Chapter Text
Tommy wonders if any of them were surprised that he has feelings.
Or, no, that’s too harsh. That sounds malicious; he didn’t mean it like that. More like… He wonders if any of his friends were surprised at the depth of his emotions, that he wasn’t all spacey sunshine, that he struggled acclimating to reality just like the rest of them. After Black Mesa, the Resonance Cascade, after… the game. Code ghosting over his limbs like spiderwebs he couldn’t shake off, sticky and clinging and guiding every movement, pulling him towards The Player. Even if he hated every second, once it was gone, he almost missed its touch, the subconscious inclination of always knowing where to go, what to do.
He’s not sure he would’ve had the guts for most of his actions back there, but the same code that gave him the instinct to fire a gun made him a sharpshooter, too, and one that could kill without hesitation, without thought, when push came to shove. Gunning down three-hundred swarming, writhing, grinning clones of your friend to defend another (his ragged arm stump glistening in the buzzing artificial lights, still gruesomely fresh in Tommy’s mind), isn’t something that any of them ordinarily would have had the stomach for, he thinks, and it came down to him, and his position as a support character. He had a role to fill and a job to do. Protecting the player came before everything else.
Didn’t mean all those feelings wouldn’t bubble up later, though. And now, it’s later. Around four in the morning, if he had to guess, and he’s squeezing his hands together so tightly that the tips of his fingers are beginning to look as bloodless as his father’s face. It’s still not enough to stop them from shaking.
The room is a dark, stifling box, set slightly apart from the main body of the house by a short hallway for the illusion of privacy. There’s no windows here, or clocks either. As a teenager, Tommy started taking after G-Man’s habit of eternally wearing a wristwatch, punctuality of the utmost importance when time is your area of expertise, so there’s no need for clocks anywhere in the house. But now, he’s only wearing flannel pajamas, one of the first items he bought when he and the rest of the science team raided nearby stores to replace the plethora of things they’d lost. He can’t see the pattern of the fabric in the suffocating darkness, but his eyes trace the lines he knows are there.
The only windows in the house are in the front room, since there’s no sunlight to let in, and glass panels to an inky void are just the touch to make a room feel smaller, not open it up. Basic… interior design knowledge , Tommy can hear the voice of his father say, the last three words flowing into each other in a distinctive cadence that peters off with the period.
His childhood bedroom is untouched, exactly how he remembers it from the last time he lived here, his final summer of undergrad college. After that, it was apartment to apartment, to Black Mesa dorms, to a life blown to pieces. And now he returns to where he began building that life in the first place after G-Man adopted him. He was… Tommy casts his mind back, untangling his fingers and taking a deep breath in, then out. About ten? Eleven? The things he can remember clearest, picked out from the slices of his programmed backstory, are choosing his surname at the first place they went, Dunkin’ Donuts, and having his birthday parties for a few years at the local Chuck E Cheese.
He can see the last time he was in there in vivid technicolor, a film reel projected on the inside of his eyelids, like an outside observer watching his performance in the epilogue. He wishes it was only the final cutscene of the game, and that he didn’t still carry all these feelings he doesn’t know what to do with into this unknown, post-script space. The bed creaks as he tucks his legs underneath him, the soft sounds of shifting fabric as they move across the comforter achingly familiar. He rests the back of his head on a pillow and watches the memory play out again.
-
Tommy taps the edge of their fingernail against the aluminum coating of their soda can. Tink-tink . They almost smile, the left corner of their mouth twitching, and do it again. Tink-tink . It keeps them from looking at the only other person at the table: their father sitting directly opposite them.
G-Man sighs through his nose, stiff shoulders unmoving in his perpetually pressed suit. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, creating a narrow, pinched divot in the starchy plastic tablecloth. Greasy off-white. It burns Tommy’s overstimulated eyes to look at, so they focus on the can of Sierra Mist, cool in their palm. Tink-tink .
They hear the whoosh and crackle of flame behind them, but don't bother to turn around. Probably Bubby setting one of the minion animatronic skeletons on fire again. Or maybe it’s one of the machines Coomer punched a hole through, sparks from broken wiring finally igniting. It’s been a long day, one that’s felt like years, like lifetimes layered upon each other, and they see that same weariness reflected back at them in the deep folds of their father’s face. They wonder if they look like that. They hope not.
