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Brushes with oblivion happened almost everyday. That’s what he had to kept telling himself. Maybe if he said it a few more times his stomach would finally feel like it hadn’t dropped to his shins. Every other bleeding day the USS Enterprise would find herself in a near death situation; an implosion, an explosion and who knows how many other words ending in “-osion". So the reason as to why his heart was racing like a prize stallion, or he why was shaking so hard he was worried he’d dislodge a filling was lost on Chief Engineer Scott.
He didn’t have time nor sanity to think of a theory, too concerned with appearing headstrong to the ensigns rejoicing around him, but if he did, he may have blamed the time frame. The red alert had lasted twenty hours, enough time for all the adrenaline to leave his system. Twenty long hours of working, failing, working again to get any response from the engines, failing again, and suffering cold sweats or hot sweats or whatever the hell was making him shiver and burn up at the same time. Their final attempt, with only fifteen minutes to spare, reignited the engines and hurled them forward into space, saving them from a grim fate.
The embarrassing thing was he’d been utterly fine until their success. He tinkered away manically at the control circuits, trying to regain a connection and soldered his fingertips to smithereens, and all he showed for it was a slightly more furrowed brow then usual and a light sheen of moisture coating his forehead. So when that great hurrah was shouted, they were out of danger and he could finally let out a uneasy sigh of relief, he was quite shaken when it did not last even half a minute.
Nausea hit him first. Not overwhelming enough for him to actually chunder, but not benign enough for him to brush it off and carry on. Similar to when he was a lad and he’d have one too many on a school night, and his Ma would march into the pub and drag him home.
His stomach went after that, cramping tightly before plummeting. He couldn’t contain the sharp breath in at the sensation, not having the presence of mind to check that no one heard.
In the midst of this, a hand clapped him hard on the shoulder, one of the last things he wanted.
“You’ve done it again, Scotty,” A fellow engineer congratulated him, an easy smile playing about his features. Cool and collected.
Scotty felt like crying, silently hoping he was masking his trembling as well as he thought he was.
“Aye.” was all he supplied, not even working up the gall to force a wry smile. Not even sure he could. His eyes were wide and unblinking like a madman, hopelessly lost and afraid like an injured doe.
Despite his best efforts, he must have not been concealing his disposition as well as he thought, because through dulled awareness (yet hypersensitive nerves) he caught a flash of a blue shirt in his peripheral. Unmistakably out of place for the crimson red deck. He didn’t turn to see who it was, he had a feeling he already knew.
If he had found the courage to bolt, he would’ve. To the nearest tube or nook or cranny and jam himself in there until he calmed himself down. At least then no one would be able to see how red he was flushing. He felt as though his face matched his shirt.
For the second time in a short while, a hand pressed into his shoulder. And for the second time, it was the last thing he wanted.
“Someone called me,” a southern accent softly spoke.
Scotty did not turn, he knew he had been caught.
The lack of response bothered Doctor Mccoy.
"Why don’t I take you to your office? We can have a little talk.”
What Scotty had meant to say next was; “I’m fine”. The typical response from a man who felt as though he couldn’t express himself all his life. From a boy of fifteen who failed his first set of exams and shed a few tears over it, only to be asked; “what are ye blubbering for ye big girl’s blouse?” by his father. From a man of twenty four, who’s dog died and after the third day of weeping was told; “Alright, love, that’s enough now you’re milking it” by his girlfriend.
What actually came out was a indeterminate sob that forced him to clap a trembling hand over his mouth incase any more noises like that escaped him. He was all but dragged into his office after that.
Mccoy guided the engineer to his desk chair and forced him to sit, his breathing erratic, almost choking on every breath. The doctor took a few steps back as not to crowd the poor man, but soon realised he was going to asphyxiate himself if he didn’t calm him down soon.
“Alright, Scotty, I need you to take nice deep breaths for me, in and out, okay?”
Scotty did as he was told after a little bit more prodding, in and out, just as Mccoy said. He didn’t feel like it was helping, all he felt at that moment was a deep sense of dread and humiliation. Embarrassment at the fact that he couldn’t conceal his nonsense. The doctor took the chair next to him.
