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

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

It was more like a gouge than a gash, but the swelling and color probably made it look pretty damn permanent. He blinked at Harold for a moment, not really all that sure about being able to hold still with someone touching his face like that -- well, obviously not counting being snogged in a lake, but he was pretty stoned at the time -- and then nodded. He wouldn't be able to use his left hand like that, and it was awfully hard to clean something like that with only one hand. "I... guess. I tried cleanin' it up, but..." He gestured, right-handed, a nervous motion. He didn't want any bandages, but having it cleaned properly would probably be wise.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Harold crawled across the sand, not keen on standing again. He scooted up beside Scotty and popped open a water bottle. Wetting one of his bandages, he swiped carefully with it, desperate not to cause any further pain.

The disinfectant would be another matter, however.

He splayed fingers softly over the outside of the wound, brushing away the remaining sand. Picking up the disinfectant, he motioned with it, giving Scotty a sympathetic frown.

"Sorry, man. This is going to suck."

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

Sitting still sucked; it took all he had not to flinch and jerk away, and not really from pain, even if it did hurt like a bitch. Even then, he still had his eyes squeezed closed through most of it. "S'a'right."

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

The disinfectant was a nasty shade of lurid pink. He poured it liberally onto the bandage, some of it spilling, landing in the sand and beading there.

"Sorry," he whispered, repeating himself. It hurt Harold to do it, but he pressed the cloth gently into Scotty's wound and held on for a reaction.

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

He took it fairly well; sure, he was tense all through, head to foot, and hissed a sharp breath in, but he didn't jerk away or swing a fist. Just held still, breathing light and fast through his teeth until the sharp stinging sensation started to fade to something not quite so breath-taking.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

He was shushing. Harold could feel the stupid, comforting, ill-advised noise leaving his mouth and clamped it back as best he could.



Satisfied he'd covered the wound, he pulled the bandage back. "Anywhere else?" he asked as casually as he could manage. It hurt him, badly, to cause Scotty pain.

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

It took Scotty a few moments to calm back down -- whether from the sting or from the sheer tension of letting someone up close on his face like that was unknown, even to him -- and he almost wanted to just collapse in the sand. His head was ringing a little again, making him dizzy, but after he managed to get his breathing under control, it faded.

Honestly, he wanted to say no pretty bad, but after a moment, he gestured up to his head, just above the left temple. The dockworker had given him a pretty good gouge in the head, too; he'd washed most of the blood out of his hair, and he knew having it cleaned would make it bleed again, but if it came down between that and an infection settling in, there wasn't much of a competition.

"Sorry." He figured this wasn't a whole lot of fun for Harold, either.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

"Don't be, I'm happy to help."

Harold repeated the grueling process over the other wound, and when the blood came, Harold teared up. Too good a man to have this happen to you. Assholes. Fucking- assholes. I'd kill them all.

He rolled his eyes up to push it back - old trick his dad had taught him. He tried to believe that it worked, then.

When the disinfectant hit, he sort of hoped Scotty would punch him, if only so he could share a little in the pain.

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

He was a little less twitchy about having his head touched than his face; it still hurt, but that was more from the goose-egg than the cut itself. So, he held still, and again hissed a breath when that damned sting hit, but he didn't go decking Harold or anything. "Nae exactly th' best way t' spend an' afternoon, aye?" He asked it through unparted teeth, but with a dry sort of amusement.

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

Sniffing and biting back his anguish, he gave Scotty his best friendly grin. He put the bandage down and risked a soft touch to Scotty's hair, restoring it to its proper position.

He plucked the meat pie from their makeshift picnic blanket and handed it to him with a smile. "It has upsides, yeah?"

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

He picked up a clean bit of the bandage material and managed to hold it over the knot pretty hard, just to make really sure that it wouldn't bleed any more. And just gestured lightly with the left hand to set the pie down; he'd get to it. "Aye... it does."

[haroldlee.livejournal.com]

A genuine smile, this time. Open and grateful.


"Just gonna throw this out there, okay? Take it however you want," he muttered, pinching some sand and allowing it to trickle from his fingers. "You're just about the best friend I've got right now. I've known you for like a week. This is- new. Strange, dude. Good, though."

[allmhadadh.livejournal.com]

He listened, though he wasn't sure what he could say to that. Not because he didn't want to, but yet again, for the millionth time since being dropped into the universe, he just didn't know how. So, after a moment he nodded, as well as he could in that position physically.