Summary: Plenty of stories have been written about Kirk's actions at the end of 'The Galileo Seven,' but what were Scotty's thoughts? And just what did he do? After all, he was the only one who supported their XO…
A/N: Written for SLWatson, the resident Scotty-guru. The aftermath of this episode has been done to death in terms of K&S&M. Even as a child, I could've kissed Scotty for the much-needed support he provided to Spock. In light of that, I wanted to try and put a whole new spin on what happened next…
All in a Day's Work
He was in rec room three, seated off in a corner by himself, observing the activity going on around him. There was a high-stakes poker game in full swing between lower decks personnel from engineering and security. And it seemed his lads were doing well. He prided himself on the fact that he had other wisdom to pass on, besides how to bend what at times could be an obstinate, single-minded lady to his will. They were a good bunch of lads, and he was pleased to see that they looked for and followed his advice in other areas besides routine ship's business.
His eyes shifted to another table. Sulu and DeSalle were engaged in a spirited dialogue, the helmsman punctuating his words with wild slashing gestures. Must be tryin' to interest the navigator in the hobby du jour he mused.
His gaze fell next on Uhura, who had drawn a crowd as usual. But tonight it wasn't her singing voice that had captivated the audience; this evening her group was taking turns reading poetry, each offering an impassioned rendition of their favorite work, espousing their own interpretation of the piece. As snippets of the verses floated across to him over the chink of glasses, the flutter of cards being shuffled, and the hum of various electronic games of skill interspersed with the din of unintelligible conversation, he realized it encompassed a curious mixture of old Earth authors, contemporary works, and those from a dozen Federation worlds.
Good. The more people in here millin' about the less likely he is to be suspicious. That had been the primary reason for meeting the good doctor here, instead of inviting him to his quarters. McCoy was an astute and highly perceptive judge of character, and it was well known among the crew that while Scotty was open and friendly in the work environment, having no trouble at all engaging peers, superiors and subordinates alike, what the man did on his own time was a mystery to most. He was not one to join in group activities, the occasional card game or social drink with colleagues being the rare exception, and the crew had learned to accept and respect this side of their chief engineer. McCoy would have been the first one to loudly question a more personal invitation.
That made what he was about to do all the more unusual, and if anyone on board would be able to pick up on that, it was most assuredly their shrewd ship's surgeon. But it was something that needed to be done, needed to be said, and he doubted the Vulcan Science Officer would do so on his own. Not out of a desire to avoid confrontation – Mr. Spock certainly had no qualms about correcting what he viewed as aberrant behavior or sub-par performance levels – but out of a belief that logic was also a viable command style and there was no need to defend or debate it, particularly with the irascible surgeon who seemed to take exception to everything he did.
However, there was a very good chance that once the captain reviewed the mission logs, he'd have strong words for most of the Galileo's remaining crew, McCoy and Boma especially, but Scott was sure that tactic wouldn't sit right with the CMO. Much as the doctor and the captain had a mutual respect for one another, and a burgeoning friendship based on trust and sound, reliable counsel, they were just as likely to butt heads over an issue, with the inscrutable First Officer being at the very top of that list.
To his mind, McCoy was much more prone to see any rebuke from Kirk as a captain defending his second, one friend coming to the rescue of another. Scott was convinced that if he described the events of that fateful mission as he perceived them, the doctor would have no choice but to look at things differently. While it was evident to anyone on board the Enterprise that there was a considerable amount of professional respect between the chief engineer and the science officer, they most certainly weren't friends, at least not in the conventional sense. No, McCoy would realize in an instant that an inclination to protect the nonexistent feelings of their First Officer wasn't the driving force behind his words.
Boma was another matter altogether. Scott had made it clear in his written debriefing to his commanding officer that the astrophysicist had exhibited flagrant insubordination. What happened next was strictly the captain's call, but the Chief Engineer had declared his willingness to provide whatever input his CO required of him.
And while some of McCoy's off-color statements had been on par with Boma's, Scott had not detected the level of open hostility he had seen from the lieutenant. The doctor's actions had not been atypical given the situation; he'd seen McCoy do just this sort of thing with their captain on several occasions, most notably during their standoff with the Fesarius. It's just how the CMO was wired to function.
Scott sighed. He might be overstepping his bounds here. Even though he was McCoy's immediate superior in the chain of command, the surgeon was a department head in his own right, and as such, any official reprimands of said senior officers should come from the captain or XO directly. However, it was not his intention to make this a reprimand – in fact, he didn't want it to sound official in the least – but was hoping to give the doctor a whole new perspective on things.
