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Barney could feel his atoms being ripped apart. It was as if every cell in his body was playing tug of war, simultaneously winning and losing. But instead of pain, it was more like… intense vibrations that racked him to his core. He was back in the facility. He was back in that alien place. He was back with Douchebag and the other scientists. The slide show of familiar scenes was more annoying than frightening. He was trying to leave the facility!
And now he was in a janitor’s closet. The swirling stopped, and his brain slammed into the front of his skull.
“Ow!” He groaned, doubling over. He rubbed his forehead madly.
When the glitter in his vision went away, he took stock of his surroundings. Chemicals, cleaning supplies, etcetera. Nothing useful or exciting. He sighed. “Great. Back inside… who knows where.”
The faint sound of dragged metal picked up in his ears. He turned towards where it was coming from — the barred window. He climbed onto the desk, grunting as he did so, to take a closer look. Outside was… the floor of a hallway? That was weird. This closet was weird. He pressed his cheek into the bar, craning his neck to see what was getting closer.
Nothing was in view yet, but he began to hear talking. Muffled, static-y talking. Military. Stupid soldiers! Great. Just great. He was back inside enemy territory. Who knows if he’d get hooked up with another sweet deal of finding a few scientists who had access to a car. He sure as hell didn’t have a car. He was on car probation after a certain incident that led to him paying out of pocket for a detailing. He backed up, not wanting to be seen, and willed his heart to quiet down so he could listen.
The words were too low and grumbly. He wondered if this was what people felt like trying to listen to him speak. Everyone he knew had told him at least once to “slow down and speak up.” He—
His vision was swallowed by orange. The legs of two soldiers were dragging a limp orange body — and HEV suit, he recognized — down the hallway. And finally he could understand something they said. Two things, actually: “What body?”, followed by laughing that made his skin crawl.
He couldn’t identify the poor sucker being dragged. Their head hung forward, ratty hair a curtain obscuring their face. Auburn hair. Familiar auburn hair. Their front side was coated in blood and alien guts.
Hey… wasn’t… Gordon… supposed to put on a HEV suit to enter the test chamber…?
Before he could answer his own question, he busted through the closet’s door and barreled into the hallway. It looked to be like some lower maintenance shaft, where the mechanics and janitors could move about, undisturbing the scientists in the nicer, well-lit hallway above. He veered left, leg immediately screaming at him to slow it down, but he couldn’t! What if that was him?!
He was greeted by a ladder at the end of the hallway. Great. He hauled ass as best he could, but his leg was really starting to burn. Come on adrenaline! It was only about six rungs or so tall. He popped up into another maintenance closet. And directly outside the door were two soldiers looming over the limp body of probably-Gordon and an open trash compactor.
They hadn’t heard him. He unholstered his gun, took aim, and with a few more shots than necessary, their bodies crashed into the concrete.
Barney cheered loudly — Gordon was going to be so pissed when he woke up to learn it was Barney who saved his ass. And he would gloat and brag and force Gordon to buy him beers for the rest of his life. He chuckled to himself, puffing his chest and strolling up to Gordon's limp body, prone between the two soldiers’ still warm corpses.
"You hear that, Gordon, you owe me—" Barney's voice died in his throat as he got close enough to see what became of the scientist. Lead filled his shoes and he swayed, his organs freezing over, and the overwhelming stench of iron threatened to choke him.
Gordon's face was in ruins — so much so that he actually couldn’t tell if it was Gordon. Red. Blood red, oozing from... Barney's panicked brain supplied the word everywhere, until he kneeled to get a closer look and to combat nauseating vertigo. The left side of his face was so deeply sliced open that it probably went down to the bone. The sickening visage of a raw steak being cut, the knife slowly dragging across the tender flesh, parting it down the middle, haunted him. His heart knocked violently against his ribcage as he scanned desperately for any signs of life, but he couldn't see his eyes on account of his glasses — he didn't connect it in his head how strange it was they still rested crookedly on his nose, lenses only splashed. Though by the angle of the cut, and how it didn't seem to get any smaller as it trailed up and disappeared under his metallic frames...
Barney swallowed thickly. He could taste the blood in his mouth. "Gordon?"
"Life signs critical," droned the feminine voice of the HEV suit. It beeped twice. "Morphine reserves low."
"Shit," Barney mumbled, snapping out of his trance. He holstered his gun and frantically surveyed the room. Plastered on the far wall, glowing like a holy beacon, was a medical station.
