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It's quiet.
When the others go to sleep, it always is. The thrumming of machinery and the distant groans of monsters quiet, as if respecting their need for rest. The idle chatter, the banter and the shouting and the arguments are gone, replaced with an all consuming silence. Gordon knows, realistically, that it should be relaxing. He should be laying down, trying to find the most comfortable spot to rest, and clocking out like the others. Hell, after all the awful shit they've been through, sleeping should be the easiest thing in the world. He's exhausted.
And yet here he is, propped up against the cold cement wall, eyes open and far too awake. The quiet should be calming, but all it does is put him on edge. Coomer snorts in his sleep and Gordon jumps, hand hovering over his holster. A second passes and he relaxes, as best as he can, anyway, back into his watch. And that's what it is, isn't it? He's on vigil, alert while the others rest because now would be the perfect time for some unseen horror to sneak in and bite all their throats out. The thought of waking up to choked off, gargled screams, only to be mauled in his sleepy haze? He shudders and forces his back straighter.
It's not logical, he knows. Dangerous, even. The last time he slept more than an hour was before the whole Cascade happened, and it's been nearly four days now. He doesn't have to be a psych major to know that he's either going to crash at the most inopportune moment or have a full on meltdown, which, considering how hard it's getting to push away panic attack after panic attack, is the more likely of the two. Who knows? Maybe, with his shitty luck, he'll get a two for one combo. Buy one get one free . He chuckles quietly at the stupid thought.
"What are you laughing about, Feetman?"
His gun is out and aimed before his brain has even begun to process the sentence. His eyes land on Benry, hands up and looking uncharacteristically startled. It would be funny, but… Gordon blinks hard, shaking his head, and holsters the gun reluctantly. Without a word, he drops back down on his ass, settling back into his previous position. Benry stares at him strangely the whole time, but Gordon barely notices.
"Jesus, didn't mean to sneak up on you," he scoffs, leaning back against the wall casually, probably trying to regain his cool. "You must be a pretty shitty guard dog to miss me coming in."
Gordon grits his teeth, feels anger rise like bile in the back of his throat. It's too late, he has to remind himself, too quiet to start a shouting match. Besides, he's really not in the mood for it, anyway. "I'm not a guard dog, dickhead," he says instead, crossing his legs and attempting to relax his posture a little. It hurts, which is odd. He didn't realize he was so tense. "Somebody has to keep watch."
Benry snorts. "What, every night? I thought you're supposed to, I 'unno, rotate and all that." He does a little circular motion with his hand, looking at the others, still peacefully sleeping. Gordon considers it, briefly, before shaking his head.
"Nah. I don't really trust any of them to stay awake , let alone watch for threats." He takes out his pistol again, switching the safety back on. That could have been a disaster. He imagines waking the others up by accidentally shooting himself in the thigh and snickers, and Benry quirks a tiny smile and shakes his head.
"That's fair, I guess. They'd probably wake everybody but you, let you wake up to some slobbering alien in your face," he jokes, grinning. Gordon looks away, grimacing. Considering they've already woken him up by rolling him into another room and punching him in the gut, he wouldn't be surprised. Benry seems to notice his mood sour, because he adjusts his helmet with one smooth movement, face settling back into his impassive facade as he says, "Nah, but I wouldn't let 'em."
Gordon raises an eyebrow cynically. "Yeah, uh huh. I'll believe that when I see it," he retorts dryly.
"No, y'know, you wouldn't see it because it wouldn't happen. You'd sleep like a little baby. You're welcome."
Gordon does laugh, then, although whether he's genuinely amused or just laughing at the absurdity of Benry protecting him, he's not quite sure. Whichever it is, Benry grins smugly all the same, like he's caught Gordon, somehow. Caught him slipping in his vitriol, maybe? He's honestly too tired to try to analyze Benry's intricacies right now.
"Sure, man. Sure. Hey, anyway," he realizes, turning to face the guard with furrowed eyebrows, "why aren't you sleeping? You should keep up your energy, dude."
Benry shoots him a look that says like you're one to talk and shrugs. "'M not human. Don't need to sleep."
Huh. That... does explain some things. Gordon nods with a hum and turns back to watch the others silently. Benry lets him, finally sitting down about three feet away, sprawled out in a way that must be uncomfortable against a solid concrete wall. The small distance between them seems to crackle with some unknown tension, and Gordon shifts a bit further away, uncomfortable.
For a long while- or maybe not that long, it's hard to keep track- they just sit there like that, silent and still. It almost feels… nice, in a weird way. Almost. Sitting with somebody in silence almost always feels better than when you are alone, after all, even if that someone was Benry. And maybe, just maybe, that crushing loneliness that pervades even when he's joking with the others lessens a bit. But Gordon has barely slept for four days, and being around Benry always makes him tense and anxious, so it's not much of a surprise that when Benry scoots closer, squeezing into his personal space without so much as a word, he might have overreacted.
"D-don't-!" He hisses, all instinct and bared teeth, pressing himself harshly into the corner. An animal , his brain shoots at him. Guard dog. Thankfully, Benry seems to get the message and backs up, letting Gordon lower his metaphorical hackals. He looks… comically surprised, if Gordon is being honest, but the laugh dies in his throat when Benry's face falls into something that almost looks like concern .
