Title: It's Peanut-Butter Jelly Time
Author: FunkyFish1991
Rating: T
Warnings: Mild/moderate language.
Characters: Scotty, Spock, Kirk, Uhura, Keenser.
Summary: It's been a bad couple of days. All Scotty wants is a sandwich.

So this is my first Star Trek fic :) It just popped into my head today and demanded to be written. Enjoy!

~ It's Peanut-Butter Jelly Time ~

Keenser just didn't get it, the little bugger. If he hadn't known any better – and by this point he wasn't entirely certain he did know any better – he would have said the overgrown barnacle was deliberately mocking him.

In fact, now that he thought about it, the walking cabbage was definitely taking the piss.

Nobody enjoys a peanut that much.

Of course it was that particular ruddy peanut that was responsible for his current situation. Indirectly. Or was it directly? Damn, he couldn't concentrate on anything but the desperate desire of his mouth to taste the wonderfully salty crunch of his own helping of peanuts before he started to drool like a bloodhound on the shiny floors of his beautiful lady. Keenser hadn't seemed too interested in sharing the rest of his packet of them, if the blasted sneak's rapid escape and juddering laughter as he hopped over the railing at the edge of the upper deck, landed squarely one deck down – in a move that Scotty would have broken his legs attempting to imitate, he had fortunately remembered through his ire with one leg slung over said railing – and practically skipped off out of view with the peanuts was any indication.

Of course, Scotty could spend all day blaming people. Right now the idea didn't seem as repulsive as he knew it should have. Because right now Scotty was mentally entertaining some quite possibly physically impossible means of taking out his frustration on the brown-haired nurse asking for his attention for God-only-knows-what.

"Look, kid," he began, oddly pleased at the twisting of the man's face – judging by the looks of those wrinkles on his eyes he was easily more than half a decade older than Scotty himself. "Ah cannae help ye right nah: Ah've got an important date in th'Mess."

"But, Sir, Dr. McCoy has specifically asked –"

"Aye, well yeh can tell that grumpy bastard where he ken shove it," Scotty almost snapped. In fact he was this close to snapping in two senses of the verb. "He's gonnae wait his turn like the rest of the sodding crew."

With that he turned on his heel, irrationally irritated by the squeak of his boot on the floor, and stomped for the turbolift at the far end of the engineering deck. He'd purposefully taken this corridor 'cause he knew that this was the one nobody liked to use. Something preposterous about a smell in the walls. But he was in no mood to be seeing people right now – it was just back luck – or possibly the sourpuss CMO's obviously obsessive behavior and probable use of the ship's crewman-locating functions – that had led the brunet nurse down here to accost him, and now left him standing in the same spot Scotty had stomped away from with his mouth threatening to drop right open.

Well it wasn't Scotty's fault he was in a bloody bad mood. He was only human after all; and dealing with the stress of meeting some bat-crazy old Vulcan 'from the future', almost drowning/being churned into human pot pourri by the internal systems of the starship Enterprise, becoming the impromptu Chief Engineer of said Starfleet flagship, facing the destruction of his home planet after gaining knowledge of the total destruction of another, attacking a grouchy greenish lunatic allegedly also from the future – and damn him if he wasn't gonna get someone to explain that to him at some point – into his own impossible black hole before hurling their warp cores into the aforementioned black hole and blowing them up – and how in the hell had he thought that was a good idea anyway? – to escape with their lives, followed by several hours waiting for Starfleet to send someone out and save them the sixteen-month journey back to Earth sans warp drive and then the past two days of fully incompetent Federation-issue baboons whom Scotty didn't trust within three decks of his Engineering scuttling around like haphazard insects, getting their clumsy hands all over his ship's abused mechanics. But acting-Captain Kirk insisted that they needed the cretins to help install the new warp drive reactor cores ASAP so they could get the hell home and recover from possibly the worst mission in Starfleet history.

On one – or two, maybe – levels, Scotty agreed with the young man. He wasn't a half-bad guy, really, but on the other hand Montgomery Scott was in a rare but fearsome Bad Mood and wasn't feeling too charitable towards the man he held personally responsible for unleashing the scurrying underlings he'd been attempting to keep from trashing his beautiful new ship into the belly of Engineering.

