Chapter Text
The monotonous, almost hypnotic hum of the office ventilation seemed to grow noticeably louder in the settling silence at the end of this grueling day, as if the building itself were exhaling a long, weary breath. Outside the thick security windows, the last pale grey of the North Sea sky had finally surrendered to the relentless, pitch-black night, which now lay over the drilling rig like a heavy blanket. Davey let out a long, deep sigh that came from the depths of his chest, seeming to carry the entire weight of his responsibility with it. The unnaturally bright, bluish light of the monitors had left his eyes stinging and cast a leaden exhaustion into his gaze.
With a slow, almost ritualistic movement that marked the end of his official duty, he reached with hesitating fingers for his massive glasses. He pulled them gently from his nose and placed them with a quiet, metallic clack onto the smooth, cool desktop—right in Fin’s field of vision, as if he were laying down a piece of his armor.
Without the protective lenses and the heavy frame, Davey’s face looked strangely altered; the hard edges of his authority seemed to soften, and in the depths of his eye sockets, a vulnerability emerged that he kept under lock and key during his shift. He closed his lids tight, pressed the heels of his hands with forceful pressure against his eyeballs, and rubbed them thoroughly to banish the flickering of the screens. Finally, he ran both hands heavily over his entire face, as if wanting to wipe away the dust of the day, and then leaned back with his whole weight deep into the groaning chair, letting out a long, infinitely exhausted moan.
Fin froze mid-motion, a small, silvery hexagonal nut still clutched in his hands. He stared spellbound at the discarded frame resting so peacefully and lifelessly on the desktop. To him, those glasses had always been an inseparable part of Davey’s face, as fixed and immovable as the OIM’s prominent nose or bushy eyebrows. It was almost strange to see them here in isolation, detached from their wearer. Seized by an irrepressible curiosity, he let the nut fall carelessly back into the tray and stepped cautiously toward the monumental structure of black horn and polished glass. To him, the frame looked like a modern, abstract work of art from a distant world—a construct nearly as tall as himself, with the artificial ceiling light refracting in its lenses.
With a pounding heart, Fin stepped behind one of the massive panes. He had to know; he wanted to understand how the world looked through Davey’s eyes when the man bent over his maps and reports. Was it brighter there? Did one see things that remained hidden to him?
He positioned himself directly behind the ground lens, tilted his head back, and peered through—and in the same instant, he recoiled a hasty step with a suppressed gasp.
"Whoa!" he cried out, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The world as he knew it vanished in the blink of an eye. Everything was grotesquely distorted and out of joint. The huge, flickering monitor in the background, which had just looked like a flat wall, now curved inward like an overripe, glowing banana. The hard, clear edges of the desk seemed to dissolve into a misty, grey void, blurring into infinity. It was a terrifying sensation, as if he were peering through meters of churning, deep water where every solid form melted into nothing. Reality was no longer sharp and reliable, but a swirling, dizzying chaos of dancing colors and warped light.
Suddenly, Fin felt so nauseous and lightheaded that the floor seemed to heave beneath his boots. Reflexively, he had to reach out and grab the cool, smooth temple of the glasses with an iron grip to keep from tumbling headlong onto the laminate. Panting, he stepped out from behind the protection of the glass into the normal, clear air of the office and rubbed his eyes vigorously with both hands, as if he had to forcibly wipe away that alien, distorted vision.
"Davey?" he chirped, his voice still a little shaky from the vertigo. He looked up with a mixture of worry and sincere pity at the giant, who remained slumped in his chair with his eyes closed. "Is that... is that really what you see when you look at the world? Everything in there is so... so terribly wobbly. And so strangely blurred, like being stuck in the middle of a blizzard. How do you stand it all day without just toppling over?"
Davey slowly took his heavy hands from his face and laboriously opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, straining in Fin’s direction, his pupils dilating to catch the light. But without his indispensable visual aid, Fin was nothing more than a small, indistinct blur to him—a dab of flesh tone and the green of his clothes, lost somewhere in an endless sea of grey and shadow.
"That’s what ye call a proper bit o’ nearsightedness, wee man," Davey rumbled in a thick, raspy voice that mirrored the long day. He forced a weak, almost apologetic smile in the general direction where he sensed Fin was. "Withoot those glasses, I see the whole world oot there like I’m peerin' through a thick, wet blanket o’ North Sea fog. Everythin' loses its edges. The letters on the reports start dancin' a wild samba the minute I try tae pin 'em doun. And you... well, withoot ma specs, ye’re naught but a very bonnie, tiny speck o’ color on ma desk."
