âStill Wakes The Deep, Second Chance AUâ
âThe shenanigans Aboard/The Aftermath & The epilogueâ
â(Unfinished) History Lesson, a David Rennick x Cameron âCazâ McLeary ficâ
The hinges on the old door groaned, protesting against the turning of the key, protesting against the shove from David Rennickâs shoulder as he forced the old office open. He ruled the Beria D like a king, forties spent collaborating with Cadal Oil Ltd, building the delta bit by bit, building the entire rig block by block. Fifties spent reinforcing the frames, strengthening the supports while approving of the addition of cheaper safety railings, safety doors and gates. Sixties devoted to maintaining the Beria D, devoted to protecting the Beria D minus the handful of times where heâd depart to spend the holidays or to spend what accumulated sick-days left unused with his family. The sunset had passed long ago but the Beria Dâs lights still painted the twilight within hues of orangish-pink, a poor imitation of the sunsetâs shimmer that he loved, that he adored. The installation manager paused directly at the threshold to his âhiddenâ cabin, the earlier warmth heard from the canteenâs laughter tugged at the corners of his lips, spreading further and further into his hardened heart as the familiar scent of salt, brine, blood and diesel filled the staleness. Surrounded by soundproofed walls, shut portholes and woolen rugs spread across the floorboards to swallow the distant shouting, to swallow the distant settling of steel and distant grinding of gears on the oil rig, the installation manager breathed a heavy sigh. The cabin was a rare pocket of silence heâd called âhomeâ but tonight, tonight the cabin felt empty, felt lonely, cavernous compared to him. Everything was too big, too quiet and too empty which was why heâd invited Cameron McLeary, His Caz, into his quartersâto fill the silence.
âIâm gonna get comfortable, alright? Join me if you want, thereâs no pressure,â David Rennickâs voice carried across the cabinâs expanse, his stormy-gray eyes stealing a glance at the electrician while he, the king of the Beria D, hesitantly shrugged off the company coat heâd worn as a second skin for years. His fingers moved with practiced ease, undoing the tieâs knot until it loosened. The garment landed with a soft thud against the rug right before the tie was yanked free from his scarred throat, tossed atop the crumpled coat. The electrician, whoâd been halfway through trying to get his own jumpsuit off which wouldâve left him in nothing other than a black undershirt and black shorts, turned back to the manager and froze. Wordlessly, they watched, fascinated and horrified when the shirt slipped off of the installation managerâs shoulders and revealed a mess of scars, heâd undid it button by button, tug by tug and shrugged it off as unceremoniously as heâd shrugged off the company coat. Beneath the older manâs clothes, faded bruises spread across his skin like smudges on a watercolored canvas, fingerprints on his ribs, thumbprints on his hips, sickly splotches scattered against the managerâs weathered body. The keloid scars mapped across his bruised, battered frame stood out the most, memories of brutality, lessons learnt and endured over the older manâs lifetime.
âJesus Christ,â Cameron McLeary breathed, his hazelnut eyes tracing the topographical nightmare of the older manâs torso, every scar was an entry to a ledger, every bruise was an overdue invoice. The electricianâs fingers twitched like he wanted to touch, to learn each broken bit but he didnât dare. âWho the hellâd you piss off? The entire Royal Navy?â, he tried to joke, his throat clicked dry on the last word. âThe Navy wouldnât have made this much of a messâ, David Rennick snorted, gesturing vaguely to the roadmap of scars across his torso, the sound of his voice rasped like sandpaper against metal but there was something almost amused beneath it. âIf it was, Iâd only have the two holes in my gut, none of the extrasâ, he mused, settling himself against the edge of his mattress before beckoning the fugitive closer with the tilt of his head. âYou act like youâve never seen scars before, McLeary,â David murmured, the stormy-gray of his eyes locked with the younger manâs brighter, warmer hazelnut. âHavenât, at least not as many as this. I know youâre a right bastard most of the time but goddamn, howâd you even get this many?â, Cameron McLeary asked, his fingers finally finding perchance against the crescent-shaped keloid curled around the managerâs waistlineâa relic from a cable snapping mid-haul, slicing through him like a knife through softened butterâbefore tracing upwards towards the stab wound beneath his collarbone, courtesy of his ex-wifeâs brother-in-law. âFirst one? A cable came loose when I was a roughneck, wrapped around me like a fucking snake. Second one? My exâs brother-in-law didnât take kindly to the divorce,â David Rennick answered, uncharacteristically relaxed beneath the fugitiveâs hesitant touch.