He resolutely ignored the distinctly unpleasant stench down the unused hallway as he approached the turbolift. When he reached it at the end of the hall and was stunned into staggering backwards several steps by means of his forehead connecting with a door that did not slide open, he let out an internal tirade of curses that would have had most of the Enterprise's crew blushing in embarrassment. Clearly the door was part of the network of systems damaged by the 'future' guy's final attack.

Damn it all.

It only took him a moment to contemplate heading back down to use the more conventional means of access to the rest of the ship – and run the risk of encountering all the people there who he would swear up and down were intentionally trying to wind him up – before whipping his tools from his belt and tearing apart the turbolift's control panel.

In the midst of his work (which was itself occurring in the midst of a litany of profanity that would at home have gotten his mouth thoroughly cleansed with sanitizer), Scotty was discovered.

"Mr. Scott."

The engineer's shoulders hunched over in a disproportionate rush of anger as he crouched on the floor. He forced himself, teeth clenched, hands clawed, the whole she-bang, to relax a tad, and turned to face the only Vulcan currently serving in Starfleet, who was regarding him with a face that was mostly neutral, save the slight tightening of his eyes which conveyed a sense of puzzlement.

"Commander." He managed through gritted teeth to sound vaguely normal, if less jolly than usual.

It seems he didn't fool the commander though. For a guy who'd spent who-knows-how-many years – didn't Vulcans age weird? Just because he looked like he was in his mid- to late-twenties didn't mean he was – training himself to ignore his emotions, he seemed oddly perceptive to those of others.

And where in the hell did that thought come from? He cursed his natural instinct to gleefully study anything and everything that came into his sphere of attention and shot his focus back to the situation at hand.

"Mr. Scott," the Vulcan repeated. And damn, what was his name? "The bridge has been attempting to make contact with you for the past fourteen minutes. May I inquire as to your lack of response?"

Although from the glance the commander cast the control panel behind Scotty (whose wires were hanging morbidly out of it like disemboweled organs), he was getting a vague idea of the situation, if not the reasons behind it.

"Aye," Scotty patted around his middle but remembered in a flash that only intensified his simmering anger that he had in fact left his communicator way back in Engineering after consulting with one of the lieutenants on some disabled couplings on Deck 9. "Bugger."

An upswept eyebrow rose a fraction in response.

"Ah dun have it on me," Scotty informed the Vulcan, even more annoyed about it after having said it out loud. He didn't mean to sound pissy, but that's pretty much how it came out anyway.

"Very well," came his reply, and Scotty got the impression the other man was mostly satisfied with this explanation. His next sentence, however, made him ball his hand into a quaking fist. "May I then inquire as to your current activity? I was under the impression that the installation of the new warp –"

"Bloody hell!" Scotty interrupted with a dramatic flail of his arms. If the commander was displeased with being cut off so rudely Scotty couldn't see any indication. "All I want is a ruddy peanut, is that so much to ask?!"

There was a moment, just a very short moment, when Scotty became certain the commander was seconds from calling security to come drag him off to the brig as a crazy man. Already he was pretty sure his superior officer wasn't exactly fond of him. Their first meeting was… to put it mildly, kinda disastrous. After all, if Scotty found a sopping wet stowaway on his bridge accompanied by someone he clearly already didn't like, who hedged around his questions and treated him with a confused lack of respect, he'd certainly be a tad miffed.

But the moment passed, and the Vulcan's face fell back into complete neutrality.

"The power to damaged systems has been disabled from the bridge, as is protocol when damages sustained from unknown weapons are inflicted upon a Starfleet vessel," he calmly informed a visibly tense Scotty. So don't bother with the turbolift, his dark brown eyes clarified. "I will accompany you to the upper decks."

With that he rotated his tall frame and began to stride effortlessly back down the corridor. Scotty stood, a bit blindsided, stock still for a second or two before he gathered his tools from behind him, not bothering to close up the panel out of some spite at… someone. He followed after the commander at a brisk enough pace to draw abreast of him within less than a minute. The two paced side by side in total silence until they came close to the main structural bay of the ship, and someone yelled very loudly and very close something Scotty didn't even catch.