Fin looked again at the massive lenses of the glasses, which lay before him on the desk like two great, silent lakes. A sudden, deep pity overcame him, nearly tightening his throat. He tried to imagine what it would be like if the world for him—a Borrower, for whom every detail, every sharp edge, and every shadow could mean the difference between life and death—were always so distorted and unreliable. Without a sharp eye for approaching dangers, he would be lost within the station's walls; he would trip over every seam and recognize every threat far too late. That a giant like Davey, who held such power and responsibility, was dependent on these fragile pieces of glass seemed almost incomprehensible to him.
"That’s just awful, Davey... absolutely awful," Fin whispered, his voice trembling slightly with compassion. He stepped right up to the edge of the frame and laid his tiny hand flat against the cool, smooth curve of the glass. He took agonizing care to only touch the very edge, so as not to leave any smudgy fingerprints on Davey’s most vital tool. "So you really need them every day just to see me properly, don't you? Without them, I’m... almost invisible to you?"
"To see ye truly properly, with every tiny detail and that cheeky grin o' yours—aye, for that, I need 'em," Davey answered softly, the deep resonance of his voice making the desk vibrate ever so slightly. He leaned his massive torso forward a bit, and although his gaze still seemed somewhat aimless without the glasses, appearing to glide right past Fin, there was an infinite, honest warmth in it. He squinted his eyes slightly, as if trying to sharpen the blurred outlines of the little man through sheer willpower alone. "But dinna ye fash yersel', Fin. I ken exactly where ye are, even without the glass."
Davey chuckled at Fin’s utterly bewildered expression and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoroughly with his thumb and forefinger, right where the heavy frame of the glasses had left deep, red pressure marks in the flesh.
"That’s what ye call plain and simple nearsightedness, Fin. A tiny glitch in the optics, if ye like. Anythin' further away than ma ain hand turns intae an undefinable, colorful mush. Only the things right under ma nose stay halfway clear."
Fin tilted his head so far that his ear almost touched his shoulder as he tried to grasp this strange concept. "Near... sighted?" he repeated slowly, as if tasting the syllables on his tongue. "So that means... you only see... short? Like a string that just ends after a few centimeters?"
Davey laughed low and deep, a pleasant rumble that echoed in the silence of the office. "That’s a fair way tae describe it, aye. Withoot these glasses, ma sharp world ends unyieldin' about five centimeters from the tip o' ma nose. Everythin' beyond that—the monitors, the door, the whole damned rig—is naught but a muckle great guessin' game. I’m movin' through a world o' shadows and suppositions."
This was a completely incomprehensible, almost terrifying thought for Fin. In his world, where shadows and sounds decided between life and death, a sharp, unerring gaze was the most important line of defense. Anyone who didn't spot the cat at the end of the hallway or see the approaching shadow of a human from a distance was as good as gone.
"We Borrowers don't need things like that at all," he said with a healthy dose of pride in his voice, tapping his temple meaningfully right next to his bright eye. "I've never seen one of us in my whole life walking around with windows in front of their eyes. Our eyes are like eagles', Davey! We can see a tiny mite hiding in the carpet pile from three full meters away!"
Then a sudden spark of mischief took hold of him, and a thieving sense of delight chased away the last remnants of his pity. Fin stepped back a few paces from the model-like glasses, planted his feet demonstratively wide on the smooth laminate, and braced his left hand on his hip while playfully thrusting his right hand high into the air. With an exaggeratedly solemn gesture, he extended three fingers, fanning them out like a tiny banner.
"Alright then, my big, blind friend. Let’s test this officially," he challenged, grinning so cheekily that his eyes turned into narrow slits. "No guessing, no cheating! How many fingers am I holding up right now?"
Davey squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that deep furrows formed around his lids. He blinked strainedlly in the direction of Fin's voice. "Uh... two?" he guessed uncertainly, tilting his head slightly. "No, wait a minute... is that even a hand, or are ye hauldin' up an entire arm there?" He finally shook his massive head in resignation and let out a frustrated rumble. "I cannae see a bloody thing oot there but a blurry, pale smudge, Fin. Ye might as well be wavin' a white flag for all the guid it does me."
"Wrong! Completely off!" Fin cried out in amusement, hopping a little into the air with glee.
Davey let out a deep sigh, a sound like escaping steam, and then began to lean forward slowly and heavily. He slid his massive upper body across the wide expanse of the desk, inch by inch, the wood creaking softly under his weight. He came closer and closer, lowering his head deeper and deeper, until the giant, warm world of pores and those incredibly deep, grey-blue eyes completely filled Fin's entire field of vision. It was as if a whole planet were sliding right in front of him, until everything else around him—the lamps, the papers, the walls—simply vanished.
