Series: Moments in Time
Characters: Spock, Scotty
Word Count: 2700
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Day of the Dove. Warning for discussion of subjects such as racism which that episode tackled with a bluntness that would probably not fly on television today, including unacceptably derogatory language.
Summary: In a war, there inevitably is friendly fire – but that does not negate its damage, or lessen the time and effort it takes to heal afterwards.
Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott is not having the best of days.
As if being diverted dozens of lightyears off-course in the opposite direction of the nearest civilized port isn't bad enough, the alien they just chased off the ship had the gall to pull them along at warp speeds so high that nary a ship in the 'Fleet should be able to withstand them for as long as their precious lady had – and as a result, their dilithium crystals are now nearly drained. The ship herself is fairly vibrating apart where she drifts, and the entire crew is now learning with dismay that it will be at least a month before they can put in at a Starbase and at least ten days before they can dump their Klingon guests off onto the nearest passing 'Fleet-issue transport ship.
The captain had not been a happy man to be told that bit of lovely news, but what he expected Scott to do about it was any man's guess; there were only so many rabbits to be coaxed out of that particular black hat, and the poor silver lady had given them all she had, for the present.
He had been up the better part of the night and then a full double shift this day as well, attempting to coax more power into their stuttering engines, re-routing all non-essential systems in a complicated array of relays which would give Mr. Spock fits if he found out how many regulations the mix was bending at the current moment, and as a result has been a bit out of the loop regarding ship's business today, though as a general rule he does not much have time to fraternize with the crew, being buried constantly in the heart and soul of the ship, her beautiful engineering section.
Besides this, he has no desire at the moment really to face anyone on the alpha shift crew, having given all of them a particularly spectacular show on the Bridge just forty-eight hours ago, under the influence of an alien life-form or not. Not his finest hour, in fact he cannot recall a worse one in his last decade of service, and he is just very lucky neither the Captain nor the Commander have yet decided to place him on report for his actions or his language.
The memory does nothing to make his appetite return at all, and so he pushes away his partially-eaten meal with a sigh, retrieving a technical journal on his padd to read while beta shift changes. Officers' Mess begins to clear out, and the corridors will soon become less congested, so he can make it back to Engineering without having to stop and make small talk with his people on their way to or from shift.
He is deeply engrossed in specs for a new crystal rotation device prototype currently being beta-tested on a constitution-class starship in the Laurentian system, when a figure pauses beside his table, and his skin begins to crawl uncomfortably.
Best to get it over with, then. He sighs silently and looks up, to see the First Officer standing beside his table, dinner tray in hand and a data-padd tucked under the opposite arm. While in the old days, under Pike's captaincy, Spock usually ate alone and with methodical rapidity, he's mellowed under the influence of a very unique brand of command; and nowadays, it's unusual for Spock to be eating alone. He and Captain Kirk are practically attached at the hip, especially on weeks where they are working the same shifts like this one, and so the fact that he's eating alone is a bit odd.
Perhaps Scott is not the only one finding this last mission just a bit awkward to get around.
"Will my company disturb your reading, Mr. Scott?" Spock inquires politely, and Scott wants to cringe at the perfect formality in the question and tell the blasted Vulcan that yes, he will definitely disturb him and can't he go anywhere else for the love of heaven because he is quite ashamed of himself as it is without the reminder staring him in the face for the next thirty minutes, thank you very much.
He of course does neither, only gestures to the seat across from him. "'Tis a free mess hall, Mr. Spock. Though I canna imagine why you'd want to sit with one of us when there's more than enough seats available."
He realizes his mistake at the same time that he realizes something else – that that is actually human hurt, which is expertly masked by professionalism a fraction of a second too late. He opens his mouth to clarify, but is beaten to it by a nod and murmured word of assent as Spock turns toward an empty table a few meters away, close to a group of Medical technicians.
Montgomery Scott is many things, but he is not a coward. And he is not in the habit of burning a bridge while a man is still standing on it.
"Wait - Mr. Spock!" His voice is unmistakable, because it has been known to travel halfway across an entire Engineering section when Communications is down, and he's aware that the remaining officers in the mess are staring as he knocks over his chair to intercept the retreating figure of their First Officer. Spock halts, blinking impassively at him as he hesitantly, and briefly, puts a hand on the Vulcan's arm. "Sir, I dinna mean that how it sounded," he says quietly, but simply, without extraneous verbage he knows Spock would find annoying. "I only meant, that I could not see why in the great galaxy ye'd want to spend any time with the likes of me, after what happened today."
