Gratitude - [Galley]
Aug. 7th, 2009 06:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
allmhadadhAfter a couple hours of being passed out on a desk, he woke up with a jerk, then winced at the ache in his neck. By now, he was too hungry to go and ignore it, and after a genuinely baleful look at the replicator, he figured that he had to find some source of food that wouldn't feel like a betrayal.
He rolled down the sleeves of the long t-shirt he'd borrowed off of the other Scott to cover up the bruises, did the best he could to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of neatness (not quite succeeding) and tried not to feel too messed up to move. He went to check for another list of repairs he could do, and found access blocked; letting out a quiet, disheartened sigh, he just decided to go with plan A.
The galley wasn't too hard to find. And it was busy. Really busy. He almost balked and left, but after a moment, someone came by and literally shoved a bowl of dough into his hands.
Scotty was a mean cook. Not nearly to his mother's level, mind, but he certainly wasn't a kitchen idiot. He'd been her sous chef enough times in a professional kitchen, those times when it wasn't too much of a hassle to take him along, that he knew his way around there about like he did machines. Cooking was just another form of engineering; put things together, make them work, try not to create any disasters, and he was a natural at it.
So, being conscripted briefly into the galley staff, working to prepare meals for an overcrowded starship, was not too bad a fate. He lost track of time there, too, though he sure didn't lose track of his stomach, which was probably trying to eat itself by now. And after he'd worked long enough that he felt he had earned his meal and two others besides, he stashed some aside to make dinner for himself. There was a broken stove in the back of the galley; he repaired it easily, washed up, then got to preparing food.
It wasn't a masterpiece or anything. Meat, potatoes, noodles and vegetables, all together in one casserole. A hearty meal, meant to fill the belly, and maybe provide some level of comfort, and it didn't take all that much of any one thing to make it. A good bit of the juices from the meat left in with a base. An appropriate amount of herbs and a little spice, just enough to throw a tiny bit of bite into it. Poor man's food, basically, but almost on the same level as comfort food.
He sized out a couple of plates and managed to use a third to bribe another of the staff of the galley to deliver them. One to Harold, one to the other Scott, each with a note that read the same thing: "Thanks for the help yesterday."
Then, with a fourth plate of the casserole set aside, he washed the dishes and put them away, then found one of the few quiet spots in the kitchen to sit down against the wall and eat.
He rolled down the sleeves of the long t-shirt he'd borrowed off of the other Scott to cover up the bruises, did the best he could to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of neatness (not quite succeeding) and tried not to feel too messed up to move. He went to check for another list of repairs he could do, and found access blocked; letting out a quiet, disheartened sigh, he just decided to go with plan A.
The galley wasn't too hard to find. And it was busy. Really busy. He almost balked and left, but after a moment, someone came by and literally shoved a bowl of dough into his hands.
Scotty was a mean cook. Not nearly to his mother's level, mind, but he certainly wasn't a kitchen idiot. He'd been her sous chef enough times in a professional kitchen, those times when it wasn't too much of a hassle to take him along, that he knew his way around there about like he did machines. Cooking was just another form of engineering; put things together, make them work, try not to create any disasters, and he was a natural at it.
So, being conscripted briefly into the galley staff, working to prepare meals for an overcrowded starship, was not too bad a fate. He lost track of time there, too, though he sure didn't lose track of his stomach, which was probably trying to eat itself by now. And after he'd worked long enough that he felt he had earned his meal and two others besides, he stashed some aside to make dinner for himself. There was a broken stove in the back of the galley; he repaired it easily, washed up, then got to preparing food.
It wasn't a masterpiece or anything. Meat, potatoes, noodles and vegetables, all together in one casserole. A hearty meal, meant to fill the belly, and maybe provide some level of comfort, and it didn't take all that much of any one thing to make it. A good bit of the juices from the meat left in with a base. An appropriate amount of herbs and a little spice, just enough to throw a tiny bit of bite into it. Poor man's food, basically, but almost on the same level as comfort food.
He sized out a couple of plates and managed to use a third to bribe another of the staff of the galley to deliver them. One to Harold, one to the other Scott, each with a note that read the same thing: "Thanks for the help yesterday."
Then, with a fourth plate of the casserole set aside, he washed the dishes and put them away, then found one of the few quiet spots in the kitchen to sit down against the wall and eat.