It wasn't until Davey’s massive nose was barely ten centimeters away from Fin that the deep lines of effort on the giant’s forehead smoothed out and his eyes visibly relaxed. A fine, almost imperceptible flicker went through his grey-blue pupils as the lens of his eye finally found its focal point, snapping the little fellow before him into focus like a blurry photograph suddenly awakening in brilliant colors and sharp contours.
"Three," Davey said calmly, a small, almost boyish triumph ringing in his deep voice. He was now observing every detail: the fine texture of Fin’s clothing and the cheeky sparkle in his gaze. "It’s clearly three fingers. And ye’ve got a tiny ink stain on yer sleeve."
Fin slowly let his hand sink, but he made no move to retreat. He remained rooted to the spot, directly in front of this massive, living wall of a face that now occupied the entire horizon of his perception. It was an overwhelming feeling of proximity; he felt the rhythmic, warm breath streaming from Davey’s nose, drifting over his entire body like a gentle, steady summer wind, lightly tousling his hair and pleasantly warming the air around him.
"Man, Davey," Fin murmured softly, shaking his head in near disbelief as he lost himself in the depths of those huge, now perfectly clear eyes. "Without your artificial windows, you really are blind as a mole in the midday sun. If I ran away and hid in the corner right now, you’d never find me again in your life—unless I sat right on the tip of your nose and waved loudly."
"Dinna ye go underestimatin' me, wee man. I’d likely ken ye by yer scent even if it was pitch black in here. Ye’ve always got a gey distinct smell o’ stolen apple cake and far too much dangerous adventure for such a wee scrap o' a lad," Davey rumbled, and his voice created a deep, gentle vibration that Fin could feel right down to his toes, as if the whole desk were trembling in time with Davey’s words.
Fin let his hand with the three splayed fingers sink slowly, but he didn’t budge a single millimeter. He was hypnotized, trapped in the spell of a proximity that nearly stole his breath. Never in his life had he been this close to a human face, let alone Davey’s—the man he usually perceived only from a dizzying frog’s-eye perspective or through the coarse weave of a coat pocket. What spread out before him now was no longer a mere physical appearance; it was a vast, alien landscape of flesh and blood, a topography of life that seemed as infinitely wide and detailed as the rig itself.
With wide eyes, he began to formally study Davey’s face, like an explorer stepping onto an unknown continent for the first time. Every deep laughter line etched around the corners of the mouth looked to him like a dried-up riverbed full of stories. Every tiny pore told of the hard years at sea. He saw the fine, brittle cracks on the lips, scarred by the merciless, salty sea air and the constant lashing of the wind. He examined the thick, dark eyebrows, their hairs piling up like wild, bushy forests over the eye sockets, giving Davey that permanent expression of watchful determination.
And then, almost involuntarily, his gaze got caught on Davey’s eyes.
They were... beautiful. Wait, no, Fin hastily corrected himself in his head, feeling a traitorous hint of crimson rising to his cheeks once more. An OIM certainly wouldn't want his eyes called "beautiful." Rennick’s eyes are... well, they are very INTERESTING, he thought with emphatic certainty. Yes, that was the right, the appropriate word for a Manager. They had the color of the North Sea on a stormy, unpredictable day—a deep, fascinating grey-blue that seemed to shift constantly between steel and slate. In the depths of the iris, he saw a complex pattern of lighter, almost silvery lines that looked like flickering lightning in dark, deep water, lighting up mysteriously with every tiny movement of Davey’s gaze.
In that moment, Fin realized with a start that the curiosity wasn’t a one-way street. Davey was using this rare proximity to put him under the microscope as well. The giant’s massive eyes moved with a near-cautious slowness; they were practically scanning him, tracing every detail from his scuffed boot tips and the fine seams of his clothes to his tousled hair, as if he were truly and honestly perceiving the tiny being on his desk for the very first time. It was no longer the fleeting, managerial glance of a superior, but a quiet, deeply searching gaze—entirely stripped of the usual hardness and the relentless burden of the OIM post.
Suddenly, Davey’s eyes stopped mid-motion. The search ended abruptly, and their gazes met directly, without detour and without the protection of the glass barrier.
Fin involuntarily held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It was as if an electric shock shot through his entire body—a tremor that reached down to his very fingertips. Time seemed to stretch in a strange, almost unnatural way, until seconds felt like minutes. The omnipresent, dull hum of the rig and the distant whistle of the wind against the steel walls faded into a meaningless, far-off whisper at the edge of his consciousness. The loud, steely world around them was suddenly set to pause, frozen in a silent snapshot. In this tiny universe of light and shadow, nothing existed anymore except for himself and those vast, grey-blue lakes staring back at him with such disarming intensity.