“Why… Why did it have to happen?” Tommy asks, staring at the condensation slowly streaking from the soda can to the tablecloth. G-Man blinks, taken aback like he didn't expect for Tommy to speak first.
“I’m… afraid I don’t… know what you mean,” he says, voice slow and gravelly like it has to climb out of his throat.
“All the— The Resonance Cascade. All the needless death . Could it— Could someone have prevented that? Was it all really Dr. Freeman’s fault?” A horrible, cruel, frightening thought occurs to them, but they’re so deeply exhausted it simply condenses and sits in their stomach like a lead pit. “Did you cause it?”
“I… was not… behind the Resonance Cascade,” their father says, trailing off with a low hum. Tommy’s fingers clench the soda can tighter, wracked with relief, but G-Man isn’t done. “But I… knew it would happen because of… factors… I had put in place... and did not stop it. It was… absolutely necessary. For the plot to progress, that is.”
“Absolutely necessary,” Tommy repeats. Their voice is monotone, but their free hand’s fingers are tapping the table to a contemplative beat. “So it was necessary for… all those people to die.”
“Most of them… were not… people , Tommy,” their father says. He’s probably trying to gentle his tone, but it just manifests as broken pauses that grate on their nerves. “They were constructs, programmed to the same... rote tasks and few... voice lines, all revolving around... The Player. They were hardly conscious… Many spawned in with simple, cruel backstories, and had they the chance to develop sentience, they would have continued many of the… experiments, of Black Mesa, that you dislike so much.” G-Man steeples his fingers. “Was it not better that they died?”
“Wh—” Tommy sputters. “Fuck no! They— We— We were NPCs too, Coomer and Bubby and Benrey and I! And we got the chance to think for ourselves and be better than whatever… whatever dumb backstories the game programmed into us! Those people… they never… they never got that chance.” They rest their head in a hand, fingers sliding over their eyes to provide cool relief from the blinding artificial lights and the hardness of their father’s face. They think about how many people they shot, less than some of the more trigger-happy members of their team, yet still far too many for any reason. And often, none of them had a reason, compelled by bloodlust and recklessness fed by running around the maddening labyrinth of Black Mesa’s halls. They can see crumpled bodies on the ground, bullet-riddled fabric shifting into sharp polygons then back to realism every time they blink. And what of all the scientists and guards left alive, barricaded in labs or failing to find escape routes? Even the military, running around after prey like cats endlessly hunting down rats in a maze?
“Could you— Couldn’t you have saved any?” Tommy sounds like a child, small and defeated, but still doesn’t lift their head. They can’t tell if they’re asking their father or themself.
“While the game was… running… it would have been too perilous to jeopardize The Player’s progression through the sudden removal of characters. Once you and your, um…” he struggles to find the word, “ teammates , were outside the facility, the Black Mesa map was no longer loaded.” He clears his throat. “Anyone still there is… technically… alive , though in timeless stasis. I could… perhaps… retrieve their code.” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, a nervousness and uncertainty in the face of something he hasn’t planned for, has never encountered, that Tommy recognizes from his interaction with Benrey. And it’s because he made his “progeny” upset.
Good , they think, a vicious streak flashing that they can’t bring themself to regret.
“Y— Yeah,” they say aloud. “You should do that.” They finally raise their head to make what is effectively eye contact, watching the crease between their father’s eyebrows fold like worn paper as his eyebrows knit.
“Not… too many,” G-Man says, businesslike seriousness steeling his tone. “Most of those…” he deliberates on the term, “ people , are not ones with enough… personality, as it were, to adapt to a setting outside of the limited one they were… programmed to exist within. Only a particular group is suitable, but they should... be able to… become fully realized people, so to speak. Additionally,” his shoulders shift the slightest bit in his stiff suit jacket, “a large group appearing… out of seemingly, hrm, nowhere… and attempting assimilation into society… will raise some questions. Best to… minimize disruption.”
Tommy takes a sharp breath. “Where— So there’s a world— a world after this? After this scene ends, we’re not going to die or just… stop existing?” Their father's face settles into pensive lines at the mention of nonexistence, but they barrel on. “The game continues?”
