"Din Lugh"
A Star Trek-the Original Series (TOS) fan-fic/Alternate Universe (set mainly after "Wrath of Khan").
A/N: This story is Scotty-centric, and I do not own any rights to these "Star Trek" characters and tales. I am using a timeline of my own design that runs with movies II-V, more or less (notice that I ignore ST-"The Motion Picture"). I started writing this fan-fic more than 30 years ago and only recently decided to dust it off a bit to see where it takes me.
Summary: Scotty has family members elsewhere in Starfleet and the Klingons would love to capture one or any of them.
Rating: T for now; may change in later chapters.
Pairings: MS/NU, LM/CC, others as needed.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step
Chapter 34/?
Connor took a cautious deep breath and found himself slowly rising to consciousness. Just above his head, he heard plenty of familiar sounds: beeping and whirring of medical devices, nearly all of them were long remembered and so he was not afraid. He also heard deep, resonating snores coming from just a few feet away and he recognized them as originating from his cousin, Commander Montgomery Scott. His face didn't hurt as much as it used to and he quirked a half-smile of recognition.
Trying to open his eyes, now that hurt. Even in the night-dimmed private recovery room, the lights were painfully bright but only for one eye. He tried to open his left eye and found that he could not. He could not even see out of that eye and it hurt deeply. Reaching up slowly with his left hand, he touched the smooth fabric of thick compression bandages. Unfortunately, moving his arm and hand just that little bit hurt too, pulling something loose in his chest and ribs. An involuntary gasp of pain came to his lips. "Ow, bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.
Dizzy, he lay back and gingerly wiped tears from his good eye, trying to take deep, calming breaths, all the while focusing on getting his heart rate under control. The entire left side of his upper body ached and he grimaced if he breathed too deeply. He sighed, recalling that he had been seriously injured in the last fight on Khitomer and he shook his head as more of the memories came back from that fateful night.
Bracing his left ribcage with a sore left arm, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and ended up gritting his teeth against a wave of nausea. He growled softly and pushed himself to a standing position, leaning against the bed until he got his bearings, which with only one good eye, was difficult to do. As he tried to take a step, he was unsteady and ended up knocking several objects to the floor where they clattered noisily about.
Scotty was at his side in an instant. "Connor, laddie, Jesus wept!" The older man tried to support him on his (less) injured right side. "What in the world are yah doin' out of that bed, man?"
If it didn't hurt so much and if he wasn't trying so hard not to throw up, Connor would have laughed at the sleepy engineer's voice. His heart squeezed with overwhelming love for his cousin who'd likely never left his bedside. As it was, he leaned back against the bed, keeping his bare feet firmly planted on the floor. "I need to see. That mirror by the wee sink," he whispered through a scratchy throat, rough from lack of use. "Please, help me over so I can see."
Without a further word of protest, Scotty nodded and held Connor as gently as he could, bracing the young man's right arm over his neck and shoulders. Connor was heavy and much taller than he but it was only a few steps to reach the sink with an elevated vanity and huge mirror. Scotty stepped back a pace, yawned widely and closed his eyes, breathing a prayer of thanks to whomever was listening.
Connor silently scanned his own face, noting in passing that his damaged eye was indeed covered, protected by thick layers of white and blue bandaging; the rest of his face was scarred, with little evidence of the mottled bruising that had been there some time ago. He sighed, not quite smiling at his extraordinarily long, auburn-gold braids, tied neatly at the nape of his neck although somewhat flattened on one side of his head where he'd rested on the pillow.
Grimly, he unfastened the hospital tunic snaps and carefully eased his right arm out of the sleeve. Connor hesitated but a moment before slipping it from his left arm too; this took a bit more cautious effort and he gasped at a sharp pain of his battered ribs, seeing green flashes in what remained of his damaged vision. The tunic top fell but Scotty caught it up, draping it over a nearby towel rack. Stark white against the skin of his upper chest were several adhesive square patches; these were ECG leads that transmitted to a remote Holter monitor. He'd worn those years before after surgery and illness, when he first came on board the Enterprise, and he knew he could ignore them. Dr. Leonard McCoy was his primary physician and he trusted him completely.