And then, in that almost sacred silence, the corners of Davey’s mouth began to lift, ever so slowly and carefully. It wasn't a broad grin or a loud laugh, but just a tiny, barely perceptible smile that drifted across his face like a gentle wave. Yet for Fin, standing only a few centimeters away from that movement, it was as clear as a beacon in the night. He saw the small crinkles at the corners of Davey’s eyes relax and a soft, warm glow awaken deep within his pupils. It was a quiet, unvarnished affection that made any words completely superfluous in that moment—a wordless promise that went deeper than anything they had ever discussed.
Fin felt the tension in his own shoulders dissolve, and he exhaled the warm air, smelling of coffee and old paper, in a slow, shaky breath. Davey’s smile acted like a soothing balm, finally chasing away the last lingering remnants of his insecurity and the shadows of the morning's nightmare. In this instant, without the intimidating "uniform" of the glasses and without the barrier of official distance, the big man before him was no longer the unapproachable OIM or the master of the steel. He was simply Davey. And Fin knew in this magical, fragile moment, with absolute and unshakeable clarity, that right here—on this wooden expanse, directly in front of this massive nose and sheltered by those grey-blue eyes—he was in the safest place in the entire wide world.
The magic of the moment, which had isolated the room for a short time, faded as slowly and inevitably as it had arrived. Davey exhaled one last, deep breath—a sound like a dying storm finally settling after its work is done—and gently broke his gaze from Fin. He straightened his massive upper body with a slow, almost laborious movement. His spine gave a satisfied, clearly audible crack as he let himself sink back into the yielding upholstery of his great chair.
The distance between them, which had just shrunk to a few centimeters, suddenly widened once more. Fin felt strangely exposed, standing all alone on the vast, now nearly empty-looking expanse of the desktop, while Davey reached for the glasses that had been lying silent and indifferent beside the heavy metal hole-punch. With a practiced, almost mechanical motion, Davey slid the dark temples behind his ears and adjusted the frame on the bridge of his nose with a quick nudge of his index finger.
As soon as the thick lenses were back in their rightful place before his eyes, his features altered instantly. The soft, deep, and almost defenseless warmth that Fin had just seen so unveiled was hidden once more behind the familiar, cool glint of the glass. It was as if Davey had snapped down a visor. Through the visual aid, his eyes became again the sharp instruments of surveillance and control they had to be. The "OIM," master over thousands of tons of steel and hundreds of crew members, was finally back at his post.
"Right then," Davey rumbled, and the sound of his voice had instantly regained that firmer, authoritative resonance that defined his daily life as a leader. Yet, the transition wasn't complete; a telltale, soft smile still danced at the corners of his mouth, stubbornly refusing to vanish entirely. "Enough o' the star-gazin' for one day. If we keep this up, ye’ll be chairgin' me an entrance fee for the exclusive view intae ma eyes, eh?"
He blinked a few times behind his glasses, as if his brain had to first process the flood of information now streaming in with razor-sharp precision. The world was no longer a misty painting, but a room full of hard edges, tiny dust motes, and technical details. He lowered his gaze to Fin, who still stood completely motionless—like a tiny statue from another time—staring at him with a peculiar mixture of deep awe and charming confusion.
"Are ye quite alright there, wee man?" Davey asked with a good-natured undertone, arching one eyebrow in amusement. "Ye look like ye’ve just seen a ghost. Or were ye tryin' tae count every single wrinkle on ma face durin' the last few minutes? I’m warnin' ye, that could turn intae a life's work!"
Fin gave himself a short, vigorous shake, as if he had to flick invisible drops of water from his fur to finally wake from his trance. He cleared his throat audibly—a tiny, scratchy sound in the silence of the office—and made a genuine effort to rediscover his usual cheeky and carefree manner. It wasn’t exactly easy to slip back into the mask of the bold companion while his heart was still hammering against his ribs in a rhythm far too fast and stumbling.
"I... I honestly stopped counting long ago, once I hit somewhere around a hundred, Rennick," he finally chirped. To hide his lingering nervousness and the trembling in his fingers, he crossed his arms tightly over his chest and tilted his chin up a notch. "You're like a giant, ancient piece of driftwood that’s been floating in the Atlantic for decades—damned charismatic and somehow impressive, but you can see absolutely every single year and every storm that’s ever passed over you!"
Davey paused for a moment, as if he had to digest the sheer audacity of the remark before he burst into a loud laugh. It was a deep, honest laugh that came straight from his gut, echoing so powerfully through the room that the coffee cup on the table vibrated ever so slightly.
"Right then, ye wee, brass-necked scoundrel!" Davey exclaimed, shaking his head in amusement while already starting to shut down his computer. "Once we’re back in the cabin, there’ll be a price tae pay for that bottomless cheek—only the absolutely tiniest half-portion o' dessert for you tonight. Let’s see if ye’re still talkin' so big then!"