G-Man looks to the side, deep in thought. Tommy keeps their gaze steadily on his face.
“I… cannot predict events... to the extent I previously could,” the once-powerful man says, his wristwatch scraping the edge of the plastic table, “now that I am no longer following the… whims , of the game, and my employers’ directions. How-ever, simply with what I can see… in front of… me, the ‘player-companions,’ as it were, being allowed an epilogue… a celebration , outside of the Black Mesa maps… is a very good sign. A sign that… a world is out there, waiting for us. In some form, or another.”
He turns his body to fully face what he’s been looking at, and Tommy follows his line of sight. Gordon is sitting at the end of the adjacent table, abandoned by everyone else going off to either talk quietly or wreck the place, whichever they prefer. There’s quite a bit of space in between them, and with the general background ruckus, Tommy knows he isn’t overhearing their conversation. He’s slumped in his seat, the HEV suit’s metal skeleton the only thing keeping his limp frame upright, and he’s staring out at the expanse of the ransacked arcade. Tommy can’t see his eyes under the shine of his glasses.
“Do you see… how he is nearly... comatose?”
“ Comatose ?” Tommy whips their head around to look at G-Man in alarm. “What’s— Is something wrong with him? I thought— I thought he was just really tired?” They wince, the explanation sounding ridiculously flimsy as soon as it’s voiced.
“The… Player ,” his father says the word like it’s more bitter than an unripe fruit, “is watching all this… as a cutscene, I believe. They have not yet left the game, but do not… currently have control over… their vessel . Because Doctor Freeman is under merely partial control… for the first time since he... spawned in, he is doing the only things he is capable of at the… present moment: resting, waiting, and… screaming in his head, I presume.” The corner of his mouth twitches in what could have been a sardonic smile. “And if he, of all people, can begin to realize... the truth of our situation… that is a good sign, indeed.”
G-Man spreads his large, skeletal hands on the tablecloth, inkblots on the sea of off-white, the table creaking as he pushes off it to stand. “I cannot say for sure,” his voice is confident, nearly on the side of smug, bolstered by his height as he looms over Tommy, still sitting in his shitty plastic folding chair. “But… have faith, hm?”
His child watches him go, the man wandering over to where Bubby and Dr. Coomer are now in a fierce skee-ball competition. He takes an uncomfortable seat on a child-sized bench by the window, content to spectate. They strike up a conversation, Coomer’s sweeping and enthusiastic gestures visible even from here, contrasting the restrained and deliberate movements of Bubby beside him. In between responses, G-Man gazes out the glass pane smudged with countless fingerprints behind him, tapping a long finger on his briefcase.
Their father’s presence, simply existing in a way that draws anything in towards himself, yet still a seamless part of his surroundings, leaves a void when he’s gone. In his absence, everything is too much, all at once. Tommy stands abruptly, spreading their hands to push themself up in the same way their father had done, and jerks away once they realise, like they touched a stovetop instead of a table. They leave their soda behind, the carbonation only likely to upset their stomach at this point, and stride towards the front double doors for some fresh air.
All of the sudden, a Chuck E. Cheese feels too small for someone playing God.
Or programmer, as it were. Hacker? Truthfully, they don't know much about video games or code in general, only what they were subconsciously told within the game, so it was baffling to realize their situation is nothing but lines of binary. Benrey knew enough on the subjects for the both of them, and would certainly show it when Tommy asked just the right questions to get them stumbling into a jumbled, rambly mess of stitched-together phrases, spilling out in a monotone that still managed to have excitement glowing behind every word.
Fuck, Tommy misses them. Even after everything, he misses them.
The temperature outside is cooler than they expect. The sun slipped down while they weren't watching, nearly kissing the horizon and lighting up wispy clouds with polluted pinks and radioactive oranges. They lean back on the weathered brick beside the doors, crossing their arms to give themself a comforting weight over their chest, and watch the sky.
There’s a twitch of movement in their peripheral vision, and they catch a glimpse of something pale and disjointed before it vanishes. Their mind, conditioned into split-second decisions to save their life a hundred times over, categorizes it as a skeleton. They squeeze their arms tighter, trying to control their breathing. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. It was a pigeon, a piece of trash in the wind, a hallucination of their exhausted brain. They return their gaze to the clouds, fighting the urge to grab a gun that isn’t there.
