot that was his own, and curl around his wounds.  There, there was no room to run.

He had chosen to go into Starfleet, and the restrictions placed on his time and movements both had not bothered him.  He had gone in fully prepared to sacrifice his freedom for his goals.  And when he got some freedom back, he took it and ran hard with it; ran to the edge of the Pacific itself, and then ran right into it, too.  A moment of impulse, of outward and open defiance.

And when he crawled out of the waves he'd been battling against, cold and soaked and facing a very long hike back to the Academy, he'd rested on his elbows in the sand and laughed.  Just laughed, hard, maybe a little unstable.  Laughed until he practically put himself in tears.  When he'd dragged himself back up, to go back, something in him felt better; like he'd figured something quiet out, that he had not known before.

Now he came back before the Pacific; a half-drifting dream where he didn't run past the edge of the world.  And now, he felt all over again all he'd really lost; in that restless, painful half-sleep, he could only draw the tattered old pieces around him that were left; that he was still breathing, and that he was still unbroken.

He woke up that time to low orange suns and staggered down to the water's edge, trying in vain to clean himself up a bit.  His face was pretty bad; he could feel it.  His head, too.  Most worrisome was that he felt shaky and dizzy; blood loss, probably, now not countered by adrenaline.  Not fatal, not even desperately painful.  Just worrisome.  He knew he couldn't climb back up again, though he also knew he wasn't going to die before...

He tried to clean himself up, then retreated back up to his spot, which was slowly being warmed by the suns.  He would miss this spot, and the pain he felt from that knowledge was far worse than his face.  Not because he liked Risa.  Just because he could understand this, living under a place where people walked and played and ate and talked above, removed some from it and therefore safe from it. 

He half-drifted again, trying to order chaotic thoughts.  He wondered why he had agreed to go.  Why he had ever allowed that other Scott to have that kind of power over him; that the idea of causing sorrow was enough to make him give up his running room.  He didn't even know the man, aside for just over a week; he didn't know how much of any of what was said was true.  He knew the other Scott believed it was true, but Scotty knew well that believing something didn't necessarily make it real.  And now, he was giving up his freedom again.

He just wasn't so sure it was his choice this time.

The suns were higher; still breathing, still unbroken.  He reached out gingerly and dragged his shell over, looking into the pinks and blues and purples and oranges that made it beautiful.  He tried to make sense of it all.  He didn't feel sorry for himself; it wouldn't change anything.  Just felt resigned, and tired.  To him, there was no certain future, no faith, no hope.  It wasn't a bad thing, really.  No more than getting a beating was a bad thing.  It was just the way things were; facts, immutable.

He sent a message to the other Scott with his PADD, not getting up to do it, just like he had signed his application for Command School.  And then, he went back to half-dreaming, half-waking.

Before the Pacific.

Comments

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

It was a comforting blip on his PADD that led Harold to Scotty's spot on the beach.


Heh. He just kept coming back, didn't he? Harold was still very much a predictable creature. Still, this wasn't one of the patterns he wanted to break. This was Scotty and he was more than all right with the desire to find him.

Shit. Scotty looked-- pretty fucking hurt. Worse off than Harold was, certainly. The thought gave him a twist of anger, anguish, sympathy. Who would hurt someone as fucking-- well, good as this man?


He fought off the urge to vomit, as well as the pull to reach out, wake Scotty, ask him ten thousand questions. He could see Scotty was breathing, and there were signs of movement in the sand; he wasn't dead or dying.

Instead, Harold settled in the sand, cross-legged, and watched.

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

He wasn't really asleep enough to miss Harold climbing down the support strut, but he didn't quite process it very well, either. Just looked long enough to recognize Harold's shape, then went back to resting. Wasn't sure why he went that route. It finally filtered through his head that it probably wasn't the best course of action, and he looked up at Harold without actually getting up. "H'lo."

Not brilliant conversation, that.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

"Hi," he whispered, a bit choked up. He had several kinds of protective urges welling up, wanting to reach out, give contact; but that just wasn't Scotty's way. Harold had learned that much.

He dug his hand into the sand in front of him, between them.

"Sorry I woke you. You okay?"

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"Bit sore." Scotty pushed himself up to sit, not quite able to hold back a wince at the action. He hadn't chanced a look at his side, but he was pretty sure he knew it'd be colorful. He frowned a bit, reaching out with the right hand to push Harold's bangs up and eye the wicked bruise, a slow and carefully non-threatening gesture, then sat back again. "Nae th' only one, apparently. Who did that t' ye?"

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Harold's eyes fluttered closed at the touch.

He was beginning to thrive on human contact, he thought. Both fleeting and lingering touches from the people he'd met throughout his past few days had built a tapestry in Harold's mind, lending him something of an emotional safety net.

There was no sexuality in it. That was good. Actually, that was amazing. Harold added that strand to his tapestry.

He sighed when the hand was pulled away. "Ghost of bar fights past, my friend. We have terrible luck, don't we, dude?"

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"Aye." He chuckled for a second until he realized that it wasn't all that pleasant to do so. And, not really having anything he could think to add after that, he just said, "Aye," again.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Harold swiped a hand over his own face, rubbing his eye, stars appearing in the blackness behind his eyelids. He laughed, too, long since used to the shooting pain it gave him. Same one he'd had since George.

"Man," he said, motioning to his own face. "I've got the shit kicked out of me just about every day now, one way or another, yeah? But-- I still don't want Risa to end. How fucked up is that?"

