Chapter Text
Dollboy is barking from inside the apartment, and Dollboy never barks. Joshua’s hand tightens around the doorknob. Something, clearly, is wrong.
So much for coming home and dropping his backpack on their couch with its frayed thread and faded cloth, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms for good measure (can’t do that with the weight of two binders, three folders, and a textbook on your back), standing up straight, and announcing: Dad, I’m failing everything and I don’t know how to fix it.
He worked that statement out last week. Or maybe two weeks ago. Okay, maybe he’s been toying with it for a month. Whatever the case, it’s firm, final, says what it needs to (he can explain everything and failing and what that all means when asked further) and it’s locked in his mind, on the tip of his tongue, muscle memory ready to propel him forward after reciting it into the mirror a hundred plus times.
Except now there’s possibly an intruder in the apartment: an unexpected variable. Worrying.
What would someone competent do here? he asks himself. They definitely wouldn’t turn and run the other way, down the stairs and out to the street. They wouldn’t phone their dad. Or their friend (not like Caleb could help). It’s much easier to go in there himself. He’s right there, hand on doorknob (he can feel the sweat making his grip slippier by the second), so he should be the one to deal with it. He’s learned self-defense.
A moment to prepare: feet slightly apart, knees bent, fists curled—yeah, he’s got this. Bounce on the toes. Wave arms around a bit. A little one-two. His hands may be trembling so hard he couldn’t hold a fork right, and his heart may be pounding up to his throat, but the adrenaline will set him right. Probably.
Maybe Dollboy has that attack dog in him. A fluffy white killer. He’s got to have some of that wild instinct left, right? It couldn’t have been all bred out.
After a moment’s consideration, Joshua swings the backpack off his shoulders. Loaded with binders and folders bursting with old assignments (thank God for laziness and not throwing anything out ‘til the last day of school), it weighs down his arms, fabric sagging as the papers try to drop to the floor. Holding it up is a strain on the muscles. One good whack and he might have the guy out cold.
This is it, then. He should do it when adrenaline and anxiety are still pounding through his veins and he has the inertia from preparing. With no more time to think, he swings open the door.
He scans the apartment, eyes darting to every corner, scoping out hiding spaces and places for things to be wrong, and there’s… nothing. No intruder, no animal that’s snuck in somehow, no weird ghost thing floating around and being menacing (it was an option!). What’s more, the apartment looks untouched. The lights are off and only fading sunlight filters through the windows in the back, illuminating pillows on the couch that are arranged as they were in the morning, cushions neat and un-pilfered, not strewn across the room or stabbed until the stuffing spills out, and in the kitchen the cupboards are firmly closed, dishes lined up on the drying rack. Everything is as it should be.
Except Dollboy doesn’t run to greet him like he usually does, tail wagging a mile a minute and tongue out in a little puppy smile. His barking—rising in a series of frantic yips, hardly threatening at all—fills the apartment.
Josh can’t stay in the hallway forever, so he takes a full step inside and shuts the door behind him. Another quick glance around shows that Dollboy is stationed by the door to Dad’s streaming room, standing with paws slightly splayed and head bouncing up every time he barks.
It feels a bit like a relief, which is maybe childish, because he should be able to take down a burglar or whoever. But if the disturbance is from inside that room, then it’s a streaming day, which means Dad is home and not out getting groceries or working his second job. And that means Dollboy’s all worked up over nothing.
Dad was probably being loud and chaotic (he tends to do that), yelling at one of the AIs in his videogame (Half Lived?) or swinging some wild punches in VR that nearly hit the wall, and Dollboy got startled. And now that Josh thinks of it, there was a storm earlier today, rain tearing down in long lashing streams and the crack of electricity in the air. That, along with Josh being at “debate club” and Dad busy with work, must’ve frazzled Dollboy. Dad had trained him well, but he’s only a year old, so maybe it hasn’t stuck. Mystery settled.
Josh throws the backpack down on his chair at the kitchen table, and it lands with a heavy thump. No more being careful with the thing, even if he might harm the buttons and pins he’s got fastened on its fabric. Today, it deserves it. All the proofs he needs to solve (fuck Geometry), the essay he needs to write (he’s hardly picked up The Great Gatsby, and although the book is slim, rifling through yellowed pages and staring at printed black words makes his head spin), the research he needs to do (maybe he can lie and say his laptop broke?), all of it, can go down the drain.
