Sleeping in a car seat wasn't probably the best chiropractic move, but Scotty was used to sleeping in about every non-standard place or position possible. He knew that, too; it was why his PADD was set to wake him up in time to go and get a shower in his quarters, and then report to the morning shift in the galley.
He pried his eyes open when the steady, annoying beeping permeated his sleep, then sat forward with a coffeeless, zombie-like groan for a moment, scrubbing his eyes. He dragged the PADD over and turned off the alarm; checked for messages and found none. Back to the daily grind.
But ultimately, his dreams had been pleasant for what few he had; open road, sunlight, the rumble of a gasoline powered motor and that completely incomparable thrill of opening up the carburetor and running. Some road that he guessed almost had to be in North America, given the long broad flat and wheat fields on either side; some vague visual fragment left over from books or postcards long forgotten to the conscious mind, but that seemed to fit handsomely with this car in the subconscious.
Far cry from here. He was pretty grateful for it.
He gathered up his papers and PADD, then kissed the top of the steering wheel in a moment of juvenile, impulsive affection. "Thanks, lass. I'll see ye after work."
The driver's side door seemed to protest when he climbed out of the car. He made a note to find some oil for those hinges, and maybe clean them up a bit. She wasn't his, but that didn't mean he couldn't sneak some maintenance in while he was here as repayment for the one spot on this ship where he felt some quiet stirring of hope.
no subject
He pried his eyes open when the steady, annoying beeping permeated his sleep, then sat forward with a coffeeless, zombie-like groan for a moment, scrubbing his eyes. He dragged the PADD over and turned off the alarm; checked for messages and found none. Back to the daily grind.
But ultimately, his dreams had been pleasant for what few he had; open road, sunlight, the rumble of a gasoline powered motor and that completely incomparable thrill of opening up the carburetor and running. Some road that he guessed almost had to be in North America, given the long broad flat and wheat fields on either side; some vague visual fragment left over from books or postcards long forgotten to the conscious mind, but that seemed to fit handsomely with this car in the subconscious.
Far cry from here. He was pretty grateful for it.
He gathered up his papers and PADD, then kissed the top of the steering wheel in a moment of juvenile, impulsive affection. "Thanks, lass. I'll see ye after work."
The driver's side door seemed to protest when he climbed out of the car. He made a note to find some oil for those hinges, and maybe clean them up a bit. She wasn't his, but that didn't mean he couldn't sneak some maintenance in while he was here as repayment for the one spot on this ship where he felt some quiet stirring of hope.