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It was a commonly fact forgotten by you that the longer you spent down in the sublevels of the ship, the warmer it seemed to get, and by this point the back of your shirt was entirely soaked with sweat. You’d already considered making trips to the lift lock to wring out your headband into the pool of water, dip your hands in to splash some on your face while you were at it, but you trudged on, moving from room to room, inspecting and re-inspecting the machinery, making sure there wasn't anything too out of place before the mission later today and went top-side. The last thing you wanted was a group-wide penalty for not conducting any repairs no matter how slight. The lovely Ms. Martin was known to be petty enough to do that.
So, here you were, down in the trenches of the ship, sweating your ass off, taking your little power drill from place to place, and so far so good, apart from the occasional brow raising grind or rumble from a cooling unit, which actually ended up fixing itself when you gave it a really hard slap on the top courtesy of Cobb that one time when he was in a pinch with Jones.
Moving down to the walkways farther from the living area, mainly to get away from Sixpack after he gawked at you for the sixth time already today, and more towards the lift, keys on your lanyard jingling as you brushed your way through the diving suits, inspecting and seeing if anything needed to be patched before the next scheduled dive today. By your third inspection you thought it was a good thing you did, managing to catch a little punch no wider than an embroidery needle in the foot of DeJesus’ suit, breathing a sigh of relief while you were heating up the rubber adhesive to cover the puncture reminded that even something that small could kill with the lethal pressure that came with being two miles below the surface. He'd be one of the people going down, and you were grateful he wasn't part of the first group that had gone. The last thing you needed was something gruesome happening a few days before topside, and despite your sweating you were glad to do it.
However, it didn't manage to dampen your frustration with Beck, who had basically been book coding you at every turn. Well, it was moreso everyone if you were being honest, but it felt like more and more it was becoming your problem. Can't do this, can't do that, you have to do this before you do that, I'm gonna have to report you for this, just words words words, which was a damn shame since he was the least hideous person on the sub. It got to the point that the room kind of just clamped up when he walked in it, aside from Williams of course, who spoke with her perfect teeth and poised English towards him, and you sighed as if that would push the thought from your mind before the loud whine of the intercom jolted you out of your stupor, your eyes instinctively shooting up to the speaker nestled in the upper corner of the wall. It was your last name crackling through, Jones talking, and you swear you could hear Bowman's excited voice filtering through from the background, “Get down to the mess will you? Got something from the dive earlier- gonna want to see it.”
You were just about to start working on the lift, finally get to the bottom of the grating noise it'd been making, but instead you mumbled with a sigh, “Be right up,” setting down your drill on top of a power box and heading through the doorway and off down the grated walkway.
-
“Look at all these pictures! Gotta be at least 15 years old, some older.”
“Yeah, wonder how much they'd sell for,” Sixpack said as he held up a picture of a group of young women, the sepia tones of the picture only intensifying its age, “look at the pair on that one,” he murmurs, giving the poor girl a flick before Beck plucks it from his hand and places it face down on the table, quietly moving onto another picture.
“Looks like,” he remarks as he slips on his readers to ease his squint, you stifling a threatening smile- so does Bowman- “commander and crew,” he goes on unknowing, “with another caption in Russian,” he finishes, shaking his head and tossing it back onto the strewn pile, taking the glasses back off and slipping them in his shirt pocket.
“Well,” you hear, turning to see Sixpack rifling through the rusty recovered locker, “I don't need to read Russian to know what this is!”
He's dangling a glass bottle by the neck, a little more than half empty. And, yes, he was right, you didn't need to know Russian to know what perfectly enjoyable vodka looked like. Everyone except Beck and Williams erupt into a fit of overlapping voices and smiles, not having seen anything that wasn't water or Pepsi for two months, and the camaraderie lasts for maybe seven seconds before Beck cuts in with that 10-minute Manager voice, “I'd have to report you for contraband.”
Like every other time he speaks up, it instantly kills the mood, and the table falls out in sighs, Jones awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and Cobb throwing a hand in the air as he rubs at his eye. Even you're about to take in a breath and say something, not really believing you're about to stand up for Sixpack when the Doc walks in, hands in his pockets, awkwardly shuffling into the circle with the rest, mouth tight because he knows he takes his sweet time every single time he's called, segueing with, “So, what'd we find?”
Williams passes him a handful of snapshots, “Personal belongings from a sunken Russian sub. Sixpack found them.”
