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barney grew up in a religious home; the kind where each room had a cross nailed to the wall and nativity decorations stayed up year-round. one of his earliest memories came from the playroom at his church for kids who couldn’t sit still during sermons, with colorful blocks and biblical picture books galore. he’d find himself there every sunday until his parents decided he was mature enough to sit with the adults — every sunday after that he found himself glued to a pew. he was good at finding plastic eggs during easter, and always enjoyed helping his mother cook for the monthly potluck. there was a particular stained glass window he was fond of; when the sun hit it just right, the virgin mary's long reflection stretched across the carpet, and barney thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. the tip of her head just reached the confessional booth. he passed over her eyes when he stepped in, and how her figure loomed over him, instilling in his chest a primal dread as she perceived him. the curtain was dry on his palms as he yanked it closed. the false sense of privacy was sweeter than his mother’s yam casseroles. he’d run his fingers over the grooves in the wooden walls, waiting for the priest to greet him. he remembered biting the sleeve of his blue button-up as light filtered through the lattice window, face hot and vision blurry as tears rolled down his cheeks as he choked out that'd he kissed a boy at a bonfire by the river, and how he wanted so badly to cast those feelings aside because hell burned so hot he could feel the flames licking his ankles.
he was told many things in that booth; he was forgiven as long as he repented — as long as he prayed.
and he did. he did pray — he prayed a lot. he prayed to god, to jesus, to mary. mary, who he was convinced she watched him with kindness and acceptance, not the scorn he originally feared. he'd pray to mary and ask her advice, and when his father invited him to fish with his old college buddies, he took that as a sign. he studied the men in his life, how they held themselves, how they treated the women they supposedly loved. he'd try to mimic their behavior, memorized their banter like scripture. he felt like he was standing in his own shadow. the skin he wore wasn't his own. at family reunions, he’d be badgered about a girlfriend, if he had one yet, and why not; it was his responsibility to continue the calhoun name, after all. he would laugh and smile like he had practiced in the mirror the night before and say some bullshit about waiting for the right girl. they'd clap him on the back and call him a good man and he’d lock himself in the bathroom and pray for forgiveness for lying, splashing cold water on his face, willing his nausea to subside. he'd lock his fingers together and ask — beg for absolution.
those were different times. he stopped praying for change, stopped looking for answers, stopped pretending to be something he wasn't. freedom burned the soles of his feet and there were days he wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. he learned, slowly, that he deserved to be happy. and it was still hard, but the okay days began to outnumber the bad, and he found support and took solace in the fact that he was not alone. then he found the love of his life — who let him talk about the residual guilt that clotted his lungs and would comfort him to no end, who was so kind he’d cup spiders and take them outside, who would watch star trek with him and kiss him whenever he pretended he was on mst3k and say something stupid. he'd listen to barney ramble about conspiracies and didn't roll his eyes as everyone else had. he'd smile so brilliantly and contagiously that the both of them would grin until their cheeks hurt. barney would wake up and trace shapes on his collarbone and knock knees on the tram and play footsie under the table and cook him his favorite family recipes and laugh when he was told through fervent sign that it was too spicy for his delicate city slicker palette.
he found the man he wanted to take to the altar in a facility built under the new mexico sands. funnily enough, he lost him there too. lost him, lost himself. lost everything as the world fell to shit. sometimes, in the middle of the night, he'd hold the world on his shoulders as if it was his fault an alien force invaded. he kissed a man, so god sent divine retribution via a cosmic regime. his family's beliefs had branded him so deeply that even after religion had died it still affected him. it was ridiculous — he'd get angry when he could, but he didn't have the energy to sustain it; his mind was often preoccupied with his new colorful assortment of trauma. he'd held someone in his arms as life drained from their eyes, spinning lies of rescue as blood soaked into his bone. he'd been the reason life drained from someone's eyes, their face contorted with fear as their fluids mixed at his feet. he'd stumbled through playgrounds in a haze, heard the laughing screams of ghost children who'd never be — at least it wasn't entirely his fault that the calhoun line wouldn't continue. he still heard gunfire when he slept; it’d ring in his ears and he’d wake up in pools of sweat and lie on the floor until sunrise peaked through his boarded-up window, just in time to start the day all over again. he lost pieces of himself each time he slipped on that mask.
every once in a while, he got to see his niece. she'd grown into a wonderful young woman, smarter than he'd ever hope to be, a lot more resilient too. she wasn’t a calhoun and barney couldn’t have been happier. when you care about people, they give you a reason to live. though no one really lived anymore — they survived. so, instead, barney was given a reason to die; a cause he’d serve until his last breath. he’d die so she could live. that was his saving grace. it's why he put on that uniform, why he shed his name for a designation, why he put up with fraternizing with race traitors and cowards, why it didn’t bother him that he was chipping away at what little humanity he had left. and if it killed him? he certainly wouldn't mind it.