A new blur of white distracts them, pulling their attention to the farthest corner of the parking lot, where a group of maybe ten or twenty people are gathered that certainly were not there a moment ago. They squint, trying to make out details despite the distance, and all they can see are a few flashes of camo and guard gear in between what the majority are wearing, a flurry of labcoats fluttering in the breeze. Wait… labcoats. Oh, shit.
They’ve taken off running before they even register pushing off the brick wall. They hadn’t let themself think on this before, already weighed down by the guilt of their choices determining whether people lived or died, but there’s one person in particular they desperately want to see okay, out of that hell made of code.
“Dr. Coolatta?” one of the scientists says as they approach, an expression of polite curiosity soon turning into alarm as Tommy sprints towards them. They try to put a name to their face, but their mind only provides “lamda_sci_3” so he shoos the thought away.
“He— Hello, hello,” they say, catching their breath as they come to a halt in front of the group. “Do you— Have any of you— any of you seen—”
“Bro, where’s your dog?” A voice finds its way out of the throng of people. “Did you uh, did it run away, ‘cause it’s pretty big so, uhhh, uh, c’est difficile de perdre.”
That low, scratchy, stupid voice is unmistakeable. It doesn’t even take a second for Tommy’s focus to narrow to a laser point, locate the man who spoke (distinctive scars over his eyes and cheeks above wide shoulders in camo gear make it easy), stride over, and punch Forzen right in the fucking face.
“ That is— That’s for trying to shoot my wonderful, perfect dog!” They’re breathing hard, the stinging in their eyes from unshed tears matching the pain of their skinned knuckles. Forzen looks up at them, jaw gaping, from where he’s laid out flat on the dirty pavement. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting this middle-aged beanpole with a propeller hat to knock him off his feet with one swing.
Tommy takes a step back, trying to steady their breathing, cradling their hand to their chest. Looking up from Forzen, they see everyone has given them a wide berth, a few guards having found their way to the front of the mass of people, hands hovering near their holsters. Some scientists help Forzen up, his huge frame dwarfing theirs as he leans on them for support, and they vanish into the back of the crowd.
“ Tommy ?” they hear from within the group, the voice strained with stress and disbelieving hope. They turn towards the sound as someone pushes through the press of people, and oh, there’s the person they wanted to see.
Everything, from today’s battles to Benrey’s death to their father’s cold logic to confronting the attempted murderer of dear, sweet Sunkist all come crashing down from the tidal wave of relief, and now the tears pricking at the back of their eyes start streaming down their face. They let out an embarrassingly loud sob and can already feel their cheeks getting hot.
They put a fist over their mouth, words becoming muffled. “Doc— Doctor Pepper, I di— it’s… it’s really good to see you! Very… very um, alive! And well!” They let out a shaky little laugh through the sobs.
Darnold jogs up to them, hands hovering as he looks visibly torn, unsure how to help. Standing in front of them, the mixologist hardly comes up to their shoulder, and looking up at their face only seems to increase his awkwardness. “It’s… It’s great to see you too, Tommy! Though, um, obviously you’ve been better, huh?” His head tilts and his crow’s feet deepen in sympathy, and Tommy feels even worse for breaking down like this.
An idea occurring to him, Darnold jolts into movement. He digs in one of his labcoat’s many pockets, fingers thick and clumsy through orange rubber gloves. Producing a little travel packet of tissues, he takes one out and offers in it one hand, the other holding the rest beside it.
Instead of taking it, Tommy clasps both of Darnold’s hands between their own. The shorter person startles at the act, blinking at their hands for a moment before looking up at their face.
“I’m— It’s… It’s okay, I’m okay, really!” Tommy says. “I’m just very relieved to see, um, that you and everyone else... made it out alright.” They try for what they hope is a sunny smile, but is likely watered down through their tears.
“Oh! Yes!” Darnold jumps at the opportunity for safer conversational ground, and shifts back a little in the process, but doesn’t remove his hands. “A reserve troop of the U.S. military came through looking for survivors! Said everyone needed to get out because they were gonna bomb the place to get rid of all those, um, alien creatures, I guess.”