âAnd whatâs the story behind these two?â Cameron Mclearyâs calloused fingertips hovered above the twin bullet wounds punched into the managerâs lower abdomen, the ex-boxerâs voice wavered with its usual bravado. âBrother-in-law again or another happy family reunion?â, he prodded, trying to lighten the mood while simultaneously tracing the rim of the old wounds. David Rennick exhaled through his nose, a rough chuckle escaped from his lips while he leaned back against the mattress, âWorse, her uncle. Thought that trying to ambush me at the docks would âget rid of the problemâ for her. I got lucky I wasnât alone and as much as he annoys the fuck outta me sometimes, thereâs reasons as to why I keep Addair around, thatâs one of themâ, David admitted, shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable while the ex-boxer continued his exploration of his battered frame. âMcLeary, quick question, you always this curious when someone invites you to fuckinâ sleep or is this somethinâ new? Youâre treatinâ me like Iâm some prized exhibit at a museumâ, David Rennick remarked with an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes even as a slight smirk tugged at his lips. Cameron Mclearyâs fingers stilled at the jab, his hazel eyes flickered upwards to meet David Rennickâs stormy grey eyes, âYouâre the one who started taking your clothes off first, didnât exactly give me much of a choiceâ, he retorted with a smirk of his own, shifting his attention towards the trio of jagged scars carved deep into the installation managerâs ribs and shoulders. His thumb brushed against the roughest of the three, David Rennick chuckled at first before turning his head slightly to look the fugitive directly in the eyes. âThat happened in a bar fight, someone was runninâ their mouth and after downing a bottle and a half, I didnât appreciate the bastardâs tone, swung first and everything gets bit hazy afterââŚSound familiar at all, Caz?â, David Rennick questioned with an all too knowing grin, watching as the ex-boxerâs smirk faltered before he jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow, knocking the wind out of him. âRudeâ, Cameron Mcleary muttered, shaking his head while David Rennick wheezed with laughter. âWorth itâ, David Rennick rasped, grinning as he rolled onto his side to cough while Cameron McLeary sighed and laid down next to him.
The minute heâd gotten comfortable, the installation manager rolled back over and slotted himself right against his chest, ear pressed directly above the ex-boxerâs heartbeat. âAlright thenâŚnot sure what I expected was gonna happen, do I at least make for a decent pillow?â, Cameron McLeary huffed, wrapping his arms around the older manâs torso, fingers tracing the constellation of faded marks earned during petty brawls, bar fights and rig accidents, a lifetime etched effortlessly onto his body. The manager winced when he pressed himself flush against the electricianâs chest, the herniated disc in the middle of his backside, the silent companion in each and every step that heâd took, ached. The burns seared into his left arm shimmered within the dimmed lights of his bedroom, patchworks of thickened skin stretched taut across the muscle. âThe rest areâŚletâs say, mostly from the rig, accidents, fuck-ups, whatever else might happen on these godforsaken platforms. A handful are from scrapes, petty brawls, bar fights. Nothinâ interesting, reallyâ, David Rennick rasped, shrugging his shoulders dismissively. âIâd beg to fuckinâ differ, youâre one of the most interestinâ blokes Iâve metâ, Cameron McLeary snorted, shaking his head before hesitating for a second, âthe burnsââŚwhatâre those from? If you donât mind me askinââ, Cameron McLeary argued back before the earlier curiosity came back, subtlety readjusting so the older manâs spine stopped its constant protest. âThe BeriaâAhem, My Beriaâs second year. The Flarestack had aâŚHiccup. I panicked, figured I could fix it, didnât hear Anderson shouting for me, poor fucker had a front-row view when it charred me. Third degree on the arm, second on the thighâ, David Rennick exhaled, flexing his arm until the scars caught the light, a grotesque latticework of melted flesh that made the electricianâs stomach twist. âThatâs all Iâve got, aside from my throat. We both know how that one happened. So, what about you, Caz? Whatâs the story in your scars?â, David Rennick murmured, tracing the jagged knot of tissue along McLearyâs collarbone, the remnants of a bottle smashed mid-brawl before pressing his lips to it, kissing the scar with the same reverence that the younger man had traced his own scars with.
âBit hypocritical for you to ask after the âyou always this curiousâ, comment,â Cameron McLeary muttered, but his breath hitched when the mangerâs teeth scraped lightly over the raised ridge of his collarbone scar. The electricianâs fingers tightened reflexively against the managerâs ribs, thumbs pressing into the spaces between bone, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to anchor. âGot this one at nineteenâ, he admitted, voice roughening. âPub near the docks. Some drunkard called my sister a name. Bottle met my shoulder before I met his face, he walked away limping, I didnâtâ, Cameron McLeary recounted, the words came out clipped, bitter, but his fingers loosened when David Rennick exhaled against his skin. âKingâs are allowed to be hypocritical. You took the time to learn mine, Iâm learning yours even if it takes all night. Go on, tell me about the rest, starting with this oneâ, David Rennick prompted, tracing another scarâa thin, surgical line along the younger manâs bicep with his thumb. âThat one? Boxingâ, McLeary answered simply, shrugging. âGot cocky in the ring once, tore a ligament. Doc said Iâd never throw a proper punch againâ, he grinned, crookedly before continuing, âI proved the bastard wrong.â
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