It was the noise though. It was the person trying to piss him off. He was being stupid and hypersensitive, he knew, but he just couldn't stem his own reaction to the sound. His entire body stiffened. Somewhere in the back of his mind he entertained the notion that if he had been with anyone but his present companion, he would have socked them in the face just to let out some of his anger. Obviously, he wouldn't, and didn't, and the doors slid open at that moment to reveal the bustle of Engineering.

If anyone approached him. Anyone. Anyone at all. If they dared, he'd give them a tongue-lashing they'd only ever had nightmares about.

And ho! An unsuspecting ensign. Scotty saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, barreling down the deck with a PADD in his hand and that look about him that said 'Sir, we've got another problem we need you to drop everything and come fix!'. Now, Scotty loved his job. He really, really loved it. But he was at the end of his long, long rope. He had a feeling this frustration, irritation and irrational anger had been building throughout his time on Delta Vega, and now that everything had come to a head he was going to go off like a ruddy supernova.

The ensign was seconds away. Scotty hoped the guy wasn't too fond of his nose.

But the unthinkable happened. There was a slight twitch of motion from the taller man standing beside him, and the red-shirted ensign practically skidded to a halt.

Scotty looked up in a blend of shock and surprise at his companion, and all he saw was that the Vulcan had turned his head towards the ensign. As far as Scotty could see, he hadn't even narrowed his eyes or anything.

Well, damn.

It was by no means an isolated event. As the two of them waded their way through Engineering to the bank of turbolifts on the other side, Scotty was shocked to find that nobody bothered him. Nobody shouted for him, nobody talked to him, nobody even said his name. The Vulcan commander was like a repulsive magnet, and Scotty didn't know whether it was because everyone respected him, he was in fact glaring them down and Scotty just couldn't see it, or because they were all scared shitless of him, but the way parted in front of them effortlessly and by the time they'd reached the turbolifts Scotty was less angry and more floating in an interesting field of suspended belief.

The commander stopped and turned to face Scotty in front of the lifts, with an inscrutable expression on his face. It was mostly blank, but there was definitely something in there that Scotty was in no state to decipher. The Vulcan offered him a single nod, which Scotty returned in acknowledgement, still in what felt a little bit like shock.

As the door cycled open to admit the other man, Scotty rapidly shook it off and darted forward a step.

"Ah, excuse me, Sir," The Vulcan half-turned to him in question. "Ah never caught yer name."

Not entirely true, but that sounded better than 'I forgot it'.

He was regarded calmly for a couple of long seconds, before his immediate superior's face relaxed an almost-imperceptible fraction and he suddenly seemed to Scotty just a tiny, tiny bit almost friendly.

"You may call me Commander Spock."

"Gotcha, Mr. Spock," he returned with a faint grateful flickering of his lips.

The glow of amusement in the commander's eyes was probably just in his imagination, and so he let the other man head up for the bridge in his turbolift after he gave him a gentle parting nod, and turned to the one next to it, thankful that it was empty and waiting for him.

His Gramma once relayed to him an expression for some reason he always found rather entertaining. 'There's no rest for the wicked', she'd said as he complained about chores or mind-numbingly facile homework or whatever was his current bug.

But really, was he an inherently evil person or something?

Because at the exact second he stepped out of the turbolift – less than ten feet from the door of the Mess Hall, so, so close to his peanuty relief – he was accosted by an ensign in a red shirt. The blood of the innocent, he thought darkly, staring at the red shirt with a weak loathing as the woman ran up to him in an exceedingly flustered manner.

He contemplated in that brief second that he hadn't eaten a scrap in 46 hours and that his stomach was about to digest itself in hunger.

"Mr. Scott!"

And so it was. There was an emergency down in Engineering and they'd contacted her – the closest crewman to Scotty at that moment – to fetch him like a dog fetched a stick and bounded with it back to its master. The damn fools down there had come bloody close to frying every circuit relay in the ship with their monumental stupidity while installing the cores, and there was no way Scotty wasn't going to go down there and save his ship's life.

