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Translucent dreams shift and merge into a collage of colors, piercing the inky black and delving deep into the mind: dark navy, ice-cold eyes, pale, taught skin. Dripping sounds from above, landing on the tiled floor with a heart monitor beep. It started steady, as everything always does. Inching along the line and clawing its steady grasp to survive, the beeping persists.
He’s in the test chamber. He’s in the halls of Black Mesa. He’s staring a soldier down as he cleaves a crowbar between his eyes.
The voice in the back of his mind becomes scratchy and crooning, droning on along the steady drip of dark, inky blood from the ceiling. It lands in miserable clumps on the floor, chunky and clotty as the more liquid parts splat against his face. He squinted his eyes closed against the assault as the voice grew louder. Demanding.
He’s on the train. He’s with Barney again. He’s killing, killing, and killing as red proceeds to fill his vision. It’s suffocating. He blocks it out.
Glasses. Where are his glasses? It’s so dark. He starts to twist as if now he realizes he can move, inching away from the iron-y tang of red. The droplets’ descent grows slower, then faster until it’s speeding up in uneven intervals of beeping. He can’t breathe. He finds that his heart is beating in a rapid rhythm, synchronizing with the beeping. A wheeze sounds from above, and he cranes his neck upwards.
He wished he hadn’t.
It’s Eli, in the advisor’s grip, twisting and turning as Alyx screams for him. He tells her to be strong. The voice grows louder, grating against his mind as it parrs with the screaming next to him. A wall. He’s on the wall, with Alyx, and he can’t move. His head feels heavy. Everything is dark. The advisor’s tongue advances towards Eli, all too soon jolting his body forward, hanging limply in the air. The heartbeat speeds up, beeping and jeering at him as he screams silently.
And then Alyx is next. Something in him breaks as he watches her body convulse inward, it too hanging limp in the other advisor’s grip. He feels cold. It’s so, so cold as he continues to thrash, even as the advisor who had killed Eli floats towards him. He’s thought about death. He’s thought about it so much, in fact, that he’s wanted it. But not like this.
Not like this, his mind supplies him over and over again, the beeping growing incessantly in his ears, Gman’s voice grating on his nerves. He’s not sure if it’s even real. If any of it is. He’s screaming, thrashing and turning as he’s caught under a web of power pinning him to the wall. Long spindly fingers wrap around his arms, then his feet, holding him down, holding him down. His torso is pinned as he flounders madly, cracking his skull against the wall and trying to wrestle his arms free.
Except it doesn’t hurt. It feels as if he’s merging with the wall, or rather it’s bending like a mattress as he’s pushed into it. And as the advisor’s tongue darts near as sweat and tears collect on his face, desperate mantras of please, please please no, escaping his lips, he wakes up.
He wakes up and promptly wrestles his right arm free, world blurry and unfocused as his fist collides with flesh and crunching cartilage. There’s yelling as he strikes something with his foot this time, rolling to the side to find that he’s falling, falling, and landing on a cold tiled floor. A sharp pinch in the crook of his arm stings as something tears out of the skin, the smell of blood– Just like his dream– enveloping the air.
No time to waste. He doesn’t know what’s happening as the only thought in his mind is to survive. Everything else is far, far away, unable to be processed. His skin is buzzing, mind aflame and confusion raging as his hand grapples for a gun that isn’t there. Where are his weapons? His HEV suit is gone, too, a thin fabric covering his frame instead. Like a dress. It makes him feel naked and unsure, body wracking with shivers as someone in front of him grabs his wrists.
He flicks his wrists out, rotating them in a way that has the person trying to tear away from him as he takes control of their forearms, digging his bare feet into the tile to launch them to the side. There’s a crash and muffled yelling continues as he bolts, shoving someone out of the way as he shoulders through the heavy wooden door. He needs to get out, he needs to escape, he needs to save Alyx, save Eli, before it’s too late–
His vision tilts dangerously as he collides with a gate, the crunching and squealing of the wires preventing him from blundering through. It has him slumping forward on the wires, trembling fingers hooking through the mesh in a desperate attempt to hold himself up as his legs buckle. Yelling. More yelling. Someone’s saying his name. Hands touch his shoulder and he flinches violently, a strangled sound pouring out of his throat as he chokes back a sob.
The hands retreat instantly, instead opting to hover uncertainly as he clutches the mesh for dear life. Voices. There are too many. They’re merging and warping in his ears, the false drone of a man that’s long gone sneering at him above the clamor. They battle, tugging and pulling as the clamor wins.
“Mr. Freeman? Hey, Freeman, it’s alright–” But he’s not listening. Instead, he tenses his arms, hauling himself back onto his feet as his body slumps against the fence. He needs to find Alyx and Eli. His first and only priority. No one is shouting anymore, but intense conversations are happening somewhere behind him that he doesn’t care to figure out. He hears something along the lines of, “Go get Calhoun,” causing his heart to stutter.
