Chapter Text
It’s not that Gordon hates shopping. He’s grown to enjoy the mediocrity of it. Walking at a leisurely pace with a basket in hand (He can’t push the shopping carts ever since the Cascade), stopping to look out at rows upon rows of vegetables and fruits with way too much plastic packaging than they need.
No, Gordon doesn’t hate shopping. In fact, he loves shopping! What he doesn’t love is having to scout for all the weird requests his housemates insist on him bringing back.
He’s been staring dumbfounded at the list in his hand for enough time for it to be awkward, doing his best to follow Tommy through the aisles so they don’t get separated. Wading through whole Wikipedia articles for imitation crab meat, Bubby’s almost incomprehensive cursive and literally just a doodle of an ass (Gordon’s, specifically, Benrey even took the time to draw on his sweatpants!) to try and find anything normal, and anything this store actually sells.
And he’s so swept up in the fact that all Bubby seems to have written down is matches and ‘any toy with wood in it’ that he almost crashes into Tommy.
“Mr. Freeman, y- You should be more careful! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry, I uh… Reading this.” Gordon knows better than to question why Tommy doesn’t seem at all phased by the feeling of a whole metal basket pushed into his back, instead looking over at what seems to have the man’s attention.
It’s a Beyblade, unsurprisingly. A pretty decent one too. “You gonna buy it?”
The older man hums in thought, turning over the package in his hand to read the back. “I, hav- I think I have this one. I was thinking, uh. For Benrey? To make him feel better about all this... Stuff.”
In the back of his mind, Gordon wants to say Tommy’s overthinking isn’t necessary because Benrey probably couldn’t care less about what type of Beyblade he gets. From all the random spewed bullshit from their trip into Payday 2’s game files, Gordon is pretty sure Benrey would be fine with a spinning top on a zip tie. But now is neither the time or place, so instead, he points to a different spot on the shelf.
“That one’s blue, maybe he’d like that?”
“Oh, a Storm Pegasus!” Tommy makes a beeline for the product, of course, and happily slots both toys into an empty spot in the basket.
He’s clearly too caught up in the gesture, because it isn’t until they’re halfway out of the aisle and back to looking at the produce that he looks back to Gordon, wringing his hands. “Is it- Is it okay if we get both, Mr. Freeman?”
As if money was an issue for any of them right now. With the hush money, Tommy’s shopping money from his father, and duffle bags full of cash and valuables they somehow managed to take with them from Payday 2’s code, Gordon could buy a whole arena without making a dent in his wallet. He smiles with a nod, and Tommy is immediately back to running through their list with that familiar, excited energy he’s always had.
It’s a grounding feeling, watching the guy pick up oranges and turn them over in his hand, noting how a few are deformed or have smaller oranges growing off of them. And of course, he always picks those ones out for their shopping, because ‘human’ (Tommy isn’t human, of course, but he’s close enough to it) nature is pack bonding with the smallest thing. This is the guy who has a pet Roomba with a cracked casing, after all. He named it Fanta.
And Gordon can understand, being damaged goods himself. The deformities, like his arm, just add character.
Gordon likes Tommy. They have somewhat of an understanding these days, meeting up once a week, shopping in relative quiet unless they need to discuss purchasing choices. Tommy can’t drive, and they both know he’d get a lot of uncomfortable stares if he rode his dog everywhere like he does around the house, so Gordon always picks him up, and they always talk about Sunkist or soda or anything Tommy caught on T.V. on the drive from A to B, and back to A again.
Gordon can’t help zoning out at times, though, so he’s never a stranger to the occasional tap tap or tuning back in to something completely out of context.
And coincidentally, both things happen at that very moment, and Gordon snaps out of his staring contest with the floor tiles to a “Do you, Mr. Freeman?” and a hand ghosting above his shoulder.
“Shit- Sorry man, what?”
“Do you think Dr. Coomer is okay?”