He looks, flips through a couple, mumbling, then a few more, putting them down then picking up another pile, eyes roving over, “Just family snapshots some of the crew brought along. Wives, siblings, family friends, birthdays, holidays, things like that.
Then he puts them down, “I just didn't think they'd be so old.”
You hear Beck, “What do you mean?”
Doc reaches over and points at one of the pictures laying on top and everyone twists their neck to look. Looks like a family squished onto a couch, a mother, teenage daughter, and two little boys. “That's Christmas, 1960.” It made sense, given the hairstyles and the tinsel tree, but that makes you wonder, “How do you know it's 1960?”
He reaches back over and gives a tap to the caption lining the bottom, “Says it right there,” like it's the weather report. Beck is on it quick, handing him one of the files, “Could you maybe read these too? Translate whatever you can?”
“Whatever I can?” Doc remarked, sounding a bit haughty as he undid the string, “no one told you I was fluent?”
“Why would they?” Cobb rasped, leaning into the table, “when would knowing that matter?”
“Never,” you snort, crossing your arms, “not until now, and nothing important. I know what vodka is.”
“Ain't that the truth,” Bowman comments between a smack of gum and a small smirk when she and you are chided by Beck, running her thumb repeatedly along the edges of a stack of playing cards, the flicking noise almost sounding like water to your ears.
SixPack still is not very happy with being threatened with a report when the “contraband” wasn’t there to his knowledge until the locker was brought up, and he’s taken to swiveling in a nearby chair, watching the interaction while he gnaws on his thumbnail instead of joining which earns him a few eyes without comment. Aside from that the rest of the gathering seems to go smoothly, Doc being able to disclose that every single profile of the crew from the sub is labeled as “deceased,” and tucked away on a video tape the captain logging a regrettable decision to fire a self-inflicted torpedo at their own ship. Doc may have been talking over the tape to translate as it played but the waver in the captain’s voice, the fear and doubt lingering beneath his features, the way his hands wouldn’t stay still; something clearly had that entire boat spooked. Too spooked, and nobody had to speak to know that everyone was asking themselves the same thing: “Why?”
What virus? Where did it come from?
How did it spread? The air? By touch?
The deceased captain voiced the same questions that all had the same consensus: nobody knows.
It was too much to think about, but you weren’t able to tear your eyes away from the still shot of the tape ending, the door behind him cracked open with a glimpse of a hand peeking through as the captain with his eyes looking a little wide like he was caught off guard, quickly darting forward to turn off the camera like he couldn’t be seen doing what he was doing. And you blew air out of your cheeks at the sinking feeling you had that he didn’t tell his crew a single thing about what he planned to do.
“You’re not gonna do that are you, Beck?”
Heads turn to see SixPack leaned back with his feet propped up on the mess table, tilting his head and cracking a can open, some of it spraying onto a photo as he continues, “You know, blow us up when you get too rattled?”
Finally, something interesting, seems enough to render Beck speechless for a few seconds which gives Williams a chance to try and defend him, “Knock it off SixPack,” while he sighs out of his nose and pinches the bridge of it, "You just love being a pain, don’t you?” SixPack just takes a sip, grinning.
You’re able to stop your brows from shooting up in your own surprise, but you figure now would be the best time to leave before the tension in the room explodes and suffocates you as much as you’d love to see the verbal fight about to take place, your feet start moving to take you back to where you were tinkering in the lower levels. They take you right past Cobb, then Bowman, then DeJesus, then Beck, and as he’s right next to you, you lean in to whisper, “Can’t blame him, look who he deals with.” As you keep walking you slow to turn to look over your shoulder to see that he’s done the same, the crease between his brows clear, those pretty blue eyes squinted and that mouth turned down, but even with your quick glance, it doesn’t look like anger, it actually looks like you stunned him, and not in a good way, more like a sad way.
You keep walking.
-
Back down at the lift, you’ve been messing with the deadlift for a little over half an hour, tightening and untightening bolts and gears, removing and inspecting screws and the wiring, spraying with WD-40, anything to figure out where that horrible groaning is coming from that rattles your chest when you engage the lift, raising and lowering it every time you adjust something. None of it seems to want to do anything, the same result. Time to get your hands really dirty, you suppose. Instead of working on the things that always stay dry, you figure you should work where the equipment takes the brunt of the load, where it actually touches and lowers into the water. It’s not your favorite place to be standing, which is why you avoided it at first, it's only a small metal platform being the thing that separates from the deep. It also isn’t helping that you have to stand in absolutely ice cold water that touches just above the knee to work on anything lift related. Water that you can’t see into whatsoever, which is a bigger motivator than it being almost freezing temperature laps against your skin to make you violently shiver, the contrast of the rest of your body being exposed to the heat of the room being your only saving grace to be able to stay planted.