“The… military?” Tommy asks, careful to not have more than polite confusion in their tone.
“To be honest, I can’t remember specifics… It’s all a bit of a blur!” Darnold finally removes his hands from Tommy's grasp, tucking the tissues back in his pocket and resting a hand on the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “But I know we were escorted out of the facility and left near the bank, see?” He points to a squat building across the street. It looks more like an image pasted on a flat background to Tommy, but their mind supplies that it's the bank everyone in Black Mesa uses, so paychecks and what they entail are more tightly controlled and supposedly secure. Fair enough.
Darnold continues while they’re lost in thought, both hands now gesturing in front of his chest. He's still wearing the same sweater and bowtie as when they met in the mixology department, though they shouldn’t be surprised. It may feel like years have passed, but that was less than a day ago. “We're supposed to be able to get our last paychecks from there and maybe replace some ID stuff, if we lost it. For bootboys, pretty nice of them, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy agrees on autopilot, their mind racing. False memories to cover up the respawn and teleportation, then a believable way to reintegrate into the society that hopefully will exist when this cutscene ends for Gordon. G-Man is good at his job, they’ll give him that.
And now Tommy can do their part, picking up where their father left off. They’re glad to see people outside of the science team alive, but they know they're capable adults that can handle themselves. Darnold, however, was a friendly workplace acquaintance even before the game (and Tommy tries very hard not to think about if those memories are real or programmed backstory) that they want to offer a helping hand to.
“Where, um, do you have anywhere to go? After you… figure that out?” Tommy asks, shoving their hands in the pockets of their battered labcoat to keep them from fidgeting. Oh ew, that feels like dried blood. This thing is gonna be trashed as soon as they change clothes.
“Er, no, I don’t. I lived in the Black Mesa dorm system, I’m afraid,” Darnold says.
Tommy had discussed the issue of housing over pizza with the team earlier, when the player’s control was just starting to slip and Gordon was only quieter than usual, not unresponsive. Coomer and Bubby had lived in the dorms as well, Coomer since the cloning project had begun several years ago and Bubby, of course, had never been allowed to leave the facility. They planned to stay in a motel for a night or two, get a car (whether that meant rent or buy or steal, Tommy could only guess), and find their own way. They could see the tension in their expressions when talking about the future, everyone uncertain whether there would be one at all, but their fears went unspoken. They all promised to keep in touch, and that’s what’s important.
Gordon, on the other hand, has his own apartment. It’s mainly so his son, who he has custody of on weekends, has somewhere to go that isn’t a restricted government facility dorm. Tommy has to wonder if Joshua is even real, but they’re glad Mr. Freeman probably has somewhere and someone to come home to.
“I— So— So did I!” Tommy says. “I was planning to, um, to crash at my dad’s house, because it’s… pretty big! And there’s a few spare rooms. So you’re, uh, welcome to stay there, at least until you can get back on your feet?” They end it like a question, hesitant, hunching their shoulders a little. They wouldn’t want to overstep, but...
“Oh, that sounds just wonderful,” Darnold answers, and Tommy lets out a subtle sigh of relief through their nose. “That’d be incredibly helpful, Dr. Coolatta, thank you.”
They straighten up. “Why’re you— you’re calling me Dr. Coolatta all of the sudden?” They lean in a little, put a bit of a teasing lilt into their tone. “I thought, uh, I was just Tommy, and if we’re gonna be housemates…”
Darnold leans back, appearing a little anxious, but still looks at their face when he retorts, “Well, uh, you called me ‘Dr. Pepper’ earlier, so I was just tryin’ to match your level of, um, formality! But,” he breaks into a warm smile, and they can’t help smiling back, “I’ll call you just Tommy if you call me just Darnold. Sound good?”
“It’s a— You’ve got a deal, Just Darnold,” Tommy says, and basks in the way that Darnold barks out a sudden laugh, shaken by stress and uncertainty but a note of genuine joy breaking through, his eyes squinting in the sunset’s dying light.
