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Droplets of water pattered on the cracked shower tiles. The pressure was low and uneven, inconsistent as the tides of a storm. The knob leaked steadily, water sliding down the wall like a stream of raindrops on a window. Light from the bolted wall lamp smeared across every wet surface, yet the bathroom was dingy. Just entering the room coated you in a thin layer of moisture that seemed to soak into your pores and settle into your bones. It smelled vaguely of mold — the kind that pushed into your throat and played in the back of your mind; would it fester in your lungs?
Plumbing groaned behind the chipped tiles, the pipes aching with age. Barney had seen them once before. He wasn't a plumber, but even he could tell that pipes were supposed to be smooth, not whatever the hell the maintenance crew had done to the poor bastards. Welded to hell and back. It was the equivalent of a sock so patched from wear and tear that it was just a different sock at that point.
Gordon shuddered in his stool, his skin taking on a deathly pallor under the wet sheen. He was stark in the otherwise drab room. “It's cold.”
“Captain Obvious over here…” Barney huffed, running the sudsy cloth down the spine of Gordon's back. His stool did not keep him out of the splash zone. The bottoms of his pants were getting soggy.
“ Doctor Obvious.” Gordon twisted over his shoulder, scowling. “Aren't I the messiah or something? They can't spare a warm shower for the guy who saved the world?”
Barney's smile faltered when he saw Gordon's face. He was minced. Long scratches ran down his cheek, parting his skin like the red sea. The bleeding had slowed, and Barney had wiped away all the dirt and grime, but still, diluted blood trickled from his wounds. His eye was sunken and angry and tired and still unbelievably, sickenly green. Too knowing and too sharp. Just maintaining eye contact could give your brain a paper cut. Vortessance, probably.
A twinge of… something… made itself known in Barney's chest. It was jagged, raw, hot and thrashing. He buried it as best he could, but it would dig itself out sooner or later. He knew that. “Trust me. If it were up to me, you'd get to soak in a hot bath. And I would as well. But, uhh… the world’s not saved yet. There's still that whole Borealis business.”
Gordon didn't seem impressed. He turned forward. “Count me out. I'm not going to freeze my ass off in the Arctic. I’m a scientist, not hired muscle. Literally every single one of your resistance members has more experience shooting guns and writing wills.”
Barney snorted. He knew Gordon would say that; he told everyone not to hinge their hopes on Gordon being cooperative. He was too badass of a lone wolf to be taking orders from the top resistance dogs.
He ran the wash cloth up and down his back, careful of the bruises and nicks. The sheet white of Gordon’s skin faded into the purples of each injury. While it was bad, the HEV suit had protected him from a lot. They looked more like the aftermath of a particularly nasty paintball fight than wounds sustained from fighting in a revolution against their alien oppressors.
If he closed his eyes, he could see it untouched by each marring injury. Instead, it was touched by two palms pressing into his shoulder blades, thumbs digging into the muscle to work out the tension. Hands with taut fingers clawing up, skin catching under the fingernails. Spine curled, digging into the stomach of any who spooned him, his ribcage expanding with every soft breath he took in.
His gaze wandered up to Gordon's hair. The brownish-red strands knotted together in wads of blood and viscera. He could feel the phantom memories of the strands combing between his fingers, soft and healthy. It was as if he was there again. Early morning, Barney cracked his eye open, and he watched Gordon brush his hair in the bathroom, the light backlighting him, framing him like a well-lit museum display. It was never dirty or tangled, nor unkempt or unseemly. Not like it was now. The soap bar might as well have been a cement brick for how heavy it was in Barney's hand.
He’d seen a ghost. Trying to shake it off and return to the present, he said in a voice meeker than he expected, “They really did a number on you, huh?”
“Which they?” Gordon spat out sourly. He hunched over, his head hanging forward, wet hair limply obscuring his head. “The U.S. military? The aliens? The militaristic aliens? The militaristic aliens’ aliens?”
When Barney’s hair was wet, before he cut it, he looked like the girl from The Ring (but macho and muscular). Gordon, though, when he was soaked, he kinda looked funny, like when you sprayed down a fluffy cat, and you’re left with a rail-thin spaghetti creature. That was Gordon. He was a doused flame barking non-threateningly at him.
“The U.S. military?” Barney quirked an eyebrow. “The military hasn’t been a thing since — oh, right.”
“Oh, right,” Gordon echoed dumbly. His arms crossed, and though Barney couldn’t see his face, he could see the way he tensed, and gingerly readjusted how his arms were pressing into his chest.
Barney wasn’t born yesterday. There was no way Gordon would get to be 47 years old without graying. No, his hair was still as vibrant as always, just… tangled and covered in grime. It was like he didn’t belong. He’d been spit out of something, somewhere else. A mostly-in-tact relic uncovered by a man with grubby fingers and a wash cloth. It was wrong that he was here. It was wrong that his hair looked like that.
