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[Why are you here?]
Barney makes a telephone gesture with his hand, then jerks his thumb toward the door. It slams shut behind him. Gordon groans, a low, guttural sound that barely rises above the hum of the office.
[I told him I was fine.]
“Doesn’t look like it, doc.” Barney sits beside him, spinning the chair once before it stops with a creak. “An’ I know Kleiner’s the brain when it comes to all that mind stuff, so if he says you need someone about it, maybe just… take his word for it, yeah?”
The desk between them is cluttered: papers, an untouched mug, and a thermometer that isn’t built for people. Looks like it was torn off of something. Barney leans forward to squint at the reading and winces. Gordon catches the look, lifts his head just enough to see it, then flips him off weakly. Barney chuckles.
“So.” He leans back, arms crossed. “You’re sick, won’t admit it, Kleiner proves it with this–” Barney taps his hand near the strange thermometer. “–and now you’re pissy?”
[Don’t need to hear this from you.]
“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta say it. I’m your designated cab driver-slash-babysitter, remember? Gotta drag you back to your bed whenever your legs quit.” Barney pats his shoulder, the heat of his hand makes Gordon flinch. Gordon is still warmer. “C’mon, don’t be a damn child about this.”
Gordon finally raises his head, eyes tired and hollow.
[Fucking leave it alone, Barney!]
Barney freezes, and he retracts his hand. Gordon’s expression fades from anger to regret. Blinks.
His hands tremble as he signs. [I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—]
“It’s fine, doc.” Barney nods slowly, offering a small, steady smile. “I get it.”
Gordon looks at him, defeated.
[You aren’t mad at me, right?]
Barney blinks. “For what? Nah. I mean, you bite sometimes, but—”
[No.] Gordon swallows hard. [For cancelling last minute yesterday. Again.]
Barney frowns. “Are you serious? No! I know you’re swamped. You’ve been like this since I met you. We can always reschedule, man.”
Gordon exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like something leaving him.
[Thank you. That’s… one thing off my mind.]
“Wanna tell me what else is on it?”
Gordon hesitates. Then, slowly:
[The HEV training’s been brutal. I thought it’d replace some of the workload, but it’s just more. I can’t keep up.] His signs grow faster, jagged. [They keep writing me up. I stay here late just to tread water. And if I take a sick leave, I’ll fall behind even more. I already feel like a fraud.]
His hands pause midair, then drop. [It’s all just—] he searches for the sign, then gives up. [Pointless.]
Barney gently grabs his wrist, lowering it. Jesus fuck, that is a whole fever. Barney needs to get this guy to rest. “And killing yourself over it fixes what, exactly?”
[It’s not like I’m killing myself.] Gordon glares, but it doesn’t hold. Coughs. His eyes wander back to the desk, to the mountain of papers. [I just… need to catch up. Then I’ll be fine.]
“You’ve been sayin’ that for weeks, doc.”
[Because it’s true.]
“No, it’s not.” Barney picks up a few of the sheets and skims them. “Christ, half of this isn’t even physics. It’s just paperwork. Ask for help.”
Gordon laughs without sound. It’s more of a breath or half a scoff. He signs bitterly. [You don’t ask for help here, Barney. You prove you don’t need it.]
Barney studies him for a long moment. The shadows under Gordon’s eyes look painted on.
“Then what? You keep doing this till you burn out? Till you can’t move anymore?”
Gordon shrugs. [Already there.]
Barney’s voice softens. “You gotta put yourself first a little, doc. We’ve got thousands of people who can do your job, but only one of you.” Gordon doesn’t answer. He just stares at the floor, the light from the monitor painting his face in pale blue.
His hands twitch once, like he wants to sign something, then stops.
…
“The sun'll come out, tomorrow…”
Gordon looks at him, glowering. [Are you seriously singing Annie?]
“Bet your bottom dollar, that tomorrow…”
Barney winks, then gets up. He balls his right hand into a fist, holding something. A mic. Gordon scoffs out a short laugh. “There'll be sun!”
[I think I’d take death by extreme fever over hearing you belt out Tomorrow.]
“No, no–” Barney chuckles. “I think you need to hear this one, doc. Are we gonna listen to the song on your desktop or are you looking to hear it live?”
Gordon grins. [And if I want to hear it live?]
Barney falters, clearly not expecting Gordon to choose the latter option, but he’s made Gordon smile with this so it's a basic, moral obligation to keep it up. Barney clears his throat.
“Just thinking about tomorrow…”
Barney starts again in a lower pitch, and Gordon rolls his eyes. [Cheating. What happened to the key?]
“Need to reserve my voice for the big stage, obviously.” Barney smiles. “Clears away the cobwebs, and the sorrow, ’til there's none…”
[Poor choice of song anyway.] Gordon shakes his head.
“Why’s that?”
[I’m gonna be doing the exact same thing tomorrow.] Gordon signs the last word with flare. Slowly. [So, no. There isn’t going to be sun tomorrow, Calhoun. There isn’t even any sun in here.]
“Funny you think you got a choice here, Dr. Freeman.” Barney smirks. “I’ve got friends to handle your situation.”
[Am I getting assassinated.]
“Much as I think it would be cool to have a friend like that, no. I’ve got a scientist that both can do your job and owes me a favor, so you can actually go to sleep. Ain’t that better?”
[And they work in Sector C?]
“Mm, no. Even better! Admin, so it’s literally their job, too!”
Gordon looks at Barney carefully, then sighs. Maybe he does need the help.
(In the back of Gordon’s mind, he remembers one of his advisors saying that half of making it in life was connections, a fourth was merit, and the last fourth was luck.)
Barney starts again, softer.
“When I'm stuck in a day that's gray and lonely…”
[Okay.] Gordon gulps. [I trust you.]
Barney winks again. Gets up and offers Gordon a hand.
“I just stick out my chin, and grin, and say…”
[You don’t have to keep singing.] Gordon laughs.
“M’not gonna stop singing when I finally get to the part you gotta hear most.” Barney lets out a tsk and takes in air again. Gordon shakes his head. He takes Barney’s hand and uses him for support, fuck, he stood up too fast. He knew a hundred-degree fever was bad but not this bad.
“The sun'll come out, tomorrow… So you gotta hang on 'til tomorrow… Come what may…”
The voice should be grating in any other case, but it helps Gordon against his will. Barney stabilizes him and they start to walk.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I love ya, tomorrow… You're always a day away.”
Barney does the explaining to Dr. Kleiner—waiting outside the door the whole time, apparently, who’d managed to get Dr. Vance in the small group of those concerned—before they make their way to the tram.
“You could sing too, y’know?”
[Would rather not.]
“Can’t be that bad.” Barney shrugs. “I mean, I’ve heard you sing already. Here, second chorus. When I'm stuck in a day… That's gray and lonely…”
[I did? When?]
“We were shitfaced and you told me to put Tom Jones on. I don’t remember what you sounded like but it was probably decent.”
[Then you might as well have never heard me.] Gordon smirks.
“C’mon, doc. You scared you don’t have a nice singing voice like mine? I just stick out my chin, and grin, and say…”
“The sun'll come out, tomorrow…”
Gordon quietly sings to himself on the White Forest bed, voice hoarse due to years of unuse.
The HEV suit is almost second skin now. He clutches the bloody metrocop vest.
“So you gotta hang on 'til tomorrow…”