No. Not Calhoun, not right now. He needs to find the Vances. There’s no time. They’re going to die. The reminder has him stumbling along the fence, people darting out of his way as he finds an opening, all but falling through it. He lands on the floor face-first, gasping for air. No time to waste. He’s crawling, the blood from the IV and something else smearing along the concrete as he does. His head aches, his side stings, and his fingers slip as they become encased in the blood on the floor.
And then there are hands on his shoulders and he’s like a livewire being triggered. He roars around onto his side, aiming a well-aimed strike at a person. But it never lands. A black glove catches his wrist, and for some reason, all he can think of is combine, combine, COMBINE as he tries to yank away. It doesn’t work. The combine’s grip is strong, soon grabbing his other wrist as he tries to punch it in a feeble attempt. It’s yelling, the muffled voice strangely familiar as the person barks orders.
Gordon continues to struggle, but when the person leans their full weight against him he finally looks up. There’s an unkept, scraggly-shaven face, stubble sprouting from the jawline and just above the lips. Large angled eyebrows, deep eye bags, dark green eyes, and raven black hair. He freezes at the sight, breath halting as the fog in his eyes starts to overtake him. He finds it increasingly difficult to stay awake as Barney leans in close, letting go of his suddenly numb wrists to envelop him in a hug.
It’s comfortable and firm, even warm as he can feel the Officer’s heat radiating through the uniform. He’s murmuring apologies into his ear, sweet reassurances that Alyx and Eli are safe, they’re here. A hand finds the back of Gordon’s head and rubs circles into his hair as his body visibly relaxes, but tremors still make his muscles twitch. There’s a sob and then a low, keening cry as Gordon’s head falls back. It’s broken in some parts by mantras of, I’m sorry, m’sorry, and please, no, no no. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s the one crying, a long, almost silent wail mournfully falling past his lips.
Everyone’s okay. Everyone is safe. So why does he feel like this? They’re like this until Gordon’s voice quiets, tapering off into short sniffles and breaths. Then there are rapid footsteps approaching from down the hall, and suddenly Gordon’s violently trying to twist out of Barney’s grasp, hands reaching down towards his belt for a gun. He doesn’t find it. Instead, he clutches at a hospital gown, panicking at the realization. Another person approaches from the side and before Gordon shoves Barney up and into them, he slips his handgun out of his utility belt.
He’s up on his feet, lurching forward with the gun raised as a medic comes racing around the corner. His finger dances on the trigger, a millimeter away from letting the bullet loose. Their eyes meet and she slams to a halt, hands slowly raising as she stares into the eyes of a broken man. Broken by the Renaissance cascade, broken by the revolution. By all of the death and destruction. The room is tense, a tension coiled thickly like black smoke as Gordon finally chokes, the gun clattering to the floor as he collapses.
It gets to him. The events of the past, what, two weeks of his life? It all comes crashing down as Barney reaches for him again, this time hugging him from behind. Someone runs forward to successfully swipe the gun out of the way as Gordon reaches for it again, crying in broken intervals as the medic watches silently from the doorway. He needs that gun. He needs it, needs it like he’s going to die. It takes multiple people to hold him down, twist his left arm out to the side in an uncomfortable manner, and sink a needle into the soft skin of his inner elbow.
His crying fades, the meager energy instead reserved for rocking back and forth in Calhoun’s grip. He’s murmuring reassurances into his ear, voice laced with pain and something desperate as he tries to calm the wild man down. And it works. Or at least the drug does as it carries further on into his bloodstream, making his head heavy and eyelids droop. He leans back into Barney, fingers grasping weakly at his arms as he holds him close.
A calloused hand reaches for his and holds it gently as he sobs, voice coming out in quiet, garbled clips. It’s nonsensical as his brain tries to fit certain words into his mouth, but they’re too big and clunky to balance evenly on his tongue. There’s so much he wants to ask him. Why is this happening? Where are they? Why him? He realizes he’s been speaking these aloud, but they’re incomprehensible, certain words from each thought mixing as they spill out of his lips.
Calhoun’s shushing him, gently rocking him back and forth as Gordon breaks. The gun. He needs the gun. His mouth moves to form the word, over and over again as the mantra takes hold of his crazed mind. He reaches out as if expecting it to be placed into his hand, but it never is. His words grow faster, more desperate, and deranged as his voice crumbles the longer he goes on. Barney reaches up to push his hand down.
“No, Gordon. It’s okay, just sleep. Just sleep, darlin’.”
Gordon doesn’t want to sleep. He does, and he doesn’t at the same time. He has no choice. The drug takes its course, closing his eyes as he delves into a land of dreams. A land of nightmares.