However, as determined as you are, it's only minutes and your toes can’t last much longer, they’re so cold they’re starting to hurt, and as you’re screwing something into place you dumbly think, well, that can’t be good. Then there’s a small splash that sounds, immediate to attract your attention given how insanely loud it is compared to the usual quiet that small pool of water brings. It’s not too far from where your feet are, and when you look down there’s the small remains of a ripple fading that just barely reaches you, and as much as you want to tell yourself how fucking weird that is, there’s a small notion to give to yourself that that isn’t entirely uncommon. Some sea creatures are more curiously bold than others because of the light, surfacing just like a fish would in a canal; just to see, but either way… best be getting out.
Practically throwing your drill with a clatter onto the floor something tells you to keep your eyes on the water as you hoist up one freezing wet leg with a groan. Nothing so far, ready to bring up the other when halfway through the motion there’s a louder splash and a lunge that happens in the blink of an eye. Then pressure, true to god pressure, fully wrapping around the underside of your calf to make you jump out of your skin if you could with a shout. Twisting to look as your leg kicks wildly trying to pull it up and out, there's an arm, sickly pale and slimy, claws at least four inches long with the tips painfully digging into your skin. Whenever you pull, it pulls, and this thing is strong, strong enough that you have your doubts you'll be able to make this thing let go and get out unscathed. Or alive.
Using everything you have you pull, hard, and the arm responds by pulling your leg back harder, enough for the claws to draw blood, to make you lose your knuckle-whitening grip a little and let your knee slip under the water. For some reason it didn't occur to you until now to start screaming for help.
The word “help” wasn't even coming out of your mouth, just screaming. Shrill screaming and incessant thrashing getting more feverish every second. Luckily, before it got a chance to pull you any further, you have the brains to look up and see your drill, just a few inches away where you threw it, and you thank whoever's up there that you didn't throw it far.
With a loud grunt, you throw your arm up, practically slamming it against the metal grating to grab your drill, gasping when you feel another sharp pull at your leg but at the same time a glimmer in yourself at the fact that the drill bit was waiting sharp and at the ready. Well, as sharp as a Phillips head could get.
It seems like the second it's in your hand and you twist back around ready to strike, more of its body had emerged, and it is ugly. More of that disgusting pale flesh, a face, if you can even call it that, with what could be dozens of misplaced teeth and elongated limbs sticking out of the wrong places. And the fish stench that came off of it was enough to nearly make you reel. As terrified as you were you didn't hesitate, fearfully pressing down on the trigger of the drill and driving it right into the front of its head, grimacing at the vile sound of machinery against wet flesh and the whipping and frothing of blood.
You're surprised to find it even bleeds red, there's a piercing shriek that sounds out, louder than the grind of the drill and you hope the worst is over, that it'll let you go and go back to its abode in the depths and never show itself again, when your mouth drops open at the ripping of skin. Not the creatures- your own; its last retaliation before it lets go being to drag its claws down the length of your calf, and once you look down to see the blood in the wake of the retracting claw, the rest of the body sinking back into the water with a low, angry growl. Now you're the one that's shrieking. It takes seconds before your body acts, but you scramble out of the water and up the platform, heaving onto the deck and rolling over with tears pricking your eyes now that the pain was starting to settle in, searing despite the adrenaline. You're sure you can't move, and you pray the incoming pound of footsteps against the grate is help. It gets a bit blurry after that.
You're off the floor, air rushing against you which feels horrible against your bleeding gash, and the sound of your own whining and grunting vaguely reaches your ears even though it sounds like it's underwater and a mile away. You're not even coherent enough to know who's rescuing you, and once you feel your back hit something to lay down, there's another bit of light and low voices that filter through before you're out.
-
When you finally manage to wrap your fingers around a sliver of consciousness, you don't open your eyes right away, too tired, feeling you could go back under any second, only enough energy to listen. It's quiet, the hum of machinery and shifting of the sub not quite reaching your ears as you slowly start to notice what feels like a brick in your chest and in your head, taking deeper breaths through your nose little by little to try and clear it. As if the growing throbbing in your head couldn't overwhelm you enough, there was something else starting to bother you, it felt like a dull ache.
