SLWatson
06-06-2008, 12:11 PM
Title: Best Smile
Author: SLWatson (watson_stephanie@yahoo.com)
Series: ST:TOS, Arc of the Wolf
Rating: G
Character: Scott
Timeline: 2228
Archive: By permission only.
Disclaimer: He's (unfortunately) Paramount's property.
Notes: A somewhat telling look at Scotty at around five or six; not
really his POV, not really apart from his POV. Emphatically not a
'Daycare' story. Best read in its original format here:
http://slwatson.livejournal.com/121068.html
--
The first thing he always did, after he took in exactly where he was
and with whom, was look for something to take apart. There was nearly
always something that could be pulled apart, though there weren't
always tools with which to do it. After he narrowed in on a target,
he would look for something to take his target apart with. And while
he was doing that, he would try to guess if he would get in trouble,
and to what degree -- a shout, or an exasperated headshake, or by
having everything taken away from him and put where he couldn't get
it, or if maybe he would just be allowed to do his thing without any
interference, depending on where he was. Sometimes it was worse.
Sometimes it wasn't anything at all. He tried to guess where it would
fall.
These were all a matter of instinct, not of thought out courses;
rarely did these processes have words. They simply _were_.
There was a handful of children playing with some paints at the table,
making a mess, laughing. He didn't watch them for long, standing
quietly and patiently by his mother's side, and instead looked at the
toy shuttle that he could already see had skewed proportions. There
was also a screwdriver up high on a shelf that would be a difficult
but not impossible climb to get to, probably used to do quick repairs
on toys with loosened pieces.
He didn't really listen too closely to the conversation between the
woman and his mother -- the woman was plump, gray skinned and haired,
and sounded English, and his mother just sounded like she always did,
a fast speaker with a light, happy tone. He'd heard this conversation
before, nearly verbatim. The woman commenting that of course, he was
no trouble, except that he liked to break things -- his mother
commenting that he used to be a very fussy baby, but was now such a
quiet and thoughtful lad.
That was always his favorite part, the part that he listened to,
because she sounded proud.
Then the woman would say that he really didn't seem to like to play
with the other children, and he would focus all of his attention back
to how he could build a ladder to the shelf, retrieve the screwdriver
and then take apart the badly-proportioned shuttle. He already had a
good guess of how he would, and that was when he thought in words:
_This part, to that part. Mind, go slow. It'll break if it's
forced._
He didn't play with the others because he really didn't want to.
There were times when the interactions would make him look up from
whatever he was doing -- if not taking something apart, then
practicing his letters and numbers and reading -- and those times made
him want to join in even less. They were mercurial to him; unstable,
unpredictable creatures that could be smiling and happy one minute,
then ostracizing one of their own the next with jeers. They left him
alone. No hatred or teasing -- he was, if anything, the least
favorite crayon in the proverbial box in these situations. You don't
hate the crayon, you just ignore it.
His mother said that he was just shy, and had been for a long time,
never grew out of it, but maybe he would when he was a little older
and he had just started school so she expected that he would make lots
of friends. He was a bright child, did the woman know that he could
already do double-digit addition and subtraction?
He would have liked the proud tone then, but he didn't, because he
knew that the conversation was coming to a close. Instead, he
concentrated fiercely on the project he had already started in his
mind, but it didn't ever work like he wanted to, because he knew that
when the conversation was over, his mother would leave, and she
wouldn't come back for a long time. He didn't realize that he had
edged over until he practically had his head against her side, and
then she rested a hand on his shoulder and he hoped, even though he
knew better, that maybe this time she wouldn't go.
The project and the pride were forgotten when she looked down at him
with a smile; told him that she would be back in a week, his aunt
would watch him in a few days and his father the rest, that he should
be a good lad for the caretaker.
He already knew, had already learned, that tears wouldn't do anything
but make her frown and he hated making her frown. And she would still
be frowning when she left, if he cried, and it would be awhile before
she had that proud voice again.
She gave him a smile, looking happy and light.
He gave her his best smile back.