It’s a question that seems to hang in the air. Gordon’s expression answers before he can, a worried frown pulling across his face and a look to the side. “He’s worried, man- You know how he gets around shit like this.”
‘Shit like this’ of course referring to the script somehow following them all despite their freedom. An unneeded addition, Tommy knows what he means, as the concerned nod goes to show.
“Hey.” There’s a hand on the man’s shoulder, firm and consoling and just a little too cold to be real flesh. But the familiarity of the gesture is well received either way. Tommy manages a smile, if only for a moment.
“I just don’t like… Seeing him upset, Mr. Freeman. He- He knows how things worked more than we do but it seems like a lot to think about, having to deal with all that.”
“The game stuff, right?” Gordon’s never been too sure just how aware Tommy is about his status as an AI from a video game, but he’s always seemed to know enough.
“Yeah. My dad helps me out with stuff I know, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have that, and… It’s kinda fucked up.”
A pat to the shoulder, before Gordon moves his hand away to instead pick up the bag of oranges he’s been inspecting. “I know, man.”
He knows the words are overused and possibly a little too empty to be genuine, but he’s never been one for comforting with his words.
Still, he tries. “He’s got Bubby though, right? Someone to vent to, at least he isn’t bottling shit up. And today’s like… A break for him. They’re gonna tear that restaurant down.”
They both laugh, Gordon can only hope he’s joking.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders just how destructive that date of theirs is going.
And somewhere in the back of a restaurant, Bubby and Coomer are having the time of their lives.
Bubby had started off with ordering every little thing he could ask for hot sauce with, while Coomer had laughed apologetically each time a waiter had to confirm his order of ‘Just the entire damn chicken dipped in hot sauce, if you think those little shit baby hot wings are going to cut it, you’ll be receiving the worst Yelp of your life!’, and ordered the steak and a salad.
And of course, he’d been too busy gazing into the other’s closed eyes as he complained to realize when their food was hurriedly and nervously brought over.
Despite Bubby’s abnormally sharp teeth, and the fact that almost every member of the Science Team goes ravenous when presented with food, he retains his composure and eats as politely as he can. And Coomer is more than aware that it’s all a show for the smaller man, but the efforts only make him fall in love a little harder.
Bubby gestures and jabs with his fork as he talks about everything and nothing, spearing his food, tearing it apart, swallowing, then continuing in an easy pattern. Meanwhile Coomer sits utterly mesmerized, head resting on crossed arms over the table, looking up at his partner with a gaze someone only had when they were looking at the dearest thing in their heart.
It’s selfish, really, thinking about it.
How comfortable he is here when there’s still a threat looming over everyone’s shoulders. How willing he’d been to leave, knowing Benrey would be home alone, vulnerable or at the very least bored out of his mind.
The scientist screws his eyes shut, brows pushed together. He can vaguely hear Bubby move onto complaining about how they’d had to abandon their car and walk the rest of the way here, and the way his voice pitches up in emphasis is so endearing that it hurts, and Coomer just can’t think on anything else other than the fact that he’s here and he shouldn’t be.
“..Dr. Coomer?”
He’s enjoying himself and there’s a threat ever close by that they can’t pinpoint, and he has no idea if he even locked all the windows before they left. Hell, they shouldn’t even be outside of the damn game. Maybe if they’d really killed the end boss it wouldn’t have followed them.
What if Coomer had doomed Benrey from the start by telling him to bring the damn skeleton to attention in the first place.
“Coomer?”
Coomer only snaps out of his spiral when he realizes Bubby has been calling his name for the past minute.
“ Harold! ”
“Mm- Oh! Yes, Bubby?”
Coomer’s head snaps up, and his body leans back into the chair so he’s sitting upright, hands laced together in his lap. His tone is far too happy, clearly forced. And he can see the concern on the other’s face.
“You let your food go cold. I thought you were fucking asleep!”
Coomer lets out a quiet chuckle, one that makes Bubby’s heart leap into his throat and blood rush to his cheeks. Strong, yet ever-gentle hands move his own fork to poke at the lukewarm dish, a sad smile below his mustache.