Your leg.
With a sharp inhale, you sit up faster than your body is ready to handle, your head immediately feeling like it got hit with a brick, sparking into an angry headache as you prop on an elbow to look down, freezing at the sight of bandages wrapping the length of your entire left calf. There was a bit of blood soaking through, some dried and brown that made you realize as you stared: It was real, all of it, and it sends your heart in a frenzy. You don't know why, but the thought comes into your head, you need to make an attempt to move, to bring it up and over to try and put both feet on the floor, get off of this bunk and get out of this room. Looking around, it looks like any other room for sleeping that's on the sub, bed, sink, mirror, but it isn't yours.
That's enough for you to want to leave. With a shaky breath and a grimace, you roll over as slowly as you can. Even though your wound hasn't spoken up yet your entire body is on high alert, won't sit still, every position just feels wrong, like it seems to know that one wrong move will hurt you before it helps you and. Trying to even your breathing, you feel a little bit better when you get to place one foot on the freezing floor, and as simple as the act is, it feels like your head is swimming, your heart is overexerted, and every time you close your eyes too long it feels like you'll vomit. You swear the room is tilting a bit when you start to move the other leg, and of course in your state of waking up much too fast, you miscalculate, not fully realizing just how far up the gash reached and how tender the skin still was.
As soon as you try to bend your leg, the bandage digs into the soft skin behind your knee and your throat works into a strangled cry as white stars sparks at the top of your vision. The next breath that you take in feels like nothing at all from how your chest has tightened, and the pain is so severe that your hands are trembling, wrenched into the sheets as fat tears track down your cheeks. The rest come like a flood, the sound of your sobs starting to echo on the walls of the tiny steel room, the pain in your leg pulsing in time with your heart, feeling like your chest is palpitating more than beating from how hard your heart pounds. It doesn't help that your brain and body are confused as to why thoughts and movements aren't coordinating. It doesn't make sense, any of it.
The screech of steel goes in one ear and out the other in your pained stupor, and you nearly jump out of your skin for the second time today when hands land on your uninjured leg, a low voice speaking to you as it grips to maneuver it all while you completely miss the string of curses that go with it, and even after your unhurt leg is back on the bed, it seems the rest of your body doesn't want to follow suit. You're still twisted at an angle propped on your elbows like you still plan on getting off the bed racked with gasps and tears. Taking in a breath that makes your chest tremble, the stranger that was grabbing you kneels into your line of view, and you're met with a pair of blue eyes, familiar even through your tear clumped lashes to know. It's Beck. As if this couldn't get any worse. You couldn't even look at him, of course the person you couldn't stand is the one to see you at your lowest, weak and crying like a baby. If anything it makes you cry harder since he's surprisingly quiet unlike your expectation, no trace of smugness, sternness, no comment coming out of his mouth, he's just there, looking at you with furrowed brows like he's thinking about something while you cry.
Trying to stop while he's watching is so much harder than you wish it was, and you resort to clamping your mouth shut, sniffling a little too aggressively, red-rimmed eyes to try and stop the sobs when they widen at his hands moving up towards your face. Tracking his movements they get even wider when fingers brush your forehead to gently start swiping away stray hairs that are stuck to your sweat damp skin. Your chest trembles again with more fresh tears to follow, but no sobs. Regardless, he's on it, thumbing away the tears before they have a chance to track down your face.
He does it again. Then again. Then under his breath, barely there as you sniffle, he mutters, “Quite the cry you had there.”
You don't even want to bother with a response, feeling too sluggish to do that now, and maybe he knows that because he stands and there's a pang in your chest at the thought that he might be leaving and you make a small noise when he gets a little too far away, but he pulls something out from a little slot in the wall, walking back over to unfold what looks like a little step stool, setting it down by your side and settling onto it. Resting an elbow on the bed, you don't expect him to put a hamd on your chest, start pushing in a way that says lay the fuck back down, and you listen with a small grunt, shifting with a sniffle to lay on your side to look at him, blinking through tears at him.