He wasn't doing this because he considered Spock a friend; anything but. True friendship with the austere Vulcan was a hard-won achievement, and one to which only the captain could currently lay claim, but that wasn't what fostered his desire to speak out. No, it was more of an ethereal connection, a sense of respect for a kindred spirit, which moved him.
He had served with the Vulcan for a number of years under Captain Pike, and during that time had developed an unconventional rapport of sorts with his current XO. Much to his surprise he'd discovered that while neither was programmed for a personal relationship – at least with each other – they meshed perfectly on the professional side. When discussing the warp core or the correct anti-matter to matter ratio to get the most out of the engines, to something as simple as calibrating an active flux coil, their ability to connect and understand one another on a level others did not was almost uncanny. They were often able to find solutions together at which neither would have arrived individually. But that was where it ended.
No, this wasn't about friendship, but a sense of duty, of responsibility to a colleague who had been needlessly wronged as far as he was concerned.
His musings were interrupted as the doors swished open, admitting a somewhat flustered and red-faced McCoy, who was hurriedly scanning the room. Raising his glass and nodding his head, he caught McCoy's attention, smiling slightly as the doctor began making his way to the secluded table along the back wall.
Slipping into a seat and clasping his hands on the table before him, the physician's concerned gaze swept over him. "I got your message. What's up, Scotty?"
He tried to keep his face neutral, his tone light as McCoy searched his face, the doctor's lips compressed, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly.
Scott took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. He'd only have one shot at getting this right. "I've been savin' this for a special occasion," he said, gesturing to the bottle of rare Arcturian whiskey on the table between them, "and figured fer sure ye'd be able to appreciate it."
The doctor's face immediately brightened as Scott began pouring several fingers of the deep purple liquid into a second glass. "Thanks," he said with a grin, grasping the proffered drink, toasting the engineer and taking a deep swallow before returning his prize to the table. "You know me – I'm never one to look a gift drink in the mouth. So what's the occasion?"
"Given the events o' the last two days, I woulda thought it'd be obvious to ye." He paused for effect. "It's not every day a man comes back from the dead." Now it was his turn to observe McCoy carefully.
The frown returned and a darkness settled over the doctor's features as he looked away, sipping once again at the fiery liquor. "Yeah, well, too bad that didn't apply to all of us." Scott watched as some of the anger and outrage he'd seen on the planet revisited McCoy's face briefly. The CMO lowered his voice, despite the undercurrent of sound present in the room. "Maybe if we'd had someone in charge who could've actually inspired the crew instead of that poor excuse for a humanoid, we wouldn't have lost two men."
"Are ye sure about that, Doctor?"
McCoy did a double-take, flashing his trademark scowl, before providing a carefully thought-out response. "You mean to tell me you don't think so? You approve of how Spock handled the situation?"
"I'm not sayin' it was right or wrong, but it did work for him…and us."
"How do you figure that, Scotty? Maybe we made it back but two men are dead and no member of the Galileo's crew was happy with the green-blooded hobgoblin's command style, or lack thereof."
"An' just what do ye take exception to, Doctor?" Asked in total sincerity.
"You can't be serious?" But one look at the imperturbable Scotsman, his features neutral and carved in granite, told McCoy otherwise. "Well, for starters, we certainly could've used a little more compassion."
"How so? Do ye think if Mr. Spock had wept and thrown his hands up in frustration, or punched out a quarter panel it woulda softened the blow of losin' those two men?" He watched McCoy consider that carefully. "Surely ye don't dispute the need to canvass unfamiliar surroundings, or to post a guard once a threat had been identified?"
"No, but…," McCoy began hesitantly.
"Do ye think the captain woulda done anythin' differently?" Again his tone was light, measured, non-accusatory.
Shock registered briefly on McCoy's face. "No, I suppose he wouldn't have in that regard. But I'm sure he would've been willing to preside over Mr. Latimer's service."
"What makes ye think so? We were in a crisis situation, time was running out, and Mr. Spock was the only crewmember qualified to help me properly reconfigure the fuel lines. Do ye really think if the tables had been turned and it was the captain with us rather than Mr. Spock he woulda left at that critical time to officiate at a funeral?"
McCoy dropped his eyes.
"No doctor, I'm sure he woulda stayed put where he was needed, and had it been Jim Kirk that asked ye to say a few words, given the situation ye woulda gone willingly, without argument." Scott doubted the sudden smear of red that appeared on the doctor's face had anything to do with the strong alcohol, and he fought to keep his tone on an even, unemotional keel. It wouldn't do to lecture or be condescending at the moment. He wanted McCoy to understand the meaning behind his words, not be upset by the words themselves. "Just because Mr. Spock has a different way of doin' things than we're used to, it doesn't necessarily mean it's the wrong way."
"What about talk of leaving three men behind? I doubt Jim would've done that." Skepticism danced about the doctor's eyes, permeating the space around their table.