“Ah… It seems I have! I apologize, I was… Thinking.”
If anyone knows one thing about Bubby, it’s that the man is stubborn to a tee. He’s not about to let the day be soured by something as easily fixed as a cold meal, so pushing himself up from the table, he’s already scoping out the nearest employee. “Let me get a waiter over, we’ll get it replaced.”
The tap of boots on laminated flooring and a flurry of movement is all Coomer registers before there’s a hand on Bubby’s wrist, and a wide-eyed look on both their faces.
Coomer takes a moment to notice he’s only ever seen the other open his eyes in situations of stress or surprise, before his earlier urgency kicks that overactive voice box of his into gear. If Bubby leaves, he really will overthink everything.
“Wait a moment, I- ...Please. I… Um.”
He trails off. The hand loosens, and Coomer falls back into his seat, staring uninterested down at his cold steak, poking the garnish with his fork. “Ah, never mind… What I was about to say would have been very selfish.”
Bubby stands, frozen in his position of halfway through leaving the table to chew the cooks out. And when he eases back to sitting down, he can’t help the immediate need to comfort by placing a pale, bony hand down atop the larger, more tanned one resting beside an all-too fancy plate.
Bubby squeezes the hand, an attempt at a reassuring smile when Coomer’s eyes drag up to meet his face.
“So what..? I’m selfish all the damn time, and I’m pretty great!”
Another laugh. Bubby can see the lines beside his eyes crease, and his heart flutters again. “I suppose you’re correct..! It’s just… Silly.”
He sighs, gesturing with his free hand in a vague, circular manner.
“We’ve had quite a few heavy topics weighing over our heads these past few days, dear. Of course you’re already aware of my… Current worries about our dear friend Benrey,” Coomer looks to the door as if gesturing to the entity somewhere beyond their location. He only shakes his head hearing the scoff in front of him.
“But I only wanted today to be about us , dear, I want to forget about all this for a moment. I don’t care if the steak is cold! It’s by far the least of my worries! I just want you to stay here!”
The fiery expression dulls, and Coomer is left staring at his plate once more. “Isn’t that just… Completely foolish of me.”
He’s about to push away the question when he feels a thin hand on his shoulder.
He knows it’s Bubby’s, but he almost can’t help his eyes trailing from the outstretched limb to the other’s face, as if there’s some part of him that had doubted who it was. The part of him that fears the irrational. The part of him that’s currently the loudest.
“You’re tired.”
A statement, not a question. He nods.
“Benrey isn’t your responsibility, you know. Yes you’re looking out for him, but you can’t let that be the only damn thing in your life. You said you were looking forward to this, weren’t you?”
“I was!” In the moment, he smiles. And in the next, he’s back to that exhausted, dull expression that just doesn’t fit. “I was, but I… Just can’t let myself enjoy it.”
He can’t meet Bubby’s eyes, sighing and shrinking in his chair.
“I suppose it’s in my nature to worry… The very concept of a tutorial NPC is to help, after all. And if anything, our current… Predicament, is only showing us how stuck to the script we still are.”
Of course, the script… Bubby would be lying if he said he isn’t still worried about any coding still limiting their newfound freedom, but he’s never been one to dwell on something you can’t change. Rather making the most of what he has, and to hell with consequences.
Coomer, however, never shows that mindset. They’re on opposite ends of the ‘nothing in life matters’ meme. And it’s hard, seeing the man he loves, so torn up over something he couldn’t have known was coming.
“Can’t you just be worried for yourself for once?”
No one ever said Bubby is any good at comfort, but he gets his point across when he sees the shorter man finally look up at him.
“You’ve had this shit about the game on your mind ever since you found out, and now you’re just piling on something else? Do you know how fucking unhealthy that is?”