“Quite the fight you put up too.” Beck's eyes drift down to your bandaged leg, “Saw it on the cameras at just the right time, you got lucky.” He doesn't look away, only shaking his head and lightly scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “Shit, I got lucky.” That, you weren't sure what he was trying to say, but he pivoted onto something else before you had too much time to dwell onto it. “Uh, listen, that thing you were up against, I don't know what it was but it's gone,” he's sounding a little uneasy, like he's not so sure. He's looking anywhere but at you. “I put the lift down so nothing can get in, and I'm,” he breathes in, still not having looked you in the eye, his hand coming down just next to your leg and patting the sheet just once like he wants to but just isn't, “I'm requesting an early pickup. No one else is going down there,” his eyes meet yours when he says that.
As nice as it sounded, early pickup meant pay dock, which was bound to piss everyone else off, and you opened your mouth to speak before he held his hand up to cut you off, “I spoke to everyone about it, they don't want to stick around if there's something creeping around that's tearing people up, believe me.”
The crease in your brows immediately let up, but regardless you searched his face for anything that said he might be lying or just saying something to make you feel better even though you knew he wouldn't.
You didn't find it. But then again he wasn't one to lie.
"And," he continued, "I'm trying to push for us to get full pay anyway, but you know Martin, she's fighting it." As jumbled as your thoughts are even you know the answer to that will probably be a no, but it's a gesture to you regardless, a kind one that he hasn't extended on the two missions you've been on together.
The adrenaline from your waking was wearing off, and after only being awake for a few minutes you felt your eyes drooping, hiding the glaze in them by looking down to run a fingernail along the sheets just a few inches from where his forearm was resting before you meet his eyes again. "You mean it?" It was breathy, weak from your condition, but a slight curve of your lips and a glint of awe in your eye was enough for him to not even think of saying otherwise, a similar smile crossing his face, hands reaching for yours. "Yeah, you know it." The way he looked at you nearly sent you into cardiac arrest and for sure there was a reddening of your cheeks, the crinkle around your eyes too strong when you giggled.
Then there was still, a few seconds as your smiles died down where nobody moved, nobody spoke. Once you started, you weren't sure if he would point it out, but your eyes were shamelessly roving over his face, looking at the finite details now that you were close enough. There was a point where you felt his hands squeeze, thumb running over your knuckles when you glanced at his mouth, hands wrapping yours until a look crossed your features, almost like shock, which confused him into thinking something was wrong. Until he realized just how close he'd managed to bring your hand to his face, your knuckles barely brushing the stubble on his cheek. He didn't even notice when he did it, and from the look on your face he was starting to regret it.
The flexing of your finger against his jawline immediately snapped his brain into thinking otherwise. On the other hand, you couldn't stop thinking about how much bigger his hands were, rough and warm compared to yours and you couldn't stop thinking about it as you studied the dirty blond of his hair, the subtle grey starting to blend into his beard, how intensely blue his eyes seemed this close. How handsome he seemed this close. Then you remembered you probably needed to start breathing again.
It's like a spell being broken, "Jesus," he starts once his brain caught up, hands letting yours go like he'd been burned and you let it hang uselessly in the air, a bit surprised and disappointed. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing," he runs a hand down his face, sighing heavily with a humorless laugh as he slumps a bit, fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose and you have to admit you feel a little bad. But only a little.
"God," he groans, fingers digging a little harder, and you see the way his eyes crease, crows feet becoming a little more prominent and his blond hair shifting with the tilt of his body, "I don't, I don't know what I'm doing I don't know." It sounds more like he's trying to convince himself, like you care. Your eyes have locked onto something else as you settle more into the bed.
The hand that was hanging uselessly in the air now puts its pointer finger to use, carelessly flicking against his ear. He makes a little startled noise, his hands quickly prying away from his face, and he looks at you with this crease between his brows that only show confusion, "What-"
"Hippie."
The crease hardens. "What?"
Your words slur a bit, "Didn't know by-the-book Beck was a hippie in his day," you flick it again, reminding him of the unoccupied piercing he had there, smiling at his expression. Covering the ear with a hand his face immediately softens again at your grin, and he looks away like a kind of nervous kid. "I was actually a punk," he softly corrects, playfully swatting at your hand.
The mental image you have can't stay contained, the thought of him with an earring and a leather jacket and maybe even a motorcycle just makes you start laughing, a blush spreading on your cheeks you try to cover up, but it peeks through your fingers. Beck's confused, "What?" makes you laugh harder, then your laughing starts making him laugh, and when your hand flicks at his ear again, he grabs it, holding it as laughter fills the room.