He can deal with his homework later. After he has a moment to talk to Dad and say I’m failing everything and I don’t know how to fix it. After that the fixing can come. He’ll fix it all so well, metaphorical hammer and nails boarding up a hole on a metaphorical boat, so that even with water gushing in and spilling through his fingers as he plasters them over the problem, hands interlocked and pressed and sealed with a prayer that’s not enough to stop the weight of the sea from pooling over his boots, creeping higher to his knees and causing baggy jeans to cling heavy to his skin—even with all that, he’ll take those boards and beat it back. He’ll seal the hole. And the water will recede until it’s gone completely.
Dollboy yips again. The dog hasn’t moved.
“Hey, buddy. What’s wrong?” Josh says, walking over and ruffling his fluffy fur with one hand. “Is Dad being crazy in there? Is he being crazy?”
Dollboy at last rips his attention from the door and tilts his head up; his black nose sniffles against Josh’s chin, and Josh laughs under his breath. “Well, he’s streaming right now so you gotta be quiet. Wanna come play?”
But even wandering away a few steps and patting his hands on his knees does nothing to pull Dollboy from his frazzled trance. As soon as Josh is out of eyesight the puppy continues his tirade against the door. If he keeps it up Josh will get a headache.
But Dollboy’s frenzy and the scare in the hallway will not deter Josh. Definitely not. No more hiding under his blanket late at night with the barest illumination from his lamp to pore over his homework with, pushing a mountain to move an inch. No more sitting at the edge of Caleb’s basement while he and his friends make their jokes and play their games. No more lying curled in bed biting his hand to stop sniffled tears from being audible in the other room. From being audible to Dad.
The words are solid in Josh’s head. He will not cry, and his hands will not shake.
They tremble now as he runs them through his curls, which is probably not a good sign. But it’s hopefully just the excitement—he is excited. He needs to be.
Or he’s hungry. Probably just that.
Examining the fridge reveals not even food has been taken—it’s still stacked with leftovers in their clear tupperware containers, and damn if that rotisserie chicken doesn’t look good. Maybe he’ll heat some of that up for dinner.
Josh giggles to himself. Yeah, if there really was an intruder they’d definitely want some of this. Chicken still here? All clear. They should keep it in the fridge more often to be sure. Good thing Josh didn’t freak out and call anyone, least of all Caleb.
The thought of Caleb, leaned over his bong, disheveled tank-top and baseball cap turned backward, facing down an intruder (who might have a knife! Or a gun! Or big muscled arms) is enough to force another laugh from Joshua. He may have self-defense training on his side, but high out of his mind? He’s not doing shit.
The mental image of Caleb getting his ass whooped and sporting a black eye and bruises all over pops into his head. It's supposed to be comforting—some sort of vindication, a justice. But it suddenly leaves Josh feeling sick to the stomach, like he ate something that sat out for too long.
On second thought, he feels awfully close to throwing up in general. “Suddenly” is the wrong word; this sensation isn’t new. Time to shut the fridge door and find something else to occupy his time and mind.
Dollboy looks stressed as hell. He’s still planted exactly where Josh left him, tail not even wagging, body visibly tense. And if he keeps up the barking, it’ll mess with Dad’s stream—or maybe he got upgraded headphones and mic? That would explain why he hasn’t done anything about the noise.
Josh grabs a toy from the bin by the TV—a knotted rope that Dollboy loves to play fetch with, only to, when bringing the thing back to Josh or Dad, bite onto it with all his might and not let go in a fierce game of tug-o-war. Josh squats a couple of feet away from Dollboy and waves it for him, taunting with “Here, Dollboy, come here, wanna play?” only to be met with nothing but the barest of glances.
Which… ouch. Josh tosses the toy aside and frowns. “Okay, fine. Don’t play with me.” Dollboy has been living with him since they adopted him as a little puppy—does he really like Dad that much more? Did Josh do something wrong?