Barney tried to dismiss it. When the hell did he get so sentimental? “You look pretty good for 47,” he teased and rubbed Gordon’s shoulder with his cloth.
Gordon twisted around in his stool, obviously itching to complain. “You look like shit. You cut your hair.”
They way Gordon’s voice pitched gave Barney pause. The banter he was trying to start froze in the air. He… wasn’t the only one off-put by the state of the others’ hair — or, no. That was stupid. It had been twenty years for Barney, but… not that for Gordon. Right. Gordon never adjusted well to change. This probably was… a lot. The hair was nothing; grasping a familiar straw. Familiarity. Comfort. Anything.
“I know, it sucks, but I had to cut it. The Combine—”
“—Stupid name for an alien race, by the way. What are they, math equations? What are they even combining? ”
“—have regulations about that stuff.” Barney refrained from adding that he sounded a lot like an ex-coworker of his. He suspected Gordon wouldn’t appreciate being compared to someone in Civil Protection after mowing down half of the officers in City 17. And he suspected Mike wouldn’t like being associated with a junkie.
“How’s that boot taste?” Gordon huffed, facing forward once more. His voice was raw — from all the yelling for his life, probably. “Fuck their regulations.”
“I wasn’t licking boot. I had to cut my hair! ” Barney scowled. “I couldn’t be Civil Protection without it, and the Resistance needed a guy on the inside.”
Gordon tensed under Barney’s cloth. He stopped his gentle passes over his skin, waiting. Gordon turned slowly, head stopping halfway to where Barney sat in his blind spot. His mouth twitched, before turning into a tight frown and jerking to stare Barney head on, eye blazing green, expression analytical, but a brick wall, obscuring any emotions behind it. His eyebrows were tightly-knit together, squinting beneath the shadow casted by his furrowed brow.
Two things came to Barney’s mind. First, he said, “It’s just hair,” followed by, “I missed you more than I miss my hair.”
The ghost of his own hair tickled his neck. He had mourned it, sure, and acted like it was the worst thing ever when he had to cut it, but it was hard to keep up that schtick when the world was in the state it was.
Gordon’s eye darted across Barney’s face. Then he turned back around without a word. Ceaseless was the pitter patter of droplets on the tile.
Even though Barney couldn’t see the scissors beneath his stool, he could feel the cold metal digging into his pointer and thumb. He had brought them because he was planning on cutting Gordon’s hair. It would be easier than trying to clean it, and hair always grows back. It was nearing that time in the shower when he should cut it.
There were mornings, years ago, when Barney would wake up to a face full of that hair. It would fan out onto the pillow, soft, smelling like whatever shampoo Gordon had bought for the month, and he’d wrap an arm around him and kiss his the freckles on his shoulder.
He dropped the wash cloth. It splat against the floor. Gordon jumped.
“Sorry,” Barney said.
He lathered his hands with soap from the bar, dropped that on the cloth with a much more muffled and wet splat, then sunk his fingers into Gordon’s hair. It was… chunky. Hard.
Gordon didn’t move. Barney couldn’t see his face as he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair.”
“With bar soap?” He asked, because even if he couldn’t see Barney, he had definitely taken stock of what Barney had brought with him. No shampoo. Just bar soap.
“I'm sorry, man. We don't have separate shampoos anymore. The Combine don't have any hair on account of being… uhh, I dunno. Robot bugs. Who knows.”
“Why not cut it?” Gordon’s voice was mild, barely louder than the water hitting the tile. Beneath his words were a rapid flowing undercurrent, sharp, deep enough to drown in. ”You have scissors.”
And why not cut it, Barney? It would be easier than what his hands were itching to do. What the soap bar burning his fingers was telling him. Because it was hair, and it would grow back.
“You don’t want that,” Barney said.
“And how do you know what I want?” Gordon’s shoulder rose to the lobe of his ears — or ear and half-ear that needed to be re-gauzed. “It’s just hair, after all.”
Barney sucked in a slow breath in response to the sucker punch. Using his words against him… He was rusty with battles of wits — no one was as smart as Gordon — but he could tell this was a trap from a mile away. Agree and he’d piss Gordon off. Argue and he’d piss Gordon off.
He smiled, chest warming, and lightly smacked the back of his head with his soapy hand. “Stop playing dense. I’m trying to do something nice — when have you ever told me to stop doing something nice for you?” He threaded his fingers between the strands, feeling the debris. He forgot how much a pain washing long hair could be. It had been a while since he’d cut his own. “And I’m not sorry for looking different , okay? That kinds just happens. Comes with the territory of, ‘it’s been twenty years.’”