It’s the same dream, over and over again. And every time he wakes up it’s no different from the first time. They’ve– The resistance medics and doctors– resorted to strapping him down to the bed in a last-ditch effort to keep him from going wild. It worked: the strong leather straps successfully traped his arms and legs to the rails on the bedside. They put the rails there so he wouldn’t fall off of the bed again.
He’s fading in and out of another nightmare when he hears voices. Not G’man’s cold, decriptic drawl but two rather angry voices whispering in low urgency. He recognizes Barney’s voice anywhere.
“You can’t just strap ‘m there like a prisoner!”
A tired medic answers him with a cranky tone.
“Calhoun, we have to. He’s not stable right now.”
“Why ain’t he stable? How can we make him ‘stable’?” Barney’s voice is strong and resilient, but it’s breaking at the ends. This is an argument he can’t win. The medic motions to the door, reaching to push his glasses back up.
“If you’re going to argue, I’m going to advise you to leave. Mr. Freeman’s condition is rather… difficult. We are simply not equipped to deal with it at the moment-”
“What do you mean, ‘not equipped”? You’re a medic, for cryin’ out loud!” his voice borders on a shout, the medic giving him an unimpressed look.
“We are trying everything we can. These things take time, Calhoun. His condition is on the inside, not the outside. You’re our best bet. Freeman needs someone he can trust as his mind recovers.” Silence in the air. It’s true: what happened last time proves that Barney is the only one able to calm him down. It looks like Barney wants to strangle the doctor where he stands. He’s not angry about helping Gordon, but he’s angry about the restraints around his limbs.
He knows they’re for safety reasons after what had happened last time, but the sight of them makes his blood boil.
A sharp inhale breaks the tension, both of them whirling around as Gordon’s finally woken up again, a garbled grunt spilling from his lips as he suddenly strains against the leather straps. Barney goes to rush to the bedside, the medic stepping out of his way just in time.
He’s raising bare hands to clasp Gordon’s shoulders again, persisting even when the latter tries to pull away with a snarl and unfocused eyes.
“Hey, Doc, it’s alright. S’ just me, see?”
A flicker of recognition passes through the haze in Gordon’s green eyes, the pupils narrowing ever so slightly to fix on the officer’s face. They lock eyes and his struggling halts, wanting to move everywhere and nowhere at once. Barney. That’s Barney. When did he get here? Where was here? Barney seems to understand his confusion, moving his hand to rest over the leather strap encasing his wrist. The doctor looks warningly from behind.
“You’re in White Forest, Gordon. You’re safe; The combine’s gone. It’s all over.” It takes Freeman a while to process his words, eyes looking away to focus on a point past the foot of the bed. All over. It feels like a lie. His eyes start to glaze in thought, and Barney, panicking, waves a hand in front of his face. Gordon elicits no reaction, so he tries again. Gordon’s still staring at that point, lost in his thoughts. Barney sighs.
“Hey Doc, look at me, will ya?” His voice once again breaks Gordon out of his stupor. His eyes return to Calhoun’s with bleary focus. His lips open to talk, but nothing comes out except a strain of vocal chords and air. Calhoun frowns as Gordon tries again, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling worriedly as he watches the man struggle.
Gordon can’t do it. He clenches his fists, then opens them, tugging on the leather straps. A moment of clarity crosses his face, a questioning lilt of his head as he looks at Barney. And Barney concedes, hesitant even as the medic behind him says, “Calhoun,” rather sternly. But he doesn’t do anything.
So Barney takes that as an invitation to undo the leather buckles, sliding the fabric out from under the rail and off of Gordon’s wrists. There’s tension in the room as Gordon reaches up with his hands to rub at the tender skin on his wrists, and then motions with his hands. Where’s Alyx? Eli? The question is simple and clear, and it has Barney relieved that he could give him some comfort at last.
“They’re safe, both of ‘m. Eli’s recovering and Alyx is helpin’ round the base with Dog.” at that Gordon visibly relaxes, his body seeming to melt into the mattress underneath. His hands tremble, fingers flexing as he gazes at them distantly. Barney reaches over to take them into his own large, calloused hands, cupping them tenderly. He brings them towards his face, resting them against his lips as he kneels beside the bed. Gordon’s barely there, but yet his eyes are focused on their interlaced hands and Barney’s soft expression.
Barney makes a vow. He’ll help him, even if in the future he’s waking up screaming, crying that They’re all dead, They’re dead! As Calhoun holds him close. Even if he wakes up and mistakes the resistance personnel for soldiers or combine officers. Even if he’s not really there anymore, receded deep into a place where he can’t reach.
The officer parts to look up at him, grip growing firmer ever so slightly.
“It’s going to be okay, Doc. I’ve gotcha.”
And Gordon never replies, lost in his head as he stares at the point beyond the bed that Barney can’t discern.