He heaves himself to his feet. Whatever. He doesn’t care—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.
It’s nearing 7 p.m. which, depending on when Dad started the stream, could mean he might emerge from the room at any moment, or he could be stuck until Josh needs to go to bed. If it’s the second Josh will do something drastic. He can not wait until tomorrow.
Anticipation makes his heart skip a beat and he shakes his hands to calm the nerves. A quick pace around the living room, treading that well-worn circle from the TV, along the couch, to the armchair, then back again, will help pass the time, and he does just that. He pointedly ignores the backpack sitting lopsided on the kitchen chair.
He only makes it three laps before a crash comes from the streaming room. Joshua freezes in his tracks. It sounded like something fell—or, a lot of somethings. The crashing reverberates, a tumbling, like it was a whole tower that collapsed, and there’s a large thump, like someone falling down.
Which is odd. Dad can get a little wild, but not that wild.
Swallowing down the bile rising in his throat (what is he doing, this might make the moment come faster), Josh approaches the door and says tentatively, “Dad? Are you okay?”
With the click of a turning knob, the door swings open in one fluid motion. Dollboy explodes into a new fury of yips, scrambling backward, nearly rising on his hind legs as the barking comes to a torment.
And there’s Dad. He fills the doorframe, backlit by the room, and immediately something is very, very wrong.
Across the bridge of his nose, continuing under his eyes, is a bloody line, and the blood comes oozing out, dripping down his cheeks. His glasses are askew on his face, cracks spiderwebbing through one of the lenses.
But he doesn’t seem bothered. His arms hang limp by his side. One of them—the right one—is bloody, too. More so than his face. And oh fucking God, is it broken? In a realization that sends Josh’s stomach in a horrible, sickening flip, he notices bone.
The worst part is, with all of this, Dad bears the widest smile—wider than Josh has seen in a very long time. And out comes, in stilted syllables and a cheerful voice (why does it sound so cheerful?), “Ah, hello, Joshua! Or, I assume that’s your name? My, you look a lot older than in the picture!”
All Josh can think is that, whatever that is, it is not Dad.
It must be said, Dr. Coomer didn’t think this would actually work. It was difficult to wrap his head around in the first place: his world, limited, and outside, another world, accessible only to his co-worker and good friend Gordon Freeman. And, assumedly, through Gordon.
But who knew? Attacking him and the little vessel he puppets around, using that stump of an arm as an access point, and swapping places, does work! He isn’t clear on the details, of course. There was the strangest blinding light, whirling colors, a sensation of every fiber of his being getting torn through time and space, and now he’s here, in Gordon’s very own bedroom, and he’s sure going to make the most of it.
Or, well—he assumed it was his bedroom. But seeing as a bedroom is a room situated within a residential or accommodation unit, primarily used for sleeping, which contains as bedroom furniture one or two beds, a clothes closet, and bedside table and dressing table, both of which usually contain drawers—well, none of that is here! It doesn’t even have a window.
Instead there’s a desk, on which is a desktop computer, with keyboard and mouse, and a spinny chair. There is indeed a closet, but yanking the door to that open revealed only plastic boxes stacked all the way to Coomer’s chest (or Gordon’s chest? Either way, it’s Coomer’s now) and not any clothes.
And on the floor is the strange device that had been suctioned to his face when the swap first occurred. Coomer had suddenly seen from Gordon’s perspective and felt the sensation of it resting there, and in moments he tore it off. It was quite painful! But that seemed to be the key to unlocking this world.
And what a strange world it is. He stands on carpet. Surrounded by drywall. Above him is a lamp and fan. He’s in a human body.
It’s so- ordinary. Not that Coomer should’ve expected more, really. But it’s one matter to accept something as a possibility and witness it come to life, and another to fully wrap your head around it.
And there are differences! Gordon’s body feels- fleshy (which is odd, because Coomer knows what fleshy feels like, and yet his own body wasn’t like that), and part of his field of view is obscured by strange opaque lines. His hair is tied in a ponytail and part of it itches against his neck.