Gordon muttered, “Being different.”
“Huh?”
“It’s not just looking. When the hell did you get so…” Gordon, uncharacteristically, trailed off. His hands gripped the sides of his stool, and he almost seemed to shy away from Barney, leaning forward into the lukewarm water. A curtain of his hair draped forward. “Willing,” he settled on. “To cut your hair. You never cut it like the dress code at Black Mesa required — even though you never took care of it, and you wore that stupid tie all the time, signaling your allegiance to The Man .”
Barney snorted.
“Don’t laugh!”
“The Combine are — were a little more serious than HR back at Black Mesa was.” He grabbed something tangled in Gordon’s hair. It was hard. Maybe dried blood? A… chunk? He didn’t think about it, just started to massage water and soap into it, working on getting the strands stuck in it loose. “I may have cut my hair, but still, some things are the same. Like you being a big douche. I don’t get what the hell your problem is. I try to do something nice and you get your panties in a twist. And you aren’t even wearing any panties! You’re naked!”
“My panties are firmly un twisted , thank you,” Gordon corrected. His posture straightened, hands easing on their knuckle white grip. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. It’s hair that’ll grow back in a few months. I’m not sentimental.”
Barney rolled his eyes. “I know you aren’t, but I am now.”
“First of all, you always have been. Secondly, AH-HAH!” Gordon whipped his head around so fast that Barney yelped. “Your true motive is revealed…” He narrowed his eye. “You’re doing this for yourself. Saving my hair for your… hair fetish! I should have known.”
“Most people lead with the ‘Ah-hah!’ moment, Gordon,” Barney said wearily. Were his hands not soaked and soapy, he’d put a hand on his chest. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
Gordon blinked.
“And no , I don’t have a hair fetish, obviously, you already know what I—”
He started counting on his fingers, “Subjugation, humiliation, deg—”
“Quit that!” Barney barked out, face burning. The muscles encased in his ribs ached, but not for heart attack reasons.
“I’m not judging you,” Gordon said with a wide eye. “Whatever gets your rocks off.”
“And whatever helps you friggin’ sleep at night.” Barney poked his temple, leaving suds as he pulled his finger away. “You can call me sentimental or perverted or whatever. You’re gonna keep your hair if I have anything to say about it. And, uhh… I do! So, you’re keeping it. Quit being a douche and let me try and clean it!”
Gordon considered him. His body relaxed and he turned around again — hopefully for the final time. “Fine.”
“Geez.”
Now that Barney could actually work uninterrupted, he returned to the soapy gunk tangled in the middle of his head. As he cleaned, small bits would break free and glide down his hair. He finally worked it enough to wedge it loose. He tossed it aside and ran his fingers against Gordon’s scalp. Gordon seemed to relax, slouching back into Barney’s touch.
It was nice to touch him again. Hell, it was nice to touch anyone. It’d been forever! But, it was especially nice to touch him. It’d… been forever. Yeah.
“I wasn’t joking, when, um, I said I missed you,” Barney spoke to the back of his head. “I owe you a beer. I remember, uh, Rosenberg — back at Black Mesa — thought you and the Lambda guys were stupid, and you were gonna die, but I said, ‘Nuh-uh! Not my best bud Gordon! I owe him a beer!’” — a paraphrase. It had been long enough that he couldn’t exactly remember what he said. It was close enough.
Gordon sniffed. He shifted, but remained facing the wall. “You’ve gotten soft in your old age.”
Right. Barney was old now. He continued to work with Gordon’s hair. One day, you’re freshly dropped out from college, working as a security guard, breaking your past record of days gone without cheating on your significant other, ‘cause the new guy you’re banging burns good like spicy food, and the next you’re in your forties getting drunk, fighting aliens, and banging no one because the stupid suppression field made it impossible. And he cut his hair.
Gordon’s hair wasn’t very layered. Near the bottom of his mullet, he had some different lengths going on, and his bangs were cut with precision by his own hand. His locks would drop onto a towel he placed on the bathroom floor, his tongue sticking out as he focused on his reflection. In Barney’s case, though, he’d have him sit on the edge of the tub, stepping awkwardly in and around the porcelain as he trimmed the ends. He re-lathered his hands with bar soap, then began to use his fingers as a comb, massaging any knots until they were loose enough to untangle. He pulled gently. It had been so long since he had done this, yet he could remember the smaller showers of Black Mesa — the warmer water, the nicer soap.
Gordon took care of his hair because he cared about his appearance. Barney didn’t care what Gordon looked like — not as much as he once did, at least — but, if his hair was important to him, then it was also important to Barney.
Barney stood. “Alright, you turn around. It’s time to rinse off to see if we need to go another round.”