She never saw that it didn't reach his eyes.
Author: SLWatson (watson_stephanie@yahoo.com)
Series: ST:TOS, Arc of the Wolf
Rating: G
Character: Scott
Timeline: 2228
Archive: By permission only.
Disclaimer: He's (unfortunately) Paramount's property.
Notes: A somewhat telling look at Scotty at around five or six; not
really his POV, not really apart from his POV. Emphatically not a
'Daycare' story. Best read in its original format here:
http://slwatson.livejournal.com/121068.html
--
The first thing he always did, after he took in exactly where he was
and with whom, was look for something to take apart. There was nearly
always something that could be pulled apart, though there weren't
always tools with which to do it. After he narrowed in on a target,
he would look for something to take his target apart with. And while
he was doing that, he would try to guess if he would get in trouble,
and to what degree -- a shout, or an exasperated headshake, or by
having everything taken away from him and put where he couldn't get
it, or if maybe he would just be allowed to do his thing without any
interference, depending on where he was. Sometimes it was worse.
Sometimes it wasn't anything at all. He tried to guess where it would
fall.
These were all a matter of instinct, not of thought out courses;
rarely did these processes have words. They simply _were_.
There was a handful of children playing with some paints at the table,
making a mess, laughing. He didn't watch them for long, standing
quietly and patiently by his mother's side, and instead looked at the
toy shuttle that he could already see had skewed proportions. There
was also a screwdriver up high on a shelf that would be a difficult
but not impossible climb to get to, probably used to do quick repairs
on toys with loosened pieces.
He didn't really listen too closely to the conversation between the
woman and his mother -- the woman was plump, gray skinned and haired,
and sounded English, and his mother just sounded like she always did,
a fast speaker with a light, happy tone. He'd heard this conversation
before, nearly verbatim. The woman commenting that of course, he was
no trouble, except that he liked to break things -- his mother
commenting that he used to be a very fussy baby, but was now such a
quiet and thoughtful lad.
That was always his favorite part, the part that he listened to,
because she sounded proud.
Then the woman would say that he really didn't seem to like to play
with the other children, and he would focus all of his attention back
to how he could build a ladder to the shelf, retrieve the screwdriver
and then take apart the badly-proportioned shuttle. He already had a
good guess of how he would, and that was when he thought in words:
_This part, to that part. Mind, go slow. It'll break if it's
forced._
He didn't play with the others because he really didn't want to.
There were times when the interactions would make him look up from
whatever he was doing -- if not taking something apart, then
practicing his letters and numbers and reading -- and those times made
him want to join in even less. They were mercurial to him; unstable,
unpredictable creatures that could be smiling and happy one minute,
then ostracizing one of their own the next with jeers. They left him
alone. No hatred or teasing -- he was, if anything, the least
favorite crayon in the proverbial box in these situations. You don't
hate the crayon, you just ignore it.
His mother said that he was just shy, and had been for a long time,
never grew out of it, but maybe he would when he was a little older
and he had just started school so she expected that he would make lots
of friends. He was a bright child, did the woman know that he could
already do double-digit addition and subtraction?
He would have liked the proud tone then, but he didn't, because he
knew that the conversation was coming to a close. Instead, he
concentrated fiercely on the project he had already started in his
mind, but it didn't ever work like he wanted to, because he knew that
when the conversation was over, his mother would leave, and she
wouldn't come back for a long time. He didn't realize that he had
edged over until he practically had his head against her side, and
then she rested a hand on his shoulder and he hoped, even though he
knew better, that maybe this time she wouldn't go.
The project and the pride were forgotten when she looked down at him
with a smile; told him that she would be back in a week, his aunt
would watch him in a few days and his father the rest, that he should
be a good lad for the caretaker.
He already knew, had already learned, that tears wouldn't do anything
but make her frown and he hated making her frown. And she would still
be frowning when she left, if he cried, and it would be awhile before
she had that proud voice again.
She gave him a smile, looking happy and light.
He gave her his best smile back.
She never saw that it didn't reach his eyes.