that being said, he never sought out death. not actively, anyways. he'd come into consciousness, idling in the middle of his room, realizing he had to don his suit once more. he'd find empty cans of private reserve water scattered around his place, unable to recall when they got there, but still feeling the slight tang of chemicals on his tongue. time melted like butter and he didn't know what day, season, or month it was. it didn’t matter to him. he’d put on a nice face when the resistance decided to celebrate, then bail as soon as the opportunity arose. he made himself scarce on his birthday, working until dusk or locking himself away until it was over. when their anniversary rolled around, he'd dig out his old leather wallet that survived through the years. his thumb would absentmindedly run over the single picture they had together, barney languidly smiling with his helmet on his hip while his doctor stood at his side, stiff as ever, the fluorescent lights of the lab reflecting off his lenses. he'd wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, not wanting to stain what little he had left.
it was hard to distinguish then from now. it never felt like time was passing, yet it did. it was strange like that, like boiling water and broken hourglasses. sometimes the sun seemed to stay planted in the sky, and other times he was locked in an eternal night. years passed in the blink of an eye but seconds dragged on, sending him into a trance. maybe he had died back at black mesa and hell was not pits of fire and sharp pitchforks, but subjugation and the slow, agonizing gutting of the soul. he'd catch his reflection in cracked mirrors and wonder why that old man was looking at him like that, so… vacantly . the world stopped existing, and by extension, so did he. he was an afterimage, an echo of barney calhoun. the real barney was probably oversleeping again, already late to his morning shift, tangled in the arms of another. that barney was dreaming, and the barney removing his boots, avoiding the flecks of dried blood so they didn't flake onto his floor, was the dream.
but he never woke up. he must’ve forgotten to set his alarm. it wouldn't have been the first time that happened.
he knelt beside his bed, bad knee complaining as it hit the hardwood. it had been a about quarter-century since he last prayed, but the position was still ingrained in his mind. he laced his fingers together, calluses scraping against his knuckles. his shoulders hitched as he bowed his head. the position was too vulnerable, soft nape of his neck exposed — if a beaked headcrab were to scutter in, it'd have its hooks in him instantly. he took in a long breath and forced himself to relax.
"do you remember me? i haven't spoken to you since... um..." he cleared his throat, awkwardly pushing out each word, severely out of practice. he knew what he was supposed to say, what phrases he'd repeat as a mantra every night before bed in hopes that something would be different, but he couldn't say them — wouldn't say them . bitterness rose in his chest as he felt his consciousness be defiled. was he really going to do this to himself again ?
he steadied himself, making up his mind. if he was going to pray, he was going to do it to someone who actually cared about him. not god, jesus, nor mary, but…
"...Gordon," he said with a shaky smile. "Gordon. heya, buddy. it's — it's... been a while, huh? nearing — nearing twenty... yeah. wow.
i never told you, but, um, i really thought i'd spend the rest of my life with you — our, our forties looked... a lot different," he nervously chuckled, tears pricking at his eyes. "i… miss you. i miss you so much, but i... i couldn't...
it'd kill me. it'd kill me seeing you here, in, in a world like this — seeing you, see this. in my..." he swallowed thickly. "... memory, you aren't... you’ve never, killed , or, or wondered if you’d be killed. you... are happy, and, and..."
he buried his head in his sheets, voice breaking as he confessed, "and i hope you died in that test chamber. that... mercy. painless mercy. that, that you didn't even know you were a target, and you never... that… combine is just… addition. just math for you. you… math dork."
barney's laugh was strangled. "and... um, and i hope there's a heaven, and that you're there, right now. the thought of you, you just... disappearing? it's... unbearable. i... don't think i could take it. i can't take it. i—" it killed his voice. in the silence, he heard the muffled radio chatter of passing officers outside his building. the codes they were using meant they were heading to a randomly selected city block for an after-hour raid. he waited until they were out of earshot.
"if, if you were here, Gordon, what would... what would you do?"
barney tilted his head back so he could see the ceiling. it was as empty as it had been every single night he stared into it. no response to his plea. he didn't expect one, not anymore.
"i'm tired, Gordon. i'm exhausted. every day, i just wish it'd be over." his voice was a hoarse whisper. "i — i can't go on much longer. i can't keep doing this. i... want to be with you, wherever you are, wherever that is."
he looked to his fingers, still interlocked in prayer. it would be the last time, he told himself. he was not going to use it as a crutch. this “safety net” stole so much from him. he lived in terror for years; years that he would never get back. he had been warped from childhood, leaving him irrevocably scarred, and when he finally thought he achieved peace of mind, he lost everything. he couldn’t forgive it for what it had done to him — what it continued to do to him.
ice coiled in his chest as his resolve wavered. praying, not praying, there was no real difference, was there? free will meant nothing if the outcome was the same. he could give in; the only thing that would happen would be his spirit withering to dust, utterly inconsequential. he was a mere husk, after all. a vessel for a cause he knew was hopeless. the only thing he had going for him was the inevitably of his death, one likely to be drawn-out, excruciating…
… and he could take it. in fact, he welcomed it with open arms. it was the promise of an end to his misery. there was someone waiting for him elsewhere, and he was going to find him.
"i…i guess i'll see ya when i see ya, Gordon," barney affirmed mutedly. he swallowed the knot in his throat and set his jaw. "amen."
amen.