“That’s it nice and easy,” Bones cooed, and he was beginning to feel slightly like a child who’d fell of his bike.
He continued to make sobbing noises, but produced no tears, like his body desperately wanted to cry but just wasn’t letting him. He hadn’t shed a tear since his mother’s funeral, and, ideally, he’d planned to keep it that way.
He couldn’t form a sentence no matter how hard he tried, and after a few attempts he decided to give up, because the noises he was making sounded like a dog in pain.
He uttered his first string of coherent coherent words since the whole debacle a few shuddering heaves later, when the doctor began making over-exaggerated breathing sounds to “help” him:
“That’s actually really distracting, doctor, could you stop doing that?” he croaked, surprising himself with how commanding he sounded.
The doctor looked slightly taken aback.
“Yeah, of course, just… thought it might help,” he mumbled, looking down as his palms just to break eye contact.
There was a tense lull after that, the only sound being Scotty’s erratic panting slowly fading into an almost stable breathing pattern.
“Tell you what, I’ll make you a tea,” Mccoy flashed a grin, patted his knee and moved toward the replicator. Scotty could only nod in response.
The machine hissed for a moment and the Scotsman now found himself fixated on his thudding heartbeat. It was as though the thing was pounding against his ribcage like a prisoner in a cell. He stared at a stray bolt on his desk, willing it to slow down.
A warm cup was being nudged into his hand and he was forced to tear his eyes away from the metal, accepting it with another small nod. The liquid shook violently in his shaky hands, threatening to spill, before Mccoy quickly eased it out of his grip.
“How about we leave it on the table, hm?” he proposed.
Scotty let’s out a bashful sigh and balls his hands into fists, finally ready for conversation.
"Sorry…,” he started, regretting it immediately, hating how desperate and small he sounded, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Ye must think i’m so silly.”
“You don’t need to apologise, Scotty, and of course I don’t. I think everyone on this ship has had an anxiety attack at some point, hell, my nurses are probably attending to a boatload right now. You mustn’t feel foolish.”
The engineer knitted his brows.
“A anxiety attack? Me? Bah!” he waved a hand dismissively, “A psychotic break is more like it. Moment of madness. Men like me don’t have panic attacks.”
Doctor Mccoy pursed his lips and had a look of mild annoyance about him, which was odd because Scotty couldn’t see anything wrong in what he’d said. He tried to correct himself.
“I mean I,” he emphasised, “don’t get panic attacks."
His face twitched again, but Doctor Mccoy didn’t counter or argue.
“As I said, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he took a long sip of tea.
That made Scotty panic even more, however. His frantic breathing, which had settled somewhat was reignited again, and his fingers trembled around the handle of his tea cup. Oh god, he’d made an idiot of himself and now he’d upset the good doctor.
“I’m sorry, doctor, a-all I meant was that-" he started, quite hysterically, but was kindly stopped by Mccoy, who rose from his seat and braced him by the shoulder.
“No, I’m sorry, Scotty, breathe deeply, there’s a good man. Geez, no wonder I don’t get called for this type of thing. I’m not good with the psychological stuff.”
Oh god, and now he was taking up the doctor’s time? Especially when he doesn’t like dealing with psychological conditions? His stomach threatened to drop again.
“Sorry…” Scotty sniffled, finally chancing a sip of tea. He hid his grimace at the strong taste and lack of sugar, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Not when he’d already offended Mccoy, who was just trying to help.
The hand that had braced him began rubbing comforting circles into his shoulder. It felt quite nice.
“Do you wanna talk about it? About what bought it on? Or any good holovids you’ve seen lately, or journals, or, I don’t know, the weather?” he joked.
After waiting a beat he added: “Or nothing? I can just sit with you if you’d like.”
Mccoy had given him so many ways out, he did consider just sitting in uncomfortable silence, but he bit the bullet. Ready to air out his feelings.