He hooked his hands under Gordon's — maybe Felix’s? — armpits and started heaving. The HEV suit's metal shell scraped against the concrete floor, grinding like the whirring of machinery.
Barney only noticed that he'd been nervously chattering when he heard the HEV suit speak again. "Life signs critical. User death imminent."
"Shit!” he hissed. His pulls became more frenzied and more successful; adrenaline was pumping through his body as his heart thundered in his ears.
Once close enough, he leaned the body against the wall, his shoulder pressed against the bricks. He took his limp arm and opened the latch for the station's HEV suit interface, then inserted the man’s hand. It clicked into place like a magnet and began audibly pumping morphine and other medical goodies into the forearm of his suit to be distributed among his body. He remembered that part from training. Thank god.
Meanwhile, Barney tugged open the medical station and quickly scanned the innards for what he needed. He stood, scrutinizing the supplies. What did he need? How could he unfuck the situation? There were… germs, so disinfectant, right? Everything was a mile a minute. He tried to recall the first aid classes he had to take as a guard, but all he could think of was medical drama slop. Open wounds… needed to be closed, so he needed those needles — suture! Suture tools! And then to cover it in a cast — no, not a cast, but bandages. Cotton pads, medical tape, gauze, all the works.
He scooped the items into his arm and lowered to the man’s — Freeman’s, because he definitely was a Freeman — level. Blood was running down his suit and pooling in the crevices.
The medical station clicked, indicating it was done filling the HEV suit. Barney dumped the supplies onto the ground so he could adjust Freeman’s sitting position. He pushed him so his back was flush against the wall, head propped up by the side of the medical station.
He'd have to remove his glasses to see the full extent of the damage. He raised his hand — it didn't look like his hand, didn't feel like his hand. His fingers twitched, his bones tremored. He dumbly hooked his pointer on the frame, warm blood enveloping his finger as he pulled at the glasses. They slid down his nose easily, the blood acting like a lubricant.
The glasses clattered against the HEV suit. It tumbled out of Barney's vision, as he couldn't tear himself away from what remained of Freeman’s eye.
His eyelid dipped inwards. The eye had either... caved... or was gone entirely. He couldn't tell from all the blood pooling inside.
Barney's hand unconsciously cupped the uninjured side of Freeman’s face. It was Gordon. The blood burned him, but he didn't care. Hot bile boiled in his throat. He swallowed and dragged in a heavy breath
He ripped the packet of the disinfectant pad, his fingers fumbling as blood smeared on everything he touched. They still shook. Once he was able to get it open, he swiped it around the wound. It became heavy with blood. Rogue droplets rolled down his arm like thick watermelon juice. Hot. Staining his sleeves. Under his fingernails. It wasn't working. He discarded it, it splatted against the concrete with a wet slap.
Barney then tugged violently at his left sleeve — it was the cleaner of the two. His strength was failing him, and his fingers, still slippery with blood, were locking up. He grabbed at the suture kit, fumbling with the zipper as he yanked it open. The pristine, reflective metal of the precision scissors were muddied with blood and sweat as Barney wrenched it free. He jammed it into his skin on accident, but it didn't even hurt, it was just cold. After a few snips, he pulled a patch of fabric off his sleeve, folded it, and pressed it against Gordon. He couldn't see the damage behind the fabric and he was half-tempted to leave it there so he wouldn't have to see Gordon like that ever again.
He had seen scientists slaughtered mercilessly, alien creatures that spit face melting acid, parasitic zombies, bees, an alien world full of alien things that wanted him dead. Even when he sat against the wall on the surface, staring vacantly into the ever-graying sky as blood drained from the hole in his leg, not knowing whether he'd live or die... it was a lot… but…
Gordon... seeing Gordon like that...
He shook his head. No, he had to do this. He dabbed the cloth, careful to only wipe the outside of his face. The wound still leaked by the bucketful. He placed the rag aside. On his knees now (one of which burned in protest), he reached up and grabbed the bottle of antiseptic. It singed his nose hairs as he twisted the cap off, then gently poured the clear liquid into the wound, wincing as the cut on his cheek burned with phantom pain. An afterthought: maybe he should’ve poured it on the rag then used that to wipe his face. Well… it was too late now.
Once Barney thought it was probably sterilized, he reached again for the suture kit. The other tools had been dirtied in his attempt to pull out the scissors. It didn't register to him — he just wrestled them out of their sockets and held the thread in one hand and the needle in the other. He was shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself, heart beating loud in his ears, but the adrenaline wouldn't subside. When he reopened his eyes, he noticed his vision was blurred, and his face was hot and wet.
