(no subject)
Title: Fog
Rating: G
Fandom: Star Trek
Character: Montgomery Scott
Summary: A vignette inspired by Wolf in the Fold. No possession, no murder, just a walk in the fog.
There had always been something about weather that made people want to tell stories about it. Myths, legends, folklore, songs... The list went on and on. There were stories about thunderstorms, stories about lighting, stories about the clouds in the sky and the wind on the hills and the rain, the sun... and the fog.
If there was one thing that any space traveler missed, it was weather. It didn't matter how long he'd been out in space, or how much he loved his ship; no matter that his ship was home to him. He would always miss the weather.
--
Areglius II isn't home, any more than Earth is home, nowadays. But it's familiar to the man walking through the dark streets arm in arm with the young lady he met only minutes before. The fog swirls around their feet, their passage leaving patterns in the mist. It isn't home, but it's a comfort.
They walk in silence a while, listening to the distant sounds of the city around them. "You're very quiet," the woman remarks softly, after the silence seems to become almost too heavy. "You're enjoying yourself...?"
The man smiles, a soft and warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he replies quietly, "Aye, lass, that I am." Again they fall into silence, a comfortable, easy-going sort of silence. The fog makes halos in the distant lights, shimmering like starlight.
"You said you would tell me about the fogs in... what was it called?"
"Aberdeen," he replies, turning his smile to the young woman. They stop to sit against a low stone wall, and he continues, "When I was but a wee young thing, my ma told me a story about the fog." He chuckles, shaking his head. "An' o' course I ate it right up, bein' the impressionable lad that I was... Now, where do you suppose fog comes from? The clouds, aye? An' my ma, she told me a story about a man who'd go out every evenin', an' rope the clouds t'make the fog. An' what do you think about that?"
The young woman laughs appreciatively. "I think it's a lovely story."
The conversation drifts elsewhere, this chance meeting as insubstantial and inconsequential as the fog...
...but it's familiar. It's a comfort.
It's enough.
Rating: G
Fandom: Star Trek
Character: Montgomery Scott
Summary: A vignette inspired by Wolf in the Fold. No possession, no murder, just a walk in the fog.
There had always been something about weather that made people want to tell stories about it. Myths, legends, folklore, songs... The list went on and on. There were stories about thunderstorms, stories about lighting, stories about the clouds in the sky and the wind on the hills and the rain, the sun... and the fog.
If there was one thing that any space traveler missed, it was weather. It didn't matter how long he'd been out in space, or how much he loved his ship; no matter that his ship was home to him. He would always miss the weather.
--
Areglius II isn't home, any more than Earth is home, nowadays. But it's familiar to the man walking through the dark streets arm in arm with the young lady he met only minutes before. The fog swirls around their feet, their passage leaving patterns in the mist. It isn't home, but it's a comfort.
They walk in silence a while, listening to the distant sounds of the city around them. "You're very quiet," the woman remarks softly, after the silence seems to become almost too heavy. "You're enjoying yourself...?"
The man smiles, a soft and warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he replies quietly, "Aye, lass, that I am." Again they fall into silence, a comfortable, easy-going sort of silence. The fog makes halos in the distant lights, shimmering like starlight.
"You said you would tell me about the fogs in... what was it called?"
"Aberdeen," he replies, turning his smile to the young woman. They stop to sit against a low stone wall, and he continues, "When I was but a wee young thing, my ma told me a story about the fog." He chuckles, shaking his head. "An' o' course I ate it right up, bein' the impressionable lad that I was... Now, where do you suppose fog comes from? The clouds, aye? An' my ma, she told me a story about a man who'd go out every evenin', an' rope the clouds t'make the fog. An' what do you think about that?"
The young woman laughs appreciatively. "I think it's a lovely story."
The conversation drifts elsewhere, this chance meeting as insubstantial and inconsequential as the fog...
...but it's familiar. It's a comfort.
It's enough.