"Dude, you need to chill. It's not like I'm gonna hurt ya," he mutters, as if he's offended . Gordon sputters and then sighs, pushing a hand roughly through his tangled hair. Right. Right! As if Benry had never messed with him when he had his guard down, of course , what was he thinking . He wants to say as much, to get angry and defensive and yell and snarl and fight-
No, stop, breathe , he reminds himself angrily, the hand tangling in his hair twisting and rooting itself there. It helps him focus, center himself. He tugs harder, blinking away tears as he grounds himself on the pain, breathing slowly and deeply, or as best as he could. When his breathing settles, he tugs his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, careful to look straight ahead. He can still see Benry in the corner of his eyes, though, can see his mouth opening and closing as if he wants to say something but isn't sure how. Seeing your coworker- or whatever weird thing they are now- suddenly go blank and start pulling his hair like a kid who didn't get their way was… probably a strange sight. Whatever. Whatever! It's not like he cares what Benry thinks of him, anyway.
There's movement to his left, and he watches out of the corner of his eye, suspicious. Benry waits until he's sure he's got his attention to extend a hand slowly towards him. Gordon stares at it warily, trying not to flinch as it nears his face, only to jump anyway when it lands roughly on his head, ruffling his hair.
"Hey, what the fuck dude!" Gordon whispers angrily, swatting at the offending limb. It doesn't budge. "I'm not a dog , even though you seem to suddenly think i am, don't fucking pet me!"
"I don't think you are, chill out, dude," Benry retorts, sounding as calm and vaguely smug as ever. His ruffling settles into what can now definitely be called petting, but it's… Gordon blinks harshly as his eyes try to droop, glaring hotly at the guard, who is grinning back at him in that obnoxiously pleased manner. The motion is smooth and… surprisingly gentle, carding through his hair and painlessly untangling any knots that catch his fingers. Soothing , his traitorous brain supplies, which he vehemently denies, even as his arms fall limply to his sides, no longer chasing away the intruder.
"You're probably closer to a cat," Benry teases, and when Gordon flushes red and starts to protest, he scratches his scalp all rough and attention grabbing and Oh, that feels nice. Against his wishes his eyes slip closed, and he presses his face into his knees to hide his blush. It's embarrassing, and he wants to yell all over again, but it's a distant want, now, overshadowed by that simple, pleasant touch. He tries to remember the last time anybody has touched him in more than passing, and he comes up blank.
Benry quiets, but he doesn't stop, alternating between soft fingers and rough nails. Gordon refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's actively leaning into his hand now, chasing the feeling like some- some- touch-starved child . It feels so vulnerable . He's terrified . Terrified that he's going to be punished for this, for his weakness, terrified that the second he starts to droop a little too closely to sleep there will be a knife in his throat and mocking laughter in his ears. More prominently, he's terrified that he's going to get too soft, too complacent, and he's going to fall apart. The fact that he's more afraid of that than Benry backstabbing him like he has so many times already is alarming.
Maybe he's already breaking.
"Hey." Benry's voice, soft and low near his ear. Gordon nearly yelps, jerking his head up in surprise. He hadn't noticed when Benry stopped, and his cheeks flare hotly in shame. Oh. He's shaking, he realizes. Little tremors up and down his arms, down his back. His face feels wet.
Oh. Oh no .
Gordon pulls away like he's been burned, wiping hastily at his eyes. He rises jerkily on stiff legs, ignoring the "hey, hey, hey" behind him as he practically bolts out of the room. He hears footsteps behind him, quiet but hurried, and he picks up speed, breath coming fast and shallow as he flees. Fleeing, just because he got a little too emotional. Pathetic . He glances around blindly, spotting a small, unassuming storage closet, and without a second thought he flings open the door and slams it shut behind him. It's pitch black, save the small strip of light from under the door, and the darkness wraps around him like a warm blanket, even as it chokes him.
He can't remember the last time he had a panic attack, only knows that he hasn't had one since before college. He doesn't remember it hurting this much. He can't breathe , he can't see , he can barely sense the world around him and it's tearing him apart atom by atom. He hears a low whine, mournful and scared, and it takes him a moment to realize that it came out of his mouth. The world is melting, falling apart at the seams and he can't breathe , he can't fucking breathe.
This must be what drowning feels like, surely? The air too thick for your lungs to inhale, thick like syrup, not letting you get anything but a tiny breath before it chokes you all over again. He's pretty sure he hears voices in the distance, distorted and frantic, coming closer, and he covers his mouth desperately, body tingling with fear fear fear .