He sniffed miserably, the sharp iron searing his throat. He coughed and sputtered and gritted his teeth. This is what got him. Out of everything he’d been through, this is what got him.
"Just fucking do it, Barney!" he hissed through his teeth.
Strength surged throughout him. Miraculously, he threaded it, then raised the needle and his fingers trembled but he didn't care and he pierced the soft red flesh of Gordon's cheek. Each stab was easier than the last, and each pull brought the ravine-like wound together. Still, every time he'd roll his lips between his teeth and bit down his urge to speak. The needle had slipped through his fingers once when he pressed too hard, the blood causing it to shoot out. It hung on the string, swaying from Gordon’s face as he struggled to get it back. Fresh horror built in his chest at each failed attempt, and he cried frustratedly when he could barely see the thin needle through his tears.
When he wiped them off on his sleeve, he noted with muted alarm that he could feel blood smeared on his brow.
Funnily enough, it grounded him. He sucked in a shaky breath, and he reclaimed the needle. He finished the cheek portion of the stitch, clumsily tying it off. It was bad, but it would hold for the time being, until he could get to an actual hospital, or at least someone who knew what they were doing.
The brow was somewhat easier, only because his panicked haze had subsided. Now he only heard static, and was too grounded. He could feel every time his knuckle grazed his eyebrow, every kiss of blood on his skin, how his tongue didn't fit in his mouth and how his teeth tasted like iron and every breath was deliberate, the inside of his skull clouded and it was no longer him dressing Gordon's wounds. He’d never be able to wash the blood out from beneath his fingernails. The brow was finished just before the forehead, a knot was tied.
Maybe they could run away together. Barney slammed back into his body. This was the trash compactor, right? There should be a hangar within thirty-minutes from there! Even dragging an unconscious Gordon, he could do it. He could get a plane and save Gordon's life thrice over. They could leave New Mexico — hell, they could ditch the states entirely! He had connections, and they could—
A quiet, robotic voice called out, piercing his world. "Life signs stabilizing."
As if on cue, Gordon stirred. His face twisted with distress. His eye opened, bright green against his pale skin.
The wires in Barney’s brain switched. Green became his favorite color. Air returned to his lungs. “Gordon.”
Gordon made a noise that sounded like pained, disgusted annoyance. His voice was gravelly as he asked, "Barney?"
Barney sniffed and nodded. Again, he madly wiped at his face, and he could see Gordon squinting frustratedly at him.
He recognized him by the sounds of his snivelling cry. Of course he did. Barney couldn't stop himself from laughing. “You scared the crap outta me, man.”
Gordon had likely decided Barney was useless (and he was right for the moment) and began scanning the room — hindered only by the fact he couldn't actually see. He kept his eye narrow as he made sweeps, stopping multiple times on the dead bodies, likely unable to tell what they were.
Barney crawled to Gordon and reached into his lap (that's where his glasses were), but froze when Gordon made a noise like a cornered animal.
Closer now, Gordon must've been able to actually see Barney's face. The suit seemed to swallow him as he shrunk into himself. He looked small; a crumpled orange soda can, half dead and utterly exhausted.
"You look fucked," he said, words slurred.
"You're not looking too hot either," Barney countered, then added without thinking: "You should see yourself."
Gordon took that as a challenge. First, he found his glasses, and placed them as best he could on his still-wet nose. He leaned into the wall and heaved himself upwards. He was able to stagger to his feet with great effort. All the while, Barney was babbling vague (and unheard) warnings about what Gordon was actually going to see.
He stumbled in front of the medical station and peered inward. The back of the kit had a small mirror pasted inside. Barney scrambled up and to his right so he could see Gordon's expression.
At first, he stared blankly. Then he squinted and wrinkled his nose. Then his hand rose to his cheek, fingering at his stitches until it stopped just below his eye socket. His eye went wide and he slowly turned over to Barney.
"It’s gone?”
“W-well, don’t look at me like that, Gordon, I didn’t take it!”
“Was it Heather?” He blinked. The words tumbled out of his mouth. “This is a bit much, even for her.” His unfocused gaze landed on the two bodies of the soldiers. Gears turning. “I’m in the HEV suit — so I was in the test chamber. Those are soldiers. And… ohhhh shit, I remember…” His head turned back to the mirror, prodding at his face. “This should hurt more than it does.”