Spock's eyebrows incline just a fraction. "Your logic is predicated upon an obviously incorrect supposition."
He squints at the man in frustration. "Is that your way of sayin' you'll come back and sit down at least before discussin' the whole kit and caboodle?"
A sigh. "I will sit down, Mr. Scott. Please desist from making a further scene in front of the crew."
"Ehh, they've seen worse." Scott shoots a well-aimed glare at the nearest table of Comms operatives, who hastily return to their dinners, not wanting to incur the wrath of either their chief engineer or his favorite partner in crime, their direct Communications chief. The rest of the mess soon follows suit, losing interest in the drama between their superiors in short order, and the hubbub of a small dinner crowd soon resumes.
Spock seats himself in silence, beginning to calmly dissect whatever the bizarre tuberlike vegetable is that he's replicated from the meal selector. Scott makes a mental note to ask him once the tension dissipates a bit what it is, because if it's some Vulcan vegetable then fine, but if it's not, then he'd bet his last credit it's not supposed to look like that, and something's a bit wonky with the replication script. It'd be just like the man to suffer in silence rather than add to someone else's workload.
"So," he finally asks, just to break the brittle silence, "you an' the captain all right, sir?"
Spock's eyebrow bounces up to his hairline.
"Just that ye're usually with him of an evening, that's all," he hastily backtracks, "and Lord knows the Klingons have been thorns in all our sides, that's for sure."
"The captain is, I believe, indulging in alcoholic beverages with Doctor McCoy this evening, as they are neither on duty tomorrow," Spock answers dryly. "I was informed they were not to be disturbed for anything less than a Priority One Red Alert, because they were both, directly quoted, 'tired of cleaning up crew drama from this emotion-sucking alien thing.'"
Scott only partially succeeds in muffling his laughter. "Aye, that sounds like Doctor McCoy."
"On the contrary, that was Captain Kirk. The doctor's words were much more colorful."
He grins. "I canna believe they're havin' a drinking party and did not invite the rest of us!"
Spock finishes off his vegetable and retrieves his data-padd, looking boredly over it as it powers on. "I do not comprehend the human tendency to delay facing one's responsibilities by overindulgence in various substances, alcoholic beverages included."
"Well, Mr. Spock…" He trails off, awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. "Sometimes, we do it just to forget, you know."
"To forget." A raised eyebrow. "Illogical, as no memory erasure actually occurs."
"Aye, but it helps to not think of it for a while. Believe me, we all have things we'd like to just push away for a bit." He looks down at the table, trying to not remember the words spoken under alien influence the day before. "We dinna want to forget completely, y'see sir – because that means we could do the same thing again, foolish humans that we are. But it helps to just, not think about it for a while. Forget it for a bit."
He glances back up, to see the Vulcan regarding him curiously. "Sir?"
"Mr. Scott, you appear to be speaking from personal experience." The words are not the snide comment they might be from another; merely a gentle inquiry.
He cannot help but snort at the naivete – or maybe just scientific curiosity, you never quite know with this one. "Aye, ye might even say very recent personal experience, Mr. Spock. I am not too proud to admit to behaving like an underdeveloped, xenophobic jackass."
Spock looks vaguely amused. "Engineer, I believe you take far too much responsibility upon yourself for the provocation caused by the alien entity which overtook the crew during the last forty-eight hours," is the calm response, and he can't help but admit it helps just a bit, to know their logical First doesn't blame him overmuch for his part in the drama. "We were all, in some varying degree, a victim of circumstance. I assure you, my reaction to the idea of causing you physical harm is likely much the same as your own."
The frankness is somewhat surprising, because never in the pre-Kirk era would their resident Vulcan have ever admitted to such a human emotion, but it's a bit nice to hear – and he smiles, for the first time in what feels like days. "Ah, I wouldna have blamed y'for wiping the deck with me, sir, for the record," he informs his companion, finishing off his water. Ugh, now there was room for improvement in the replication script for sure; it tasted horribly of silicon. Ghastly stuff, he must get Turner on that first thing tomorrow.
