Work Text:
You draw her so frequently, so fervently; it doesn't take long before you begin to think that her face is engraved in your mind.
“You know, that's a rather odd thought to have. But then again, I don't doubt that that isn't the truth.”
The cube with a pink heart engraved in its center speaks to you. Its voice is soft. Calming. It speaks like an old friend. It knows you more than anyone else ever could.
The companion cube is your closest friend.
“...Well, I sure would like to think I am.” It pauses. “Although, I do find it rather… interesting, sometimes, when you draw images bearing my likeness to cover up the faces of those magazine cover girls that you sometimes plaster on the walls. Didn't you say that they were there to ‘keep you company’? It doesn't all have to be me, you know.”
You stop what you're doing, for a brief moment. You lower the paintbrush, and its tip smudges against your labcoat. A vibrant orange. You turn to grab the makeshift paint palette you've fashioned out of a left-over cardboard sheet.
It's on top of the cube. You reach over and dab your paintbrush in some more orange ink. Technically it's propulsion gel - but it's the color that you're after in this instance, not its repelling qualities.
You pause to stroke the smooth surface of the cube. The tone that it uses to speak with you is light-hearted, and jokey, even. But still, you recognize that its words come from a place of concern for its friend.
“...I don't like how they watch me. The people on the posters.” You shake your head. “It's a lot more comforting for me, if their faces were replaced with yours. At least then, they wouldn't watch me.”
You chuckle. “Plus, I don't mind if it's you watching me. You'd actually have good intentions doing that - at least, better than what I could say for most people.”
It's the eyes that you don't like. It's the incessant watching, and that silent monitoring. It's those eyes that track your every movement, and your every tiny breath; it's the eyes that make you feel paranoid.
“...Is that why you draw her with her eyes closed?”
You look up at the wall you were painting on. Another mural, dedicated only to her.
She's a silent figure, arms gently outstretched and relaxed, as if she was floating. Her cheeks are rosy, and her skin is covered in that beautiful, warm flush. You've taken extra care to detail the rough curls of her dark hair; the fullness of her lips, and the peace in her expression.
Her eyes are closed. She's asleep, like she always is, in your paintings of her.
“...Doug, see, I've always wondered about this, right? You never draw people's faces. You don't even seem to like seeing other people's faces, in the magazine illustrations and the photos that you pin up.” There was an inquisitive pause. It felt pointed. “And yet… yet, you always draw her face. Why is that?”
There's a hesitant silence, before you gather up the courage to say what you're thinking. When the words finally slip out, it feels a little difficult to stop from spilling everything that you're feeling. It all probably makes you sound like a madman, even.
“You know…” There's a slight hitch, in your throat. “I don't think I ever really considered the why. Until you asked me just now, of course.” You clear your throat. “But she's… special. I'm not sure how to say it. I haven't yet come up with a reason as to why I consider that the case.”
You spin your brush, and delicately tap at the mural with the back point of its handle, in a way that doesn't smudge the paint. You use it to hover over the details of her face. The delicate, soft lines, and those warm, gentle colors that you remember her by. That quiet peace in her resting expression.
She was just a hunch. At first.
A disposable tool that could be used to combat GLaDOS. At least, initially.
Your face scrunches up in mild discomfort. You didn't know why you initially thought you could just get away with using a human being as a means for escape. You didn't know why you thought that the guilt wouldn't haunt you; just in the same way that robotic echoes of dead men haunt this dastardly facility.
Admittedly, it was only when you first saw her face that you realized the weight of what you'd done. When you witnessed her unconscious body get dragged back into the underground laboratories. That was the only time, until that point; that it finally clicked that the name and the sequence of numbers on her test subject file, denoted the existence of an actual human being.
Sometimes it's hard to tell whether the thoughts started to spill out first, or the words.
“...You see? She's special. She must be.” Your throat feels hoarse. How long have you been talking? “It doesn't make sense otherwise. None of this does.”
You pause. “From the very first time I saw her file. Something caught my eye. I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise. At the time I saw hundreds of files flying around from one scientist to the next. Many noteworthy ones, many others that my colleagues gossiped as “outstanding material”. And all that was on her file was this large, red stamp of disapproval. ‘Too tenacious’, it said. But that's it.” You whipped your head around to the cube. “...Are you kidding me? There's no way I would've even remembered her - if there wasn't something that made her stand out.”
“She's special. She must be.” You pause, and catch a breath. “...That's why I'm okay with seeing her face. I allow myself to draw her in her full glory, I allow her image to surround me - because she's safe. She's special.” You repeat, a little softer now. “She's special.”
There's a beat. For a while, the cube sits in silence. You hear a tentative hum from the cube as if it's considering how to word its thoughts to you. It's a warm, melodic resonance, like a soft, mechanical lullaby. The cube tends to sing, when it doesn't know what to say. When it feels a little bit uncomfortable.
It's a soothing mechanism, you think. A way to make both you and it feel a little more at ease. It's always been a very considerate friend.