“I…” He nods, sinking further down until he’s resting his head on the table. “I know, but…”
“But nothing- Coomer.” Bubby hates being so stern at a time like this. Of course, he loves to verbally get someone’s ass, but with Coomer this sad, it’s hard to see any enjoyment.
“We’re aware of what’s happening, we’re all doing what we can but you can’t just only think about this shit and nothing else. Putting everyone else above yourself- It’s already got you in trouble before, don’t think I don’t remember you getting grabbed!”
Ah yes. The fight. Coomer remembers that too, even without the occasional night terror, he knows he’d still be able to recall the fear he felt stepping between Gordon and what wasn’t Benrey. The painful burning in his lungs, the fall.
The lump in his throat when Bubby came crashing down moments later. All because he’d stepped into danger.
“I suppose you’re right.. It did put you in danger too, dear… And with your aversion to heights.”
“Well- Yes, but my fear of heights isn’t more pressing than your life , Harold- But you don’t have to think about it.” He points a finger down onto the table. “This! Right now, this isn’t a life or death situation! It’s a fucking date! Benrey can take care of himself for a few hours. If he can’t, we’ll know when we get home. And we’ll march through that door and deck any skeletons we see right in their goddamn skulls!”
Finally, Coomer laughs. Quiet, and tired, but it’s a start.
“Thank you, Bubby…” There’s a brighter expression on his face, not too fitting, but his tone isn’t forced. “I’m aware you don’t like him all too much, but… Thank you…”
Bubby makes a vague humming sound through a closed mouth. “Whatever, it’s. A grudge, not a dislike. I’m still not happy with the lack of any damn apology for knocking me into the wall, too.”
“But that wasn’t-”
“I know that wasn’t him, Harold.”
Bubby almost immediately curses himself when he sees Coomer’s eyes widen. He catches himself before the poor man sinks into misunderstood upset. “I just. Hold onto anger like that, you know me. Doctor ‘Misplaced Aggression’.”
His eyes are closed once more, but Coomer can tell he rolls them, making a circle in the air with his fork.
“Professor Misplaced Aggression…”
Bubby can hear the soft smile in his words. He smiles back, their hands come to meet in the middle of the table. “Doctor.” He reiterates, and Coomer’s expression is just as loving as it’s always been.
“Professor!”
Their fingers intertwine. The insistence of Bubby’s doctorate dies in his throat and all he can focus on is the sudden warmth he’s able to steal from Coomer’s hand. And his eyes are open, and inside is a shine brighter than any star that Coomer can’t help but gaze into.
Just like that, the background noise of the restaurant dulls out into a pleasant nothingness. For a moment, it’s just them, and they intend to keep the moment for as long as they can.
Neither are sure who moved in first, but they can’t care less. The kiss is gentle, soft, and yet filled with the love and tenderness of all those years spent wallowing in uncertainty of feelings and all those nights where Bubby would scoot as close as he could to his friend’s side, taking the excuse of their temporary camps being too cold or the far-off growls of otherworldly beings keeping him awake. Of all those times Coomer would catch Bubby staring at him after punching out a hostile entity, and he could see the gears turning in his head, and he laughed and Bubby had to look away to hide his face.
And there’s a hand against Bubby’s cheek and he can do nothing but lean into the touch, smiling against the other’s mouth. And god does his cold little heart leap at the soft chuckle when his own hand reaches up to meet it. Cold fingers wrapping around the much larger ones that he’s seen cave a skull in within seconds. And yet Coomer is nothing but gentle with him, so caring and genuine that it hurts more than he’d ever care to say that he has so much on his mind.
They both wish they didn’t have to, but they pull away, and they’re both laughing, foreheads pressed together. Hands touching. Coomer leans back in to kiss Bubby’s other cheek, without a care in the world to anyone who might be watching two old men sharing a moment at the back of a restaurant.
Because it’s their moment. And it’s a moment Coomer’s needed for days now.
He could say so much. He could thank the man in front of him for finally pulling his thoughts out of wherever he kept them hidden, he could tell him just how much the date had meant to him when Bubby surprised him with the reservation.