Gordon turned his whole body gingerly. Once his hair was in the water, Barney stepped up to Gordon, standing over his knees. He gently tipped Gordon’s head back and rinsed his hair, using his hand to comb out soap and look for more knots or dirt. Water ran down his arms, tickling his wrists.
Gordon was watching him.
“I’m trying not to get soap in your eye,” Barney said to fill the dead air.
To that, Gordon’s expression somehow got flatter. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Huh? Doing what? Getting soap in your eye? What kind of freak wants soap in their eye?”
“No!” Gordon squeezed his eye shut, and the muscles in his other eyelid twitched, but didn’t move very much since there was no eye to close over. Red bloomed across his face. “I meant…” He sighed, cracking his eye open, though he was very obviously looking away from Barney. “I’m not a fan of the ‘will they, won’t they’ stuff, okay? So either… tell me now or forever hold your peace.”
“Huh?”
That got Gordon to glare at him with his green, vorticescent eye. “What do you mean, huh?”
“What about your…” Barney hesitated, the familiar ache in his chest rising again. “...vortal bond thing?”
“What are you talking about?”
“With Alyx?”
“What? Alyx? ” Gordon made a face.
The Vortigaunts said Gordon would come back, and he’d have a vortal bond with The Alyx Vance, or whatever. He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded… important. He hated the idea of soulmates — it was stupid to be made for someone. If he wanted someone, then he wanted someone. If he loved someone, then he loved someone. It was more meaningful because he chose to want, to love, instead of it being… predetermined, like some video game with scripted events. If this was still Black Mesa, he’d argue until he was blue in the face and give the universe a big middle finger — he wanted Gordon. But he was older now, and he loved Gordon, and that meant he wanted what was best for him. What if that ‘vortal bond’ — whatever that meant — was what Gordon needed? His throat dried at the idea of Gordon being with anyone else. Gordon was a good-looking guy. It almost made up for how much of a douchebag he could be. Out of everyone, Alyx could probably handle him… probably. He was in good hands. At least, he wanted to think that, but every thought weighed him down like a bag of stones, scraping against his brain like a cheese grater.
“Don’t play coy,” Barney mumbled bitterly. “Alyx is the only woman whose ever shown genuine interest in you.”
“That’s not true. Desperate women love me,” Gordon corrected.
Despite his feelings, Barney couldn’t help the small smile worming on his face at hearing that age-old adage. “Eddie wasn’t complimenting you when they told you that.”
“Yes he did — you just don’t know Eddie like I know him.” Gordon narrowed his eye, blatantly disgusted. He nodded slowly, as if something was slowly dawning on him. “So that’s what all that was. She was flirting with me. Can’t say I’m surprised. Who doesn’t want to get with the Freeman? But…” He paused, knotting his brows. “Hmm. I don’t think that would even be ethical.”
“Ethical?” Barney’s hands stilled in Gordon’s hair. Water dripped down his knuckles. The pain in his chest eased purely out of confusion.
“Jury’s still out on Alyx. It’s a good sign, but being attracted to me is not a sign of intelligence — take you for example.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But you’re not developmentally stunted.” Gordon tilted his head to the side. “Well… at least, not as severely. I don’t feel as weird about it.”
“Uhh…” Was that a compliment? It didn’t sound like a compliment. “What are you even trying to say? I don’t get it.”
“Of course you don’t.” Gordon wasn’t in the position to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he definitely would if he could’ve. “I shouldn’t’ve brought it up. That’s too convoluted for you.” He sighed, blinking a few times. “Okay. I’ll just spell it out for you: I’m not interested in Alyx. I don’t care what Eli wants — actually, I don’t think he likes me. I also think he’s sleeping with an alien.”
As Gordon was talking, Barney had been combing his hair. When he realized that Gordon was done speaking, he said, “Uh… okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“No, ‘okay’, do you understand what I’m saying?”
Barney didn’t respond right away. The strands between his hand were almost silky. It was looking… clean, surprisingly. Not perfect. There were still some smaller knots that he’d need an actual brush for, but… the gunk was gone. He wouldn’t have to cut it. Gordon could keep his hair.
“You don’t.”
“Huh?”
Gordon groaned. “Jesus. How the hell did you survive so long?”
“No, I get it. I was just distracted. Your hair is done,” Barney said. His hands slid from Gordon’s scalp to the sides of his face.
Gordon’s eye widened as his head was held. He really was there — really was real. His skin was warm under Barney’s hands. Hair was plastered to his head, catching the light, illuminating him with a glow that separated him from their dull surroundings.
“You’re…” Barney searched his mind for the right word. He ran a thumb over Gordon’s cheekbone, leaving a trail of suds in its wake. “...awesome, Gordon.”
Gordon softened like room temperature butter. “I know.”