“I just… I don’t get it. I’ve served on space crafts from the very moment they let me board them. I’ve crash landed and I've been thrown against metal beams and we’ve nearly blown up or been killed or lost in space God knows how many times. But I’ve never… I’ve never done that before. I’ve never just froze. Sure your heart gets going and you get the sweats and you feel like you’re going to repeatedly soil yourself, if you’ll pardon the imagery, but I’ve never felt that way in my life. I just want to know why. Why it didn’t happen five hours ago when the Captain said over the intercom it was a “pleasure serving with you all”. That’s code for “That’s all folks” in my book. I just can’t even comprehend WHY I felt that why or if it’s going to happen again and… I’m frightened.”
Gee, that was a ramble. He’d realised he had said too many words and been a little bit too honest, but it felt comforting to spill the thoughts that had been lingering in his mind. He sipped his tea, the taste was bitter but the warmth was soothing.
The doctor looked as though he didn’t know how to respond, gawking at Scotty with a slightly opened mouth. He thought over his response before replying;
“I take comfort in the fact that I haven’t died yet. I have this strange theory, that I live in a universe where I can’t die until it’s my time. I mean think about it, if we were destined to die it would’ve happened by now, what with all we’ve been through. It’s nonsense, of course, but it helps me sleep at night. As miraculous and unlikely as it may be we always make it out mostly in one piece…,” he chuckled, “Heck, you’ve come back from the dead once who’s to say you can’t do it again?”
Scotty whimpered at the memory. Not something he needed to be reminded of right then; the fact that at one horrifying point in his life he was unmistakably deceased. He had been killed by a machine calling itself NOMAD and his lifeless body was to be taken down below and later disposed of.
“Sorry… sorry, bad joke. Let’s not dwell on that. Come on deep breaths, remember?”
“Of all the bloody things to bring up…” Scotty murmured through his palms as he bleakly rubbed his sore eyes, but nevertheless cracked a wee smile.
He was patted on the knee once more as Mccoy grinned at him. They finished their tea in a well needed silence.
“How are you feeling now?” Mccoy asked softly, watching the engineer thoughtlessly swish the dregs around the bottom of his cup.
Scotty sighed thoughtfully, “I think the worst is over now… sorry about all this. ‘Suppose I’m not the man I thought I was,” he finished, slightly forlorn.
Mccoy rolled his eyes, that annoyance rearing it’s head again.
“Look, Scotty, now that you’re not hyperventilating I’ll be straight with you; you are still a man. A brave one. A damn near fearless one. I couldn’t do the things you’ve done. And I’m not frustrated with you or your ideas of what makes masculine excellence, but I am annoyed with what this backwards society does to people like you. Everyone feels fear, everyone cries and mourns, every last one of us is just a walking bundle of jumbled up nerves that could go off at any minute. You’re not any less worthy of the title because you felt overwhelmed one time.”
He squeezed him by the arm, his grip and wording way harsher than he had intended, but he pushed on.
“You’re a brave man. Don’t forget that, Montgomery.”
Scotty just blinked at him, his brows raised in a startled expression.
His father had always told him to “Man up”. His highschool friends had always poked fun when he showed a “girly” emotion. His college friends would give him weird side glances whenever he got too animated about space travel mechanics, and he’d feel himself grow red in the face and slowly trail off.
If these words were coming from Doctor Mccoy, they had to hold some merrit. The doctor was one of the best blokes the engineer had met in his life, and he was damned if he wouldn’t take at least a few of his statements to heart. His throat bobbed and he felt his eyes begin to tear up.
“Thank you,” he said weakly, and he sincerely meant it.
Montgomery Scott was given the rest of the day off on medical grounds. He was sent to his quarters as soon as Doctor Mccoy guided him out of the office, his knees threatening to fail at any given moment.
The doctor escorted him all the way there, giving weary looks to anyone approaching the engineer with their congratulations, and, to give him his credit, Scotty acknowledged most of them with a polite smile, a nod and the occasional “aye”.
“If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to com me.”
Those were the doctor’s parting words.
Of course Scotty didn’t com him, too nervous to take up any more of his time.
He didn’t sleep well that night either, barely slept at all. The shaking persisted and his beating heart refused to slow down for love nor money.
But the thin, vapid rest he did get was aided by his knowledge that, beyond their shared bathroom, lay a man that believed in him, and would be there should he need him.