"--know where he went!" Someone shouts, fuzzy and too loud, too close. He barely chokes off a whimper, listening frozen as the voices and, eventually, footsteps fade. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, but when he inhales, the breath is gone, lost to the water. He claws desperately at his throat, tries his best to rip it open because the air just won't come in, he needs- he scratches- he needs-
Blinding light envelops him, and Gordon jerks away from it with a cry, covering his face and smashing into some shelving. He curls up as small as he can go. They can't see me , he thinks hysterically, even as he hears a wounded sound from someone above him. Go away, go away, go away-
"Gordon, you need to breathe," a voice says, full of something something something that makes his chest squeeze painfully, makes him wheeze. "Gordon, c'mon, I gotcha. Breathe, man." They repeat. There's a hand on his shoulder and he whimpers, hands tugging roughly at his hair, angry and so perfectly painful . But then the hand leaves, tugging his own from their perch. He can only protest weakly, exhausted and dizzy and still breathing so fast and shallow. The soft hands envelop his, tugging him up into a seated position.
"Breathe. Do it like I'm doing it," the voice instructs, and Gordon's head swims but he tries. He swears he tries, but his attempts are shaky and choked, pathetic and weak. He tries in vain to to pull away and hide, hide away and maybe smash his fucking head into a wall, but he's held firm. "Keep going, you're doing great," they say, even as he wheezes around his panic, and somehow that reassurance makes it a little easier. He breathes, coughs, and tries again. It's a slow and painful task, but he tries .
After what feels like ages, the weight eases off of his chest, and he can finally breathe again. He takes in a greedy gulp of burning air and his exhale comes out in a sob. He tries to stop, tries to calm down but the dam's burst, all of the stress over these past few days coming out at once. The person holding him tugs him into their chest, and he can feel every point of contact like a brand and he cries . Shh, shh , they whisper, and Gordon lets himself be comforted.
They stay there for another long time, and Gordon is pretty sure, once his sobbing turns into sniffles, that he owes this person a new shirt. He must have said it aloud, because there's a scratchy, beautiful laugh, and suddenly Gordon's brain catches up with what's happening and whose lap he's sitting on.
Benry must feel him tense, ready to bolt, because his laughter cuts off with a hey , and he pulls Gordon tighter against his chest. His face is squished into Benry's shoulder, and he squirms, but the guard just gives a low warning sound, resting his chin on the top of Gordon's head. Gordon knows he must be flushed red all the way up to his ears, but Benry only chuckles softly, nuzzling into his hair. His face burns hotter, at that.
"D-dude-" Gordon tries, but his voice is rough and cracked with what sounds like even more tears, so he stops himself, ashamed. He feels awful , messy and weak, and that must disgust Benry, but the man doesn't let him go, even when Gordon embarrasses himself with another pitiful sound. He hums a muffled sweet-voice, and despite himself Gordon feels his tensed muscles relax.
"You know," Benry starts, voice low and teasing, "if you didn't want to wake the others, running out of the room probably wasn't the smartest idea."
Gordon blinks, feeling like he's been slapped across the face. His face twists into a glower to cover the hurt , because he knew it . " Fuck you , let go of me," he spits, all vitriol and pain that he can't quite cover, and Benry swears as Gordon fights him.
"Stop! You didn't let me finish," he responds, annoyed and maybe a little regretful of his wording, especially after Gordon nails him in the collarbone with his shoulder. After a few more moments of weak, angry writhung, Gordon relents, huffing. "They were worried when they couldn't find you," Benry continues, voice softer now. Gordon freezes. "They thought you got picked off."
Gordon feels something in his chest burn, and he bares his teeth against the sensation. "'Cause I'm weak , right?" He snarls, skin tingling like all his nerves were exposed. Benry moves one hand and uses it to grab Gordon's hair, gently but firmly pulling his head back until he's forced to look at his face instead of jumping to stupid conclusions.
"No, because they're your friends , dipshit," Benry responds, eyes flaming. Gordon blinks harshly, feeling his own eyes burn, and he fruitlessly tries to look away. The intensity Gordon sees in those eyes, the facade of calm and collected gone, replaced with passion, with fury - it threatens to awaken something in him. But then Benry finally lets him go, looking away.
"'N so am I. You don't- you don't need to run away when you feel bad. Don't need to go hiding in a closet like some fucking mouse." He speaks quietly, now refusing to look at Gordon. "I get it, y'know? We all do. But you shouldn't feel like you have to hide when you're hurting."
Gordon stares at Benry's back for a long moment, warmth and pain all together blooming in his chest. Maybe if he wasn't already feeling so vulnerable and torn open, he wouldn't have dared to do it. But he is, and so he snakes his arms around Benry and squeezes , punching a surprised grunt out of the guard. He can feel Benry looking back at him, can practically hear the questions he wants to ask, but he hides his face in the back of his uniform, terrified of what the other man might see in his face. Too many things. Things they can talk about later.
"Thank you," he croaks, and for some reason, Benry thanks him, too.
When they come back to their temporary sleeping room, the other three are wide awake, watching them both as they enter, completely shamelessly. Gordon feels the itch, the compulsion, the need to run away from those eyes. Benry squeezes his hand, then, grounding him, and Gordon allows himself a tired little wave, which Tommy and Dr. Coomer happily return. Bubby squints for a moment longer, before rolling over.
"I'm going back to bed. You two lovebirds better keep it down, or I'll feed you to the aliens."
Benry cackles mercilessly as Gordon sputters wildly, and the world settles back into place.