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"It's nae." He goes to picking up handfuls of sand, then letting them filter out of his hand like an hour-glass. "I dinna want t' go either."

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

He nodded, taking that in. Harold hoped he didn't mean--



"Still. Don't know what's coming. Kinda like that, too. A weird kind of freedom in that. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know, I'm talking out of my ass, don't even mind me, man." He fell back, laughing. The sand was soft, but it still fucking hurt, and he groaned, even through a giggle.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

The nod was all he needed. Heard, accepted, understood. Perfect.

Harold patted Scotty on the shoulder, as softly as he could so as not to jar him. He pulled off a chunk of the pie and ate it, grinning.

Oh, he was still angry. If he ever found the bastards who did this, he'd ram his pool cue in a few choice orifices. Sideways. But he got the feeling Scotty wouldn't tell him who it was, and even if he did, he'd never actually want Harold to do such a thing.

So he ate. Scotty was here, beside him, and he'd fucking take it.

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

After he made sure his head wasn't bleeding anymore, he went to eat himself, chewing slowly and very carefully to make it as painless as possible. Just ate and stared off to sea, a kind of tired and sad look. He didn't know when they were leaving yet, and he hadn't thought to ask Harold; his brain was all tangled up, and it just didn't occur to him.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

He downed what he wanted of the pie, washing it back with the water. He eased himself back into the sand this time, leaving Scotty sitting up, hoping he wasn't too close. Didn't want to move again for a while.

He put is hand back out - seemed right, he didn't know why - and closed his eyes. There was several things he wished he could tell Scotty, but he didn't really know how, or if Scotty would want to know. He settled on, "It fucking hurts, man."

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"Which part?" He didn't want to go assuming which part; he could guess a few, but likely not all.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Huh. Harold wasn't entirely sure what he'd meant when he said. It was just sort of - something to share.

He'd try.

"My head, mostly. Ribs, too. But it wasn't really that. Just sort of hurts to think about going back, or going forward. Too much to think about. Doesn't make any sense, sorry."

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"S'a'right." He looked off, then picked up his little shell, looking down at it. "I could stay 'ere. Live right 'ere, under this thing. Figure out some way o' livin'." It was the thoughts an eight year old would have; the notion of living like Robinson Crusoe, or Peter Pan, or whatever; childish thoughts. Even he knew they were. He just forgot, all too often, that he was only ten years removed from that and not far older. "I dinna wanna leave."

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

"Heh. We could camp out under this pier until we die, man." He smiled a little at that. Wouldn't be so bad, would it? Wouldn't have to worry about mooching off of a ship he didn't belong on, and off of a relationship he sometimes thought he didn't belong in.

"But-- you know, you're wanted, right? At least--" Aw, shit, he sounded like a girl again. "I don't want you to stay here, okay?"

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

"'M nae stayin' here." And that thought again gave him a spike of genuine sorrow. "I told th' other one I'd go. So, I'll go." He wouldn't go back on his word.

Evening

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

There was very little to be said during the time under the pier; the day wore on in dozing and silence, and evening approached. Harold was the one that suggest they go eat, and Scotty figured he'd give climbing out from under the pier a try. It wasn't easy, and his head was spinning pretty well by the time he got to the top of the support strut, but he made it without falling.

They only had five credits between them, but a couple snack bars wouldn't cost that much, and a meat pie could be breakfast tomorrow.

So, both moving gingerly and slowly, and trying to ignore the various looks at their beat up faces and bodies, they hit the streets.

Re: Evening

[kirktastic.livejournal.com]

Kirk already had a few bags under his arms as he walked down along the streets of Risa's infamous shopping district, wanting this whole bit to be over but knowing he had just one very important stop left.

So it was a pretty big surprise when he saw Harold and... something was ticking at him, that the person he was with looked familiar.

And... why the fuck did they look beat to shit?!

"Oi!" Kirk called out, waving a ha--bag at them. "Harold!"

Re: Evening

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Harold spun on his heel. Bad idea. Every muscle in him protested.


Hoshit, the captain.

Captain Kirk was somewhat less intimidating with an arm full of shopping, but only somewhat.

"Yo," he called back, trying to sound casual.

Re: Evening

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

Scotty stopped himself when Harold's name was called, and found the source fairly fast. He blinked once, then dropped his voice to Harold. "Who's that?"

Re: Evening

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

"That, my friend," he drawled, resigned, "is the Captain of our adopted home."

Harold smoothed his clothes as best he could. Nothing to be done for the sand, though. "Here goes nothing."

Re: Evening

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

Scotty blinked once more, then straightened up to near attention... good as one can with bruised ribs. He clasped his hands behind his back with a small wince, then looked at the... he was rather young, wasn't he? An appraising look, though not cold. Just curious.

Re: Evening

[kirktastic.livejournal.com]

They got the ass end of an ass whooping. Kirk thought, but put on a small grin.

He walked up to them, trying to figure out why the other looked familiar. He grinned to Harold, shifting in place. "Haven't gotten to see you since we ended up off the ship." He said easily, in a good mood

Re: Evening

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Well, what the hell should he say to that?

This was Hikaru's CO. Vacation or not, he couldn't fuck this up.


Heh. At least Kirk hadn't called him Sulu.

"Sorry," he said. It was all he could think of. "Um. How you been?" Nervously, he scratched his head-- bad idea. He winced.