"That outcome would not have been optimal for anyone concerned."
"But justified." He shakes his head. "I still canna believe such things came out of my own head, Mr. Spock. It's a disgrace, truly."
Spock leans forward slightly. "Mr. Scott, as I said, you do yourself an injustice by taking far too much responsibility for your actions; the entity proved its method of choice was in creating and generating fictitious scenarios, not in bringing to light pre-existing ones."
He blinks, because this hadn't occurred to him. They've encountered mind-controlling or inhibition-stripping influences before in their travels, and usually it entails just finding what lurks in the darkest corners of the brain and bringing it out, usually at the worst possible times. (The Enterprise seems to be attempting to write an entirely new sub-chapter to Murphy's Law where this is concerned.) But if what Spock says is true…
"Doctor McCoy made that analysis, did he?" he asks cautiously.
"He did, after extensive psychological scans upon first himself and then other affected crewmembers. And besides this, Engineer." Spock looks pointedly across the table. "We have served aboard this ship for over a decade, albeit in slightly different positions over the years – should you harbor such prejudices toward my person, I suspect I would have noticed before now. You are not known among your peers for your subtlety."
He isn't sure whether to be relieved or offended, and settles for somewhere in the indignant middle. "Here now, sir!"
"Was my analysis incorrect in some way, Mr. Scott?"
He scowls, folds his arms across his tunic. "No…"
"Then perhaps you should desist in this pointless exercise of self-flagellation."
"If that's Vulcan-speak for apology accepted, I'll take it." He grins at the raised eyebrow but lack of denial he receives, and chalks it up a win. "I just count m'self lucky Captain Kirk stepped in when he did, eh?"
"Indeed." Spock's eyes soften, obviously without his realizing he's (horror of horrors) expressing human feeling. It's a wee bit adorable, actually, though he's certainly too smart to point it out.
"Amazing, really, how the man can dig through something like that and pull us out the other side?"
Spock's head inclines in agreement. "The captain's ability to detach himself from such influences in order to maintain command of this ship is yet another indication that he by far is the best, and only, choice for captain of the Enterprise. I mean this in the most complimentary way possible, Engineer, that the ability seems to be almost inhuman – and that has been to all our benefit."
"I'll drink to that, sir." He raises his glass in a salute, despite the fact that the gesture would be a sight better with whatever Doctor McCoy's got stashed in his cabin right now. "To diversity, Mr. Spock."
He receives a gracious nod of agreement, and is about to ask what Spock is studying on his padd when suddenly the lights flicker alarmingly, and a sickening lurch of almost out-of-body wrongness throws them both into a braced position against the table, stomachs churning at the sensations of interphase shifting.
Spock meets his look with one of equal alarm, because that was the inertial dampeners flickering, and if they go out they could lose artificial gravity and the warp drive, not to mention other vital ship systems.
"Ohhhh, not good." He scrambles out of his chair, seeing that his primary Engineering team has already beat it out of Mess, leaving their trays on the tables, and that the two Medical personnel left in the room are helping a fairly green-looking ensign from Hydroponics back to unsteady feet. "I'm bettin' we just lost two of the dilithium crystals completely – feels like a total power drain on something vital down there."
The lighting panel on the wall begins to flash yellow, signifying the Bridge has gone to yellow alert. Spock looks resignedly at the panel for a moment and then silently puts his tray in the recycling chute.
Then the lights go out for a full three seconds, and he feels the flooring under his feet grow dangerously light – the gravity is flickering, he can tell the difference immediately. The engines still feel right to him, but he's not going to bet his next shore leave that they'll last much longer if left unattended, straining under drained half-crystal power.
Of course, it's then that the comms panel erupts in a burst of static next to their heads.
"Kirk to Engineering – Scotty, what the devil are you doing to my ship?"
"I shall leave you to answer that inquiry while I return to the Bridge to ensure we remain at only yellow alert, Mr. Scott," Spock says, and he'd swear that was a hint of panic in the poor First Officer's expression before he beat it out of the room fast as ever he could go.
He chuckles and hits the button to shut the comm down to a single channel, not the shipwide, because obviously the captain is getting a mite careless due to the influence. The lights flicker again, before returning to a much dimmer power level than they should be, and he hustles down the corridor to the turbolift – it's time to work some more magic.