And, of course, there’s the right arm. Turns out Benrey’s and Bubby’s tomfoolery had an effect on Gordon in this world, too! The hand is still attached, but it’s bent at an angle with white bone sticking through skin and viscous red liquid seeping out. That must be blood, and this, a broken arm. Coomer has never seen anything like it. The way the blood comes out is so particular, flowing slowly and welling through the crack, and there is no large spray of red on any of the walls. Perhaps examining the physics of this world is in order.
The strangest thing, however, is the computer, which holds the strangest sight: an image of Coomer’s world, right up against the floor—just a pan-downed view of what Coomer had seen in the bare moments he wore that device. This must be Gordon’s window into the world, then. But why on Earth would he need two windows?
And there are little messages, in a bar on the side: multicolored phrases that appear to be names next to white lettering. Many question marks. “What’s going on?” “Is this a joke?” “Are you okay?” Every second they disappear and more take their place.
Coomer doesn’t know much about videogames or computational devices outside of what is required for work, but he can recall, seated in a circle, Gordon speaking of “Justin.tv” and “streaming.”
What an… unsettling thought.
It takes a little finagling with the device—it doesn’t help that his right arm is near non-functional—but after clicking a few buttons and pop-up messages, he makes those little names and words go away.
But the– window. It stays up.
By this point, it’s been made aware to Dr. Coomer that someone is outside of the room. Well, another human—there’s a dog, too, who, merely a few moments after arriving, started barking on the other side of the door (thank goodness there’s a door at all). It hasn’t stopped, which could be concerning. After all, barking is a normal behavior for dogs, but excessive barking indicates an underlying problem, a trigger, or the dog lacking exercise or mental stimulation. Reasons for excessive barking can be, among others, pain, fear, boredom, frustration, separation anxiety or territorial behavior (warning about potential threats).
Clearly, Gordon needs to work with his dog more. He must not be taking good care of it.
And now there’s muffled footsteps, too. Does Gordon have a roommate? Is this part of a larger facility, the room disguised as a normal space in a normal home, and the person outside is a co-worker of his?
Whatever the case, he isn’t done exploring this room yet!
The chair does not spin 360 degrees—disappointing. There are no hidden cameras in the walls or ceilings from what he can see (though his vision is obviously not up to its usual snuff). On the wall are a few videogame posters, though Coomer doesn’t recognize any of them (perhaps he will put up a Super PunchOut poster). The large plastic boxes in the closet appear to be assorted storage, containing winter jackets and old board games that crack at their cardboard edges.
But what’s curious is that the closet holds a shelf at the very top—rather high up, almost near the ceiling—with more, smaller boxes. Now this is a mystery to be solved! What could be up there worth hiding?
Coomer might not have his Extend-o Arms, but he can stand on things! And there’s already a stack of boxes right there for him to climb onto!
The position he finds himself in is a precarious one—flimsy plastic is not structurally sound. But with his toes balanced on the edge of the second box from the bottom, he can stretch and try to reach the target: a little cardboard shoebox tucked away in the highest spot.
Except before he can achieve his goal, the tower gives out beneath him, tumbling him to the ground. He hits the carpet hard and painfully. His right hand especially screams in protest. But no matter—he will simply get up and try again!
But a few moments later, after brushing himself off (hard to do with one hand bent like that), in the voice of a teenage boy the words “Dad? Are you okay?” come from near the door.
In an instant, Coomer remembers: Joshua Freeman! How delightful! The picture in Gordon’s locker and the story he spun were true—he cares about his son enough to put him in their world.
Coomer’s face splits into a smile. He can’t skip meeting the boy. Perhaps he will be as cute as the baby in the picture, but that is highly doubtful. Still, he must make sure.
He takes mere seconds to get to the door and swing it open, and sure enough, right there is the near spitting image of Gordon—although younger and with much shorter hair. “Ah, hello, Joshua!” Coomer says. “Or, I assume that’s your name? My, you look a lot older than in the picture!”
But Joshua simply stands open-mouthed, eyes darting up and down and widening by the millisecond—like he’s just seen a ghost! Which is a little strange, considering Dr. Coomer is in his father’s body, after all. He should be quite the familiar sight.
Joshua doesn’t say a word before darting to the side, and the next thing Coomer knows is a backpack getting flung straight at his face.