Chapter Text
Were hallucinations a symptom of a stomach bug?
Gordon had called in sick an indistinguishable amount of mornings ago, after a good hour knelt down in the bathroom, being profusely thankful that Joshua (or anyone, for that matter) wasn't here to see it. Black Mesa didn't like it, of course - it infuriated the big-wigs to no end to hear he wouldn't be coming in for the big day, and they were only further angered as his illness continued. Stuff them, though. They couldn't fire him for being ill, Gordon knew his rights. They must have realised it too, because they'd stopped bugging him about it a good while ago. He'd taken some medicine, drank plenty of water, gotten plenty of sleep.
But the figure in his bedroom doorway didn't disappear when he blinked, then rubbed his eyes, then slammed his hands against the bedside table, scrabbling for his glasses and shoving them onto his face. A soaked flannel slopped wetly off of his forehead onto the ground, and his whole body tensed with fear as his limbs tangled into his bedclothes, a strangled noise coming from his throat.
The person was short, a good deal of their face shadowed by a helmet whose metallic sheen was so bright Gordon had to scrunch up his eyes. They glowed in the light of his living-room bulb, which he'd left on by accident - but the backlight hardly made them look angelic. In fact, quite the opposite. It highlighted the sharp bones of their face. Their oddly pointed fingernails. The ashy tone of their skin. A row of shark-like teeth. Their...Black Mesa guard uniform?
Yellowish eyes, with pupils more cat-like than human, darted around, scanning Gordon's entire body. And despite his obvious distress, the figure didn't seem bothered, only lounging even more casually against the frame, kicking out a boot to slam the door against the wall. That could not be good for the paint job.
Gordon managed a couple more strained, panicked noises, twisting around.
Self-defence, Gordon, come on!
He was alone in his apartment, in his small bedroom, still wearing the crumpled, previously-smart clothes he'd put on for work the morning he'd fallen sick. Alone. Vulnerable.
I need a weapon-
The only reasonable weapon-like object nearby was his bedside lamp, which he lashed out for, only to feel the front half of his body lurch forwards and tip right off the bed.
He wasn't ashamed to admit that he actually screamed then, bashing his face against the ground, which muffled the sound pretty quickly - ow, fuck, my jaw!
He went limp, head pounding, waiting for the end.
The end didn't come.
But when the cackling started, a part of him wished it had.
It was a nasty, scraping sound, emanating from the doorway and echoing around the small room. Fierce. Feral. A snarling, barking excuse for laughter. Malice curled at the edges, but a genuine amusement was present too.
If Gordon didn't already hate this guy for, y'know, breaking into his house, their weird-ass laugh, mocking his pain, his fear, infuriated him.
"Who the- what- what the fuck do you want?" Gordon half-growled, half-hissed, his cheek smushed against the ground, every word causing him to chew up the inside of his cheek. His limbs were already heavy with fatigue, and every cackle dug like claws into his brain, intensifying his headache; still, somehow he managed to lift his head off the ground and prop it up with one hand.
The raucous laughter finally died down, and Gordon heard light footsteps approaching him. He winced at the sound of whining springs as the person flopped down onto his bed, face suddenly uncomfortably close, slitted eyes watching him upside-down.
"you sick, bro? not sick like cool. nah, this is- this is cringe. your mattress sucks. room looks a bit shit. where's your ps3?"
Gordon suddenly felt his stomach twisting into a knot, the world dissolving around him, light spots dancing in front of his eyes, as powerful arms wrapped around his body and lifted him off the ground. His back hit the mattress, and suddenly he was flailing, clawing at the grip, which swiftly disappeared.
"wow. thanks i get for helping a bro out. fuck you."
Upset words, sure, but the tone confused Gordon's addled brain. It was just as monotone as ever. He felt the bedsheets he'd tangled fluttering back on top of him.
Am I still dreaming? What the fuck is going on?
He blinked hard, desperately trying to get those dizzy spots out of his eyes. Stranger in his apartment- they'd laughed, no, fucking cackled as he writhed in pain- they'd picked him up- they were… making his bed? But they were...they were standing in the doorway...they couldn't have rearranged the sheets that fast…
Gordon was distracted from his already pretty scattered thoughts by an odd noise. It sounded slightly fuzzy in his ears, but he could still just about make out the tune. A humming sound, almost like singing. Gorgeous harmonies running up and down the scale interwove and danced amongst the melody. Light whistling lifted the song in just the right places. Gordon was no musician, but he was drawn to the sound, and he knew that it was a work of art.
A blue glow had started seeping into the edges of his vision. For a moment he thought he'd banged his head way too hard, that he'd hit some vital switch that had messed up his eyes, before he realised that the oddly-coloured light was emanating from blue spheres that bobbed and weaved around the bed, correlating with the song just enough so that Gordon's suddenly sleepy brain could work out they were connected.
What had he just been worried about? Wasn't there...wasn't there something important? In his apartment?
Gordon let out a resigned grunt, and passed out.
When Gordon’s eyes fluttered open again, sunset tones were dappled across his wall, a vague orange glow emanating from his window. If he had to guess, he'd say it was around...6pm? 7? But to be honest, he had no clue. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t suppress a wide yawn.
That was the weirdest fucking dream he'd ever had - and yes, Gordon was working very, very hard to convince himself it was just a dream. He was comforted to notice that he was lying in bed pretty normally, bedclothes slightly tangled but still present, a calm silence accented by birdsong in the air; no signs of alien interference. Even the flannel still laid, pleasantly cool, on his forehead. It was slightly embarrassing to even entertain the option that what happened to him had been more than a vision.
The whole event (and the person themself) had an unreal quality, after all. A Black Mesa guard? Glowing blue spheres? That (undeniably gorgeous) sound? He was almost impressed at his own brain for conjuring up an image like that...maybe he should be ill more often. He could write up a whole novel with this shit.
He prepared to snuggle up into his pillow again, aching limbs tempting him right back into bed, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
And he might've dropped off to sleep if he hadn't felt the bottom of his glasses dig into his cheek.