Title: When the Road Looks Rough Ahead
Paring: Montgomery Scott X Reader
Warnings: Reader is an ex-soldier, PTSD, fluff.
Spoilers: none!
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Other than the fact that it was on the route to your station, you had no reason to go to hub where the engineering people worked. That's what you told the subordinates you worked with, anyways. As head of Security on the USS Enterprise, it was your job to lead all the away missions, or at least, orchestrate who was to assist, take care and protect those who were to be studying the alien lifeform of the day. It was a heady job, and you were a steadfast person. It was more than luck that you had come into the position, anyways; after a mission gone wrong, back on Earth in the army, Admiral Pike himself had transferred you himself into Starfleet, and working your way up unprecedently in the ranks, here you were. Telling the junior officers to not murmur amongst themselves about your liaising with a certain Lieutenant Commander.
Your job was exactly as the name entailed; you supervised, orchestrated, and undertook the security of all the Enterprise. If there was an away mission, you selected who was to stay, to go. If there was an attack, you commanded your officers to defend the lives of the personnel on the ship. So far into the five-year mission, though, there had been no attacks, and for that, you were eternally grateful.
As ex-military, you had a history of serving to protect those who could not protect themselves. But the work you did, it was not as simple as forgiving, and forgetting; the stains of bad memories and the nightmares lingered years on. Medically, it was known as post-traumatic stress disorder. Personally, it was a hindrance, but like all set-backs, you worked through them, one at a time.
"Hendorff, pay attention to your task at hand," you ordered. In ten minutes, your security team were expected down to the landing party, and here they were, squabbling like a posse of children, over the outcome of holo-chess.
"Yes, Lieutenant Commander ________," Hendorff stood to attention.
The communicator at your side went off, and at once, you answered. "Lieutenant Commander ________, head of Security."
"__________! I missed you, great to hear from you! We're all good down at the ship, send your team." The chipper voice of Captain Kirk filled your ears. He might be as irresponsible as the best of them, but he was a darn lot smarter than what people thought him to be. "And give Cupcake my love."
Beside you, Hendorff snarled, but before he could say a word, you snapped your communicator shut, and gave your subordinate an icy stare that settled his rising temper quick-smart. While your team were always the ones to go to the away missions, you opted to stay on board the ship. It was one of the conditions you had bartered for, and were allowed.
As the team were filing out to answer to the Captain's summons, someone dropped their photon blaster, a shot escaping, shooting through the metal panelling as it hit the floor. At once, your blood ran cold, your eyes searching for cover, the words growing in your throat to save the troops you couldn't on that day. The team were left standing there, looking to the Head of Security like you had three heads instead of one. Because you were frightened of a blaster.
"Team," you whisper, voice wavering. "As you were. Captain is waiting."
On they went, leaving you alone in the area. But there you stood, frozen. It was hard to turn it off once it started; remembering the smell of the warzone, the thickness of the air around your throat, how thick your throat was already from leading the platoon through No Man's Land. You squeeze your eyes shut, but now, even with your eyes closed, you're back where you were four years ago. Staring at the bodies –
Shakily, you hail the comms unit in the nearby engineering hub, your fingers unsteady on your communicator when you hear the familiar Scottish accent pick up the line.
"Aye, this is Scotty," he answered, cheery as always. When you did not answer, he must have checked the I.D., and uttered, "Lass? You – I'll be there in five. Hold onto ye' horses."
Slowly, you find yourself moving, ordering your feet to go left, right, left, right, until you're standing over the bench, by the training rooms for drill exercises and education. You're having a hard time focusing, but somehow, you make yourself sit on the bench, your head between your knees. As a pair of feet approach in the hallway, you remind yourself it's not the enemy, it's not the people who came to clean up the mess they made of your operation, it's your good friend Montgomery Scott, and he's here to help you. Here to help. Here to help you.
"Lass?" he calls out softly, his lilt filling the air like the smell of fresh shortbread on a summer morning. He sees you, and notices your position. "Oh, ________ ... you're safe. It's okay."
Glancing up, you see the red-shirted man before you. His hair is awry, eyes wide, hands dirtied by machinery and oil and general uncleanliness around his workstation. He's here as you called, like always. Your eyes fill with water, and as he takes a seat beside you, the tears spill, hot and heavy.
"I'm supposed to oversee security," you sob, your face turned to Scotty's side, clutching his shirt tight, "but I get trigged when a damn shot is fired."
"Oh, lovie," he whispers, kissing your temple. He makes a noise, and unhurriedly, his hand works its way over your back, his hand working away the knots of stress you had built in there. "We all can't be perfect, now, ________. You're only human."
You sniffle. "Scotty – I – you're not being honest."
He shakes his head. "Aye, but I am bein' honest. You see, I've got a secret to tell ye." He moves his lips as to whisper into the shell of your ear. "I've got anxiety, what, with all the foolishness the Cap'n pulls on the daily. I even take medications for it, when I remember. An' Mr. Spock still has flashbacks after the destruction on Vulcan." He discloses, and adds, "Oh. I shouldn' have said that."
You smile, but you're still sad. "I just can't – I couldn't save my platoon."
Scotty nods. "And dwelling on it won't do ye' any good. You're my ________. Strong as ever."
You'd lost count of the amount of times you'd have called Scotty over, when you have troubles with your PTSD, problems with socialising ... complications sleeping at night. Perhaps your subordinates are right, about your visits to the engineering hub. How had you not noticed how often he came when you called?
"Your _________?" You repeat, shivering. Scotty notices the drop of temperature, and sheds his extra jacket from his shoulders, and drapes it over yours. "How – how about you escort me to Medbay, and then we'll discuss the prospects of being one another's?"
Your Scotsman grinned. "With pleasure, lass."