allmhadadh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allmhadadh) wrote2009-09-01 09:58 pm
allmhadadh) wrote2009-09-01 09:58 pm
Entry tags:
Concepts - [New Enterprise, Riviera]
After a bit of very helpful advice from Commander Spock, Scotty headed onto his tech shift in Engineering. Of course, today it meant the same thing as yesterday: That there wasn't anything to be done aboard a ship that's just out of drydock. And that Riley (the native) gave him the same orders as before; namely speaking, to familiarize himself with the ship. He figured that he could do that at the same time he worked on the intuitive shielding concept.
Needless to say, sleep was something Scotty hadn't been spending a lot of time on. He sat with the Buick for his four hours, and then he came back after a bite of dinner to sit for a few more, working away with the light of a PADD and the steady scratch of pen on paper. He talked half to himself, half to the Riviera; occasional commentary on the differences between designs of the original Constitution-class and the new one here, sometimes just random notions that came to mind. When he was doing something that didn't require much thought, like copying numbers down, he hummed Welsh lullabies.
However, given that sleep wasn't something he was spending enough time on, and given that the Riviera was about the closest place he had to his own -- even belonging to someone else -- he ended up drifting off in the driver's seat, head back, eyes closed. Back to dreaming of the road.
Needless to say, sleep was something Scotty hadn't been spending a lot of time on. He sat with the Buick for his four hours, and then he came back after a bite of dinner to sit for a few more, working away with the light of a PADD and the steady scratch of pen on paper. He talked half to himself, half to the Riviera; occasional commentary on the differences between designs of the original Constitution-class and the new one here, sometimes just random notions that came to mind. When he was doing something that didn't require much thought, like copying numbers down, he hummed Welsh lullabies.
However, given that sleep wasn't something he was spending enough time on, and given that the Riviera was about the closest place he had to his own -- even belonging to someone else -- he ended up drifting off in the driver's seat, head back, eyes closed. Back to dreaming of the road.
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A different sort of sad from its other human, Leonard. There had been a tension there, something hanging between Leonard and Bill that the Buick had been able to fix. Or at least help along. It didn't know if it had succeeded, because it had been a long time since it had seen them. It wasn't sure how long, because there weren't any windows, and no routine to give it scale.
But Montgomery Scott was sad in a lost sort of way, and the Buick didn't know how to help him. He did not need what Leonard and Bill needed. He needed someplace to go. It tried to be what it could for him, but without road, without wind, it didn't know what to do but sit and be there for him and that was something it had to do anyway. It could make sure the driver's seat recline gently when it thought Montgomery Scott was asleep, to make him more comfortable, to ensure he'd stay just a while, so neither would be alone.
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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.
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And not surprisingly, at all, the throaty rumble of a well-tuned engine reverberating in that space made him shiver.
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