The words “I love you.” Are all he can manage. But all those unspoken words are behind it, and it’s more than enough for them both.
“I love you too…” A laugh. Cackling, but still just as genuine. “But you really need to stop worrying so goddamn much.”
“I know… I’ll do my best.”
Another kiss, before they pull away again. Both leaning back in their chairs with a pleasant silence hanging between them, hands still intertwined. It’s only broken by Coomer, laughing again as he picks up his fork to jab at the cold steak still in front of him.
Bubby gestures to Coomer’s plate with a slow tilt of his head. “It’s only getting colder, Harold…”
“Indeed it is… Such a shame!” Coomer isn’t making a single attempt to salvage his meal despite the childish pout on his face. He runs his thumb across the side of Bubby’s paler hand, and the tender moment between them seems to last a lifetime.
Until the same mischievous glint lights up in both pairs of eyes, and Coomer’s words come out as close to scripted as they’ve been for weeks.
“Bubby, my dear. Would you mind heating it up yourself? I’d hate to cause more work for the cooks, you see…”
Flames ignite around the other’s fingertips before he can even reply, a wicked grin across his face.
“Abso-fucking-lutely, Harold.”
Gordon can almost barely hear the screams of an entire kitchen staff as he’s fitting his shopping into the back of the van. Maybe he’d register it if Tommy wasn’t skipping through the tracks on his stereo, and Gordon wasn’t repeatedly hyping himself up for the intros of his favourite songs only for them to stop after mere moments, making way for a different instrumental fade-in.
He’d ask Tommy to stop on one song, but he knows all too well that if he starts singing along to Linkin Park in a busy parking lot he’s going to get stared at, because he cannot and will not ignore his love for the band.
He’s tossing the last bag into the van when he feels a sharp, cold hand on his shoulder, and he screams more than he’d care to admit (So much for not getting stares, eh Gordon?) when he spins around.
Only to see the face of a thin, old man staring back at him with the most bemused look he’s ever seen, eyes, for once, wide open and staring right at him.
“I know you’re a bitch baby, Gordon, but am I really that scary?”
It’s Bubby. Of course it’s Bubby.
“Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that, dude!”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes, both hands stuffed back into the pockets of his jeans. “The caddie’s engine busted again so we’re taking a ride home with you.”
And as if on cue, the second member of the violent duo happily walks into view with a wave and his usual greetings. The date, very clearly, went well, Gordon can still see the faint red flush on Coomer’s face that he’s not at all trying to hide. “We hope that’s alright with you, Gordon, I don’t think I’d enjoy walking all that way.”
Gordon nods. He can’t exactly say no, Coomer isn’t the kind of person you’d feel good rejecting and Bubby will almost definitely threaten him. “I don’t need the guilt trip, you can hitch a ride. You finished dinner that quickly?”
“Bubby set the table on fire! They hurried us out rather quickly after that.”
He isn’t surprised in the least, or he knows he shouldn’t be. Still, it doesn’t stop the exasperated sigh leaving Gordon’s lips or the exhausted look on his face when he turns to the taller man.
“Bubby- You can’t just set things on fire!”
“Yes I can.”
“Well y- You shouldn’t!”
A sarcastic grin pushes into his eyes, Bubby once again showing those sharp teeth of his in full view. “And yet, I did! The food was bad anyway.”
Gordon can do nothing more but shake his head while Coomer pipes in with his ever-helpful addition of “I quite enjoyed our meal!”, keeping the back of the van open for both men to climb inside, and checking they’re buckled in on the seats he’s finally managed to fit in there before shutting it and walking to his own door, Tommy already seated and good to go.
Climbing into the driver’s side and buckling up himself, Gordon tosses his phone into the cup holder and turns on the engine. There’s a hole of sorts in the divide between the front and the back, so Coomer and Bubby can both easily lean in and take part in any conversation. Which is nice, until it isn’t, and Bubby can’t help but bring up Gordon’s ‘shit driving’ after enough minutes of blissful nonsense about limited edition soda can designs.
