Harold, c'mere.
A space on Scotty's hammock, Harold-shaped. That had shocked the hell out of him, no mistake; it was the days when he'd been terrified to move, to seek Scotty out. Delve.
Back when he'd thought it almost sacrilegious to try and get any kind of window into the beautiful Scot who'd kicked him in the backside to get some of his life together.
So, he'd asked about constellations. What followed was among the most peaceful interludes of Harold's life, even if he had been near frozen stupid through the whole thing with knowledge of just how close Scotty was at that moment. It hadn't ended when Scotty nodded off.
Oh, Harold hadn't slept there. Well. He'd tried. Dozed, now and again.
Couldn't quite let consciousness slip away. Impossibly warm weight beside him, a faint outline at night, a soft breeze that cut through the hammock easily. No; no, Harold Lee wouldn't sleep. Convinced he'd never see the like again, he'd stayed awake to burn the sensation into his memory.
It was before Scotty brought him real, honest smell. Before Harold had quite tapped into that bubble of reality the man took with him. He couldn't remember the smell of that night - actually, it was morning - but he could recall as clear as day the sound of Scotty's breath. The gentle swing of the hammock and the determination to stay perfectly, carefully still. Letting the man sleep as long as he would, preserving the moment. Close enough to touch, though Harold didn't.
Harold still watches him dream, sometimes. No less awed for the vision, no less fascinated with the man. Some better idea of what's going on behind those eyes, now.
Wondering how long it would be until Scotty learned the constellations on Rhy'din.
A space on Scotty's hammock, Harold-shaped. That had shocked the hell out of him, no mistake; it was the days when he'd been terrified to move, to seek Scotty out. Delve.
Back when he'd thought it almost sacrilegious to try and get any kind of window into the beautiful Scot who'd kicked him in the backside to get some of his life together.
So, he'd asked about constellations. What followed was among the most peaceful interludes of Harold's life, even if he had been near frozen stupid through the whole thing with knowledge of just how close Scotty was at that moment. It hadn't ended when Scotty nodded off.
Oh, Harold hadn't slept there. Well. He'd tried. Dozed, now and again.
Couldn't quite let consciousness slip away. Impossibly warm weight beside him, a faint outline at night, a soft breeze that cut through the hammock easily. No; no, Harold Lee wouldn't sleep. Convinced he'd never see the like again, he'd stayed awake to burn the sensation into his memory.
It was before Scotty brought him real, honest smell. Before Harold had quite tapped into that bubble of reality the man took with him. He couldn't remember the smell of that night - actually, it was morning - but he could recall as clear as day the sound of Scotty's breath. The gentle swing of the hammock and the determination to stay perfectly, carefully still. Letting the man sleep as long as he would, preserving the moment. Close enough to touch, though Harold didn't.
Harold still watches him dream, sometimes. No less awed for the vision, no less fascinated with the man. Some better idea of what's going on behind those eyes, now.
Wondering how long it would be until Scotty learned the constellations on Rhy'din.