Dispassionately, he noted the various tattoos that decorated his arms and chest: each forearm had an ornate dagger, drawn with the blades pointing toward his battle-worn hands. Only one of the daggers was inked-in, the red and black colors filling the dagger's outline and indicating that he had fulfilled the blood oath to kill whomever the weapon named. The other dagger remained a simple black outline, unsatisfied. A Celtic knot/Claddagh design wrapped his right biceps while a Maori-stylized knot representing shark's teeth and ocean waves graced the left. He shook his head at the spider web of scars across his chest and left side, seriously considering asking Dr. McCoy to leave them as they were. He filled a small plastic tumbler with water from the faucet and drank it down.
The scars were reminders of what he once was.
Speak of the devil, he thought, hearing a familiar admonishing harrumph from the doorway as the Enterprise's CMO came in, carrying a steaming coffee cup in each hand. Connor watched the reflections in the mirror for a few moments before he carefully turned around and propped himself heavily against the vanity, trying to keep the wincing down to a minimum.
"Mornin' gents," McCoy greeted, raising one eloquent eyebrow at his very recalcitrant patient. "Up early I see." Without another word, the doctor rested both coffees on a nearby table and helped Scotty get Connor back to his bed. By the time he was stretched out and resting on the slightly elevated pillows, Connor's forehead was drenched with sweat.
Taking up a small, portable medical scanner, McCoy jerked his chin toward the pair of coffee cups. "One of those is yours, Scotty. You're not drinking it yet, are you Connor?"
The young man frowned slightly and then he caught the teasing gleam in McCoy's eye. "No sir, not yet. Is it too early for a beer?"
McCoy chuckled, continuing to pass the scanner over Connor's left side. He tutted at the readings and pocketed the scanner in his scrub jacket.
"I can see I'm gonna have to rethink the sedation segment of our treatment plan to keep your stubborn behind in that damned bed," he growled from behind his coffee mug. Taking a careful sip, he exhaled noisily and shook his head at both Scots. "I'm concerned about your spleen, Connor; it really took a beating and I can bet you're starting a fever as well. That indicates an infection."
"It is still very sore on that side," Connor conceded. "What about my eye?"
McCoy waved a nonchalant hand, making himself comfortable on the edge of the hospital bed. "It's fine. We transplanted a stem cell cornea and it's doing exactly what it's supposed to."
Connor glanced briefly over at his cousin. "How is Commander Uhura?"
Scotty nodded, checking the time on the wall chronometer. "Aye, she's well. Resting a bit… I hope."
"And the others?" Connor caught Scotty's faint shrug and significant look at McCoy, who shook his head imperceptibly. Sensitive as ever, he felt the moods of both men subtly change. "What is it? Tell me, please. Please?"
"We got only two of you outta there, son," replied McCoy, a faint edge of anger in his voice. "You and Rakit, and he's in the brig."
Connor stared hard at the doctor, tears coming to his eye as his fists clenched on the bedsheet. A heartbeat later, his face crumpled and he sobbed silently for several moments.
"Thank you for telling me the truth," he whispered at last, ignoring the hiss of the hypo-spray device against his neck. Without asking he knew it was a stronger pain medication and the ache in his left side eased but not the ache in his heart. McCoy patted his leg and drew the soft blanket up to his bare chest.
"I'll be right back," he said, emptying his cup and taking it with him.
"Monty, I'm sorry," Connor said, switching to the Gaelic and his tone very sad. "I tried, I really did."
Scotty reached for his hand and squeezed, turning his head to wipe his own eyes against his shirtsleeve. He pushed a sweaty braid back from Connor's face and leaned down to tenderly kiss the young man's forehead. "I know yah did, laddie. I know. We were there too."
McCoy came back into the room, reading from a PADD and scowling down at it. "Your stress hormone levels are higher than I'd like to see, which means you need more sleep," he stated in a tone that brooked no argument, waggling another hypo-spray device in his fingertips and raising a questioning eyebrow. "I can give you something for that."
Connor acquiesced with nod and he closed his eye briefly at the hiss and pinch on the side of his neck. "Aye aye, sir. One other thing, though." At McCoy's soft inquiring grunt, he held up a couple of the ropy braids of his hair. "This has got to go. House call from the barber, mebbe?"
Bones chuckled. "I'll get someone in here later for you," he said, taking Scotty firmly by the elbow and steering him toward the door. "And you, Commander Scott. Out. Now."
Connor and Scotty shared a look of amused solidarity before the younger cousin fell soundly asleep. McCoy reached over at dimmed the lights to sleep-mode, shaking his head fondly at his second most stubborn patient. Ever.
TBC