And that was that.

It was almost two hours later that Scotty got a call from that woman in Communications he didn't know the name of either. He was tired. Bloody hell he was tired. And so hungry he felt sick. He'd gone long periods without proper food before, but damn, not this long. And not while so busy.

"Mr. Scott," her businesslike voice came through his communicator. "Please report to the bridge."

He wondered what would happen if he just hurled the little device against the nearest bulkhead.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Lieutenant," – For he was certain that was her rank. – "But Ah'd like ah quick break if yeh dun mind b'fore Ah give mah report."

There was a quick silence before her melodic voice was replaced with the no-less-calm and interestingly similarly melodic cadence of Commander Spock's over the line. "Mr. Scott." His voice was much harder than the lieutenant's. "Please report to the bridge immediately."

That wasn't a request, Scotty realized with a sinking feeling. He felt suddenly angry at himself for thinking that the Vulcan had been a decent guy earlier on. He had to know how long Scotty had been working. Dammit, Scotty'd been certain the commander had figured everything out when he'd found him blearily attempting to hack into the dysfunctional turbolift two hours earlier.

Obviously not. Since when were Vulcans renowned for their compassion?

"Aye, Commander," he replied grudgingly.

In between ending the transmission with the bridge and actually reaching it, Scotty had a while to contemplate. And by 'contemplate', he meant 'get himself all worked up again'. Because he had time to review it all, and his consideration of his earlier meeting with his commander had dredged back the memories of why he'd been in that position in the first place.

By the time the third turbolift cycled open and admitted him onto the bridge, Scotty was fuming. He was seething. He was… he couldn't even think of a good word. His eyes instantly fixed on the center of the bridge, where the baby-faced captain was sprawled in his chair, staring intently at something at one of the science stations. When he entered, the captain turned baby blue eyes to him, and his face broke into a grin.

Scotty's anger hit a peak at the sight of that smile.

He snapped.

"Scotty! Ab–"

"Yeh stop right there," he half-hissed-half-barked. That brought the young acting-captain up short. He froze just-risen out of his chair. "Ah have one bloody helluva bone ta pick with yeh, Captain Kirk. Ah told yeh not ta let those monkeys from Starfleet loose in th'ship but yeh said we needed 'em. Well did yeh hear they ruddy well almost fried yeh'all in yer seats just now?"

He was practically frothing at the mouth at this point, and he could see that the entire bridge had stopped and was staring at him in open-mouthed shock (some better disguised than others), but he did. Not. Care. He was really getting into it now.

"I dinnae who said –"

But his tirade this time was cut off by the captain at whom he was aiming the cannon of his fury.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Scotty!" He held up his hands in a placating manner, as though Scotty were some wild animal. "Before you go on, don't you want to see what we got for you?"

Scotty was about to snap back a retort that may very well have gotten him court marshaled for insubordination when his mind, if not his eyes, tracked the undercurrent of motion as everyone on the bridge turned minutely towards the science stations.

Then he saw it.

Sitting on the corner of the main station was a plate on which sat a pile of enticingly golden, gleaming crisps, a generous helping of mouth-wateringly colorful salad, and a double-decker sandwich cut neatly into two thick triangles.

All his mental function stopped when he saw that sandwich. He would never have been able to express how much he had wanted that sandwich until he saw it sitting there in front of him like a gift from heaven.

As if to encourage him, Kirk gestured towards the plate with both hands, grinned, and said in a sing-song voice, "It's PB and J…"

Seconds later the sandwich was in Scotty's mouth, and he was chewing a bite far too big for it with his eyes closed and his lips upturned in a delighted, stupidly content smile.

Presently, after easily consuming half the sandwich and a goodly number of chips – salt and vinegar, he had realized gleefully – his gaze travelled to the occupant of the science station at which he was standing to scarf the food. The second triangle froze with his teeth delved deeply into it, and Scotty caught the brown eyes of the Vulcan commander.

They maintained eye contact for a fraction of a second before nodding once at each other respectfully, when Mr. Spock turned back to his work and Scotty returned to his long, long-awaited sandwich.