“You aren’t even reaching the proper speed here, we aren’t made of fucking glass, Gordon, we won’t break if you speed up!”
Gordon should know better than to argue with anyone’s illogical bullshit by now, but here he is, gripping the wheel for dear life as he grits his teeth and tries his absolute hardest not to lose his last nerve. “Yeah, but other people drive down here too, and if I go too fast we’ll crash, Bubby.”
“Only because you’re a shitbaby at driving.” He’s crossing his arms, but Gordon doesn’t even need to look in the rear view mirror to see that. Somehow the absolute smugness resonates in his voice.
“Whose fault is that if I’m trying to focus when you’re arguing with me, man?”
Gordon tries his best to word himself gently; he’s not mad at Bubby, but sometimes the guy just tries his patience. And though he can hear the man scoff and shift in his seat, he’s not about to let up anytime soon.
“All I’m saying is I’d have gotten us home by now!”
“Yeah, and probably with my van in three pieces!”
“Mr. Freeman?”
Tommy’s voice is an honest to god breath of fresh air, especially since Bubby, surprisingly, quietens down almost immediately. Whether that’s from the man’s polite questioning or the fact that Coomer is affectionately patting his shoulder, Gordon doesn’t care to work out. He waves a hand just above the wheel for Tommy to continue.
“Uh- Someone’s calling you, do you want me to answer?” Sure enough, Tommy’s holding Gordon’s phone and flashing a caller ID he doesn’t quite recognise from the split second glance.
Of course driving on the phone isn’t exactly safe with three other people in the car, but from everything else the group has survived, Gordon doesn’t give himself much time to consider before he’s nodding his head, and Tommy’s saying hello to whoever’s there.
Which turns out to be someone he in fact does recognize, thanks to the older man’s chipper “Hi, Darnold!”
A smile pulls up on Gordon’s face. He had indeed met Darnold again after the party. They’d exchanged numbers some time after bumping into each other on the street, Darnold looking somewhat in a hurry, but politely sparing time for a conversation and a promise to meet up now they were in a better situation. And while their current situation isn’t really ‘better’ anymore, it’s nice to hear a friendly voice.
There’s also the fact that Bubby might stop arguing to drive, and Gordon is quick to take that chance. “Oh, shit! Turn on the speakerphone, Tommy.”
The man obliges, telling Darnold to wait as he presses the corresponding symbol, holding the phone in the approximate middle of the car so everyone can hear him. Gordon is the first to pipe up.
“Hey, Darnold! You’re on speaker.”
A chorus of greetings drowns out the man’s response, the chipper “Hello, Darnold!” from Coomer, the indifferent “Hello.” from Bubby, and the short and sweet “Hi!” from Tommy, smiling as always. Gordon can almost hear the cogs in his head turn as he fights to get back on track.
“Heya, guys- Uhh… Can I ask you somethin’ a little weird?”
“Dramatic changes in DNA from potion usage are nothing to be ashamed of, Darnold!” Coomer chimes in with no tact whatsoever. And Gordon almost turns to shush him, before remembering he is in fact, still in a moving vehicle.
Might want to park up, thinking about it.
And, he does. Scoping out a pullout not too far ahead and turning in, slowing to a halt beside the surrounding plant life. And then, he takes his phone back from Tommy’s hand, and steps outside to lean against the van.
He taps his knuckles to the window, holding up a finger in the universal sign of ‘I’ll only be a minute’. “Ignore him, what’s up?”
“Well,” Darnold wrings his hands together on the other line, looking anywhere but the phone on the counter. “I called a… Pal of mine about this earlier, he was hangin’ out with that guard guy so… He didn’t see anythin’ to back me up, right now he’s scopin’ out the place so it’s not as urgent as it sounds. But, did any of those creatures you said you were fightin’ make it out?”