"Aye, he may have phrased it differently, takin' into account our all-too-human fear of the unknown, but I'm convinced he woulda done the same, once we removed all the equipment we could to lighten our load." The Chief Engineer stopped abruptly as a crewman came within earshot. Pressing a button and retrieving a chessboard and playing pieces from the recessed storage compartment, the ensign all but ignored the two senior officers huddled together, engaged in a deep discussion, making for his opponent, already seated at a table in the distance.
Scott began again, his voice low, his eyes squarely on McCoy's. "And there woulda been no talk of drawin' lots. If there's one thing about the captain, it's that he certainly wouldn't leave a crewman's fate up to chance. He might have asked for volunteers, but it's more likely he woulda made the decision himself – he wouldn't have wanted anyone else aboard to have to shoulder that burden – and let's face it, there woulda been some sense of guilt for their comrades left behind on the part of those who drew the long straws, or didn't volunteer."
An uneasy silence fell between the two, the gap filled in by the sounds of laughter, music and whoops of exultation or cries of defeat, depending on the outcome a particular crewman was experiencing. McCoy drained his glass and reached for the bottle, pouring himself another healthy measure of the strong libation, all the while studiously avoiding the Scotsman's gaze.
Scott sipped at his own drink, savoring the tingle on his tongue, the burning in the back of his throat, and the slight trail of heat traceable as the liquid trickled into his stomach.
Leaning across the table he added softly, "And ye can't deny that jettisonin' the fuel was a brilliant move, on a number of levels. It gave us the best chance to be seen, and had it not worked, guaranteed a rather quick and almost painless death for all those on board. A lot better than sufferin' through a slow burn up on reentry, or crash-landin' back on the planet's surface an' havin' to deal with certain injuries, as well as our furry friends, minus our phasers to protect ourselves." A pause as he went for the kill. "Y'know, for all the ribbin' the captain gave Mr. Spock about it on the bridge afterwards, it was a gamble on par with corbomite. And for the five o' us, it sure paid off."
"I hadn't really thought about it that way, Scotty." McCoy actually sounded contrite. "But if you think this little talk is going to get me to admit to the walking computer that he was right, think again." The blue eyes were flashing. There was the flare of indignation the engineer had been envisioning all along.
"An' I don't expect ye to, nor do I think Mr. Spock would appreciate it. His methodical approach to things drives us poor humans to distraction sometimes, but it isn't necessarily wrong, just because it's not how we'd do something. No matter how he arrived at his decisions, ultimately they were the right ones, an' we should be grateful for that. I, for one, am very happy with the outcome." Lifting his glass in a silent tribute to the fates that had kept sailors safe for countless millennia, he downed the remainder of the alien spirits.
"Of course, I am, too Scotty, but it'll be a cold day in Hell before Spock hears that from me. If his ego gets any bigger, it'll rupture the goddamn bulkheads."
Scott allowed himself a small chuckle. "And he doesn't have to, so long as ye're aware that there's more than one command style, and all that really matters is gettin' the job done. An' there's no gettin' around it – that's exactly what Mr. Spock did."
McCoy's look shifted slightly. "I guess you're right. 'There are always alternatives,' even ones of the pointy-eared, stick-up-your-ass persuasion." McCoy was actually grinning now.
"Aye," the engineer answered with a twinkle in his eye. He permitted himself a small sigh of relief. That had gone a lot better than he'd expected, and he certainly didn't have to worry that the doctor would broach the subject of their little chat with the second-in-command. Scott's hand in this would surely remain undetected.
"Well, thanks for the drink, Scotty, but I've gotta go. I need to get those medical supplies catalogued, packed and properly labeled before we make our rendezvous at Makus III." And with that, McCoy climbed to his feet, heading for the exit.
Scott shook his head as he watched him leave. The CMO and XO were just too different. That their personalities would inevitably clash was a given. It didn't help any that each man was stubborn to a fault in his own right. He doubted they'd ever see eye to eye on anything, let alone get along, or even like one another.
Switching gears, he set the bottle of whiskey on the floor at his feet, pulling a portable reader off the chair next to him and accessing the most recent technical journal he had saved there. Now all he had to do was await the arrival of his next companion for the evening.
Half an hour later, his eyes lifted from the article he was reading at the sound of the doors swishing open, the space between them suddenly occupied by the tall, lean figure of the ship's First Officer, his own padd in hand. The Chief Engineer may not be sentimental, or given to frivolous overtures of friendship, but he did believe in loyalty, and doing what was right. And if while discussing the latest journal article on the newest trend in gravimetric resonance circuits he happened to slip in a job-well-done and a thank-you for saving his life, well then where was the harm in that…?