That's why… Despite yourself, you're not surprised when the tone that you catch from the cube is tinged with worry. You're not taken aback, or even angry.
“You know Doug,” The cube says softly, its voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like your attachment to her might be a little… excessive, don't you think?”
It catches itself rather quickly. “Oh but don't get me wrong, I know where it's coming from. I know that she's been your only hope of escape - my only hope of escape - for so long now. I understand that it's hard to see her as anything but some sort of messiah. A hero, that's come to save the day.” There's a pause. It's voice drops again. “But… sometimes you act like she's the only person that exists in the world. I just don't think that's a very healthy way to be attached to someone.”
You turn to the cube, and give it a look. The silence persists as you sigh, and then shrug your shoulders in defeat. You know that it's probably right. The cube has a tendency to be right about most things, anyways.
“You know, she might as well be.” You clear your throat in mild discomfort. “...The only person in the world, that is. At least, the only one that matters.”
There's a slight scoff, as you hold your head in your hands. It feels heavy. You feel heavy.
“...I'll tell you why I don't draw her with her eyes open. The reason why I draw her the same way, every time.” You pause. “It's because I've only ever seen her like that. I've only ever seen her asleep. I don't even know the color of her eyes.”
A small laugh escapes your lips. Quiet, and bitter. “And I wonder what it is. All the time. The color of her eyes. I wonder what she looks like, when she's awake.” You tap on the mural with the back of your brush, a little bit quicker this time. “I wonder what her expressions generally look like, when she's aware. How her voice sounds. Her personality - other than being ‘extremely tenacious', of course.”
“There's too many things I don't know about her. Too many things I can only wonder. Too many things I can only dream of, when it comes to her.” You shake your head. “I'm not here to draw fantasies. I'm not here to assume anything I don't already know. There's too many variables for that. Too many possible margins of error for me to even try to depict anything else.”
You look up, at the mural of her that you've drawn on the wall. “...And I don't need that, anyways. I don't need to depict anything else, through these images. She's already beautiful, just as she is.”
A deep sigh gets drawn out from your lungs. An exhale that seeps through your bones, and almost bleeds something that feels like longing. An emotion that you'd never had the words for. Not until rather recently, that is.
Not until you first laid eyes on her.
“...Special.” You mutter. “We both know that she doesn't belong here. She can't stay. She can't die here.”
“It’s why I draw her different, from all the rest. Because she is.” You close your eyes, and massage your eyelids. Maybe you're working yourself up, a bit. Maybe you should watch your words.
Maybe you should stop right now, before you've said too much. Before a line of no return is crossed. Before you fully realize what you're saying.
“Even if I end up trading my life for hers, I just can't let her die, here.”
The cube seems to sigh. “Doug… don't say that. You deserve to live, too.”
You spin towards the cube. “You don't understand.” You mutter, irritation thick in your voice. “This isn't about me. I haven't done anything. I couldn't.” You seethe through clenched teeth. “I am a coward. Barely even a rat in these damn walls.”
“But she…” You suck in a breath, trying to calm your nerves. “She actually fought GLaDOS. She fought her and won.”
“I don't deserve my ‘freedom’, if it's taken on the back of her sacrifice. I can't just escape here, if it means that she dies in my place.” You take another breath in, a little deeper this time.”I don't want that. Not from her.”
“...Then what is it that you do want from her, Doug?”
The words slip out before you can even think about what you're saying.
“I want her to be happy.”
Something catches in your throat. You feel like you're about to choke on your own words, but still, you continue.
“She must be beautiful when she smiles. When her eyes are touched by the light of the sun, and she feels its warmth on her skin. When she finally gets to walk free.”
Your breathing becomes slightly ragged. Difficult.
“She deserves it. She deserves to earn the freedom she's fought for; the happiness that follows. Because there's no such thing as rest, in this godforsaken facility. There's no such thing as peace.”
You feel as if your bones are hollowing out. Like there's something trying to crawl out of your chest, screaming and fighting you as you continue to speak.
“I just wish I could see it. That same peace that crosses her face, when she finally gets to rest on the surface. That soft, beautiful expression, when she finally knows that she's safe.”
There's some sort of crescendo. A crashing, violent release of emotion.
“...I just wish I could see her, again.”
You clamp your mouth shut, immediately realizing what you'd just expressed. You instinctively cover your mouth with your hand, and grimace.
“Shit. Shit-” You begin to pace. “No- damnit. Not what I meant to say. Just… just forget that I said anything. Forget that I even exist, actually.”
The cube let out a soft giggle. “Doug, you're absolutely out of your damn mind.”
You throw the cube a nasty glare, trying to ignore the rising heat that's found its way across your cheeks, burning down the back of your neck, and across the tips of your ears. You roll your eyes, and fold your arms, averting your eyes away from the offending cube.
“Honestly? I think it's pretty cute.” It paused. “And I think you two might be pretty cute… Together. Maybe you should tell her when we all get out of here, one day?”
“...Cube, kiss my entire ass.” You hiss at it, your face still burning a merciless shade of red. “Actually just bite me.”