Gordon doesn’t care to mention the fact that what Darnold is implying is almost definitely as urgent as it sounds. “What, like- Headcrabs, peeper puppies?”
“No, uhh… Well, it looked like some kinda skeleton, but I’m not sure.”
Oh.
“Not even, like a- Like an alien skeleton, too, ‘bout as close to human as you could get, besides the, uh. Sharp… Teeth, and the fused. Bones.”
Oh no.
“So, did you ever see somethin’ like that?”
“Oh no…”
Gordon hears a confused hum over the line before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. “...Oh, no you didn’t?” The tone is hopeful, and he can hear the nervous smile in the mixologist’s voice.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell him, especially not when he hears the “All clear, no weird ‘alien people’ walking around.” in the background and knows he doesn’t even have the time to explain.
“Uh- I don’t… Remember, but we’ll keep an eye out. What was it doing?”
Another hum through the receiver. “Well- Nothin’ too bad, tappin’ the window here, sorta just. Starin’ at me… Then it disappeared!”
Gordon can hear the discomfort, and he’s all too aware someone like Darnold would be terrified in a situation like this. But he can only spare a sympathetic look to his phone before the other speaks up again, somewhat calmer, with that other voice just barely audible in the background. It sounds vaguely like Forzen.
“I gotta go, but. Want me to call back if I see it again?”
“Yeah, uh. Thanks for the heads-up, Darnold, catch you later.” He fumbles with the words, not wanting to seem rude about ending the call so hastily. A shaking hand thumbs the ‘hang up’ button, near breaking the door off it’s hinges as he swings it open and crashes into his seat. He doesn’t bother with the belt and they’re already on the road before Tommy and Coomer can both chastise him for not putting it on.
Only five minutes later does he realize how confused everyone must be.
“Okay.” He can feel every head snap their attention onto him, and he grips the wheel with both hands. One synthetic and one shaking. “Darnold saw it- The. Skeleton.”
“He WHAT?” The voice sounds vaguely like Coomer’s but Gordon doesn’t stop to pinpoint it.
“Outside his window, tapping on the glass. Said he called a guy to come home for help, they were… Hanging out with Benrey, so- I’m gonna guess Forzen? And it- It just left before he got there.”
The silence that follows is near-unbearable for Gordon’s train of thought. And when Coomer speaks, it’s almost worse. “A distraction, Gordon! He’ll be alone now!”
“I know he’s alone, that’s why we gotta go make sure he’s okay-”
“Unless he isn’t alone.” Bubby shifts in his spot again, leaning against the van’s interior. He’s looking straight at Coomer, and he hates the fact that he’s seeing the poor man’s brain tick in real time.
“Who- But who could he be with if we’re all here?” Tommy, of course. His voice suggests he’s halfway through realizing what everyone else fears to be true.
Coomer raises a brow, then his eyes widen, and he throws himself forwards and his hands grip Gordon’s seat with so much force the fabric tears.
“Gordon, we need to get home! Right now! ”
And Gordon puts the pedal to the metal, and breaks every speed limit he morally can. Bubby calls out multiple times that they’d be there by now if they’d let him drive, but every complaint is lost in the sea of Coomer’s pointing out whenever Gordon misses a turn, and Tommy’s frantic updates on how long Benrey’s gone without replying to the many texts he’s pouring in.
They pull in at the expense of a flowerpot placed too close to the driveway. Gordon wrestles with his belt and tells everyone to try calming down so they don’t overwhelm Benrey by marching in. The physicist braces himself to enter first, to get the brunt of the situation while Tommy helps Bubby and Coomer out from the back of the van.
He walks inside to see a broken window and the shattered remains of his favourite coffee mug, in a sad little pile on the floor. The shuffling from the living room tells him this isn’t the time to address it. His shoes thump against laminated flooring, then carpet he knows he’ll have to clean, he swings open the door the moment he reaches it.
Colour floods from behind the wood that’s already chipping and cracking from the times Coomer insists he has to kick it closed.
And there’s Benrey.