“Your suit administered some morphine, I think.”
“Really now?” Gordon’s remaining eye blew up wide, though his pupil was constricted. “It could do that this whole time? And it was holding out on me? Thanks a lot, asshole.” He slapped the front of his suit with his palm. It made a wet sound. He grimaced, pulling back to look at his bloodied hand. “Well, I need gauze or I’ll get infected.”
Gratefully, Barney observed, “You’re pretty lucid for being high.”
“Puh-lease,” Gordon waved an arm. “This is nothing. They’re dosing me like I don’t take oxycodone regularly.” He ambled back over to look at all the medical supplies scattered everywhere. “Well, I’ll let you finish what you started,” he said, returning to a seated position against the wall in front of Barney. His glasses were removed in a sloppy flick of his wrist.
All too suddenly, Barney became aware of the wounds on his own body. The hole in his leg, bandaged, the scratch on his cheek that still stung when he opened his jaw too wide, various other aches and wounds that would leave him couch-bound for a week. “Right…” he sighed, a mix of exhaustion at the present situation, and relief from the burden easing off his chest.
Barney returned to the floor in front of Gordon. Gordon watched him all the while.
“You really did this?” Gordon tilted his head.
“Yeah. And I took care of those two guys.” Barney jabbed a finger at the bodies behind him. “They were gonna throw you in the trash compactor.”
“Huh.”
“So… you owe me… a beer!” Barney declared. “For the rest of my life! Infinite beer!”
Gordon smiled a little. Definitely due to the morphine. “That’s fair.”
Much steadier now, Barney assessed the supplies in front of him. He couldn’t use the roll of gauze unless he wanted to wrap up Gordon’s head like a mummy. But there were gauze pads he could use — and medical tape to keep it in place. First, another round of disinfectant. He tentatively dabbed a wipe against the limp eyelid. Then, gauze. The pads were spongy to the touch. It took a few to cover the entirety of Gordon’s cheek and eye. Then he used the tape to adhere the edges on his forehead, jaw, and nose. He repeated this several times at several angles until he felt confident that it wasn't going to fall off. It was like doing arts and crafts in a twisted gore dimension.
Gordon watched, still and quiet. His surviving eye followed Barney’s movements. Without his glasses, his green eye was unobscured. Against the red of his blood and the pallidness of his skin, it was striking.
When Barney was finished, he sat back. Gordon still looked like a mummy. Or maybe a burn victim. A burned mummy victim. “That’s as good as you’re gonna get from me.”
The bag under Gordon’s eye reflected Barney’s. Gordon replaced the glasses on his face, trying to wedge it onto his nose in spite of the medical tape making it difficult. He was able to put it on crooked — Barney wondered if he could even tell.
Tiredly, Gordon asked, “Now what?”
"I, I had a car, but... the military probably set up checkpoints all around the facility." Barney briefly wondered about the scientists he was with before he got teleported. Something warm bloomed in his chest. Hope? “Which… works out for us, because there’s a hangar nearby. We’ll be fine.”
Gordon narrowed his eye. “It may be because of the concussion I have, but you’re gonna need to explain to me how a hangar equates to us being fine."
“Uhh… because I know how to fly? Duh.”
Gordon’s lips downturned into a skeptic frown.
“No, really, I do!”
“Yeah right. I’ll see it when I believe it!” His words came out hurriedly. He paused. “I meant, believe it when I see it.”
“Well, believe it, buddy, because I’m getting us out of this place!” Barney stood, thumb jabbing into his own chest, cheeky grin on his face.
Their following conversation was both of them reminiscing about their horrible times the past… who knows. A day. Two days? It was hard to keep track. Barney limped and Gordon staggered. He sobered more and more with each step. As they spotted the hangar building a hundred yards or so away, the metallic roofing glinting under the desert’s sun, the two looked to the skies for military aircraft. The coast was clear enough for them to make the trek over. Barney ignored the sand in his boots.
The shadow of the building swallowed them as they got close.
“Gordon?” Barney piped up. It bubbled inside his throat, beneath his skin — he needed to tell Gordon something.
Gordon turned expectantly. “Hm?”
“I’m glad you’re alive.”
He looked off to the side. Then he refocused on Barney. “I’m glad I’m alive too.”
Barney snorted. Yeah, that’s about as much of a “thanks” he was going to get. Well, that and infinite beers! … as long as Gordon didn’t argue terms and conditions now that the brunt of the morphine had worn off.