-
Tommy’s comforted by the memory, sitting here in the dark. Conversations with his father became increasingly uncomfortable after the game started, an ugly contrast to their previous pleasantness, and that one in particular was... one of the worst. Darnold is a bright spot in that dark day though, and it’s nice to know that he’s safe and sound, sleeping just across the hall in the spare-office-turned-guest bedroom.
He accepts that he’s not going to get any rest tonight, but not before promising himself he’ll try to take a nap that afternoon. Joints popping, he untangles himself from his sheets, bare feet meeting the fuzzy, thick carpeting. He walks into the hallway, its laminate wood paneling smooth and soundless. Old houses often shift and groan from temperature changes, he knows, and there’s none of that to worry about in the void.
He stifles a chuckle, remembering Darnold’s reaction when he first learned the house was in a private little pocket dimension. Tommy had eased him into the idea, warning him it was “very secluded” and “ isolated from their neighbors.” He wasn’t lying exactly, and he felt a bit bad, but it was worth it to see his reaction when G-Man teleported them to the front porch: holding his head with one hand and the railing with the other, gaping out at the expanse of inky, swirling blackness surrounding the house. Tommy, his surroundings more nostalgic than terrifying, answered as many of Darnold’s questions about how this was even possible as he could, then led him inside.
It’s been about a week since then, give or take a few days (it does become difficult to keep track of time here). Darnold’s adapted to the house surprisingly quickly, though it seems to be mostly from an exhausted “this might as well happen” attitude allowing him to take it in stride. Tommy’s childhood home is a package deal, including such lovely amenities such as the endless void, a total lack of windows and clocks, and of course, the changing furniture and rooms. The last one was his own touch, coming up with the idea as a child after seeing one too many movies with houses come alive and children discovering secret passages. His father indulged him, and even now, he’s thankful for that bit of variety in the otherwise unchanging environment. Rarely, entirely new rooms will appear, then disappear hours or days later. He’s sure there’s lost toys from when he was a kid somewhere in the house’s depths.
It takes him a few fumbling minutes to find the kitchen, the living room’s contents having moved slightly in the night, which makes it more difficult to navigate in the darkness that cloaks the house. He feels around, from hard amrest to soft cushion to even softer fur. Well, he’s found where Sunkist is, and he gives her a scratch behind the ears before continuing to shuffle through the room. What helps is that there’s a light above the sink, a soft yellow glow coming out of the doorway that he moves towards even as he bumps his shins on furniture.
Reaching the entrance, he hesitates. Darnold’s already there, leaning on his elbows over the island, hands cupped around a reddish earthenware mug. The sole light in the room shines through the outer edges of his coily hair from behind, mussed from whatever sleep he managed to get, and it rests on the soft slopes of his shoulders, covered by pajamas similar to Tommy’s own. He knew Tommy was coming, if the slight smile on his face is any indication, probably from the trail of quiet collisions and muffled curses he left behind.
“Y’care to join me?” Darnold says, slurring the words’ cadence together. His voice is a little slower and rougher than normal. Must’ve woken up recently, then.
“I’d— It’d be a pleasure,” Tommy responds, walking around the counter to stand by his side and peer into his drink. “What’re you… What’s in the mug?”
“Tea,” Darnold answers, and now that Tommy squints, he can see the dim outline of a kettle on the stove. “It’s jasmine green.”
“You make en— enough— Any left for me?” he asks, trying to make his voice light, though he feels too high-strung.
“Yeah, should be plenty, but I can’t guarantee it hasn’t gone cold by now.” Tommy realizes he hasn’t seen Darnold drink from his mug since he came in, and if realizing the same thing, he takes a big sip.
His face immediately contorts. “Eugh,” he says, the most stereotypical disgusted noise Tommy’s ever heard, and he stifles a wheezy, sleep-deprived laugh behind his hand. Darnold goes to put the cup in the microwave while Tommy grabs another mug, this one with “Stay Positive!” with a picture of a photon printed on it, and a tea bag from the open box on the counter. He hovers his hand over the kettle’s surface, and he was right, it’s a little cold. He sees a slight reflection of golden light on the warped metal surface as he rewinds its time for a few seconds, stopping when he feels warmth radiate. He pours himself a cup as the microwave starts up, its own source of sickly yellow light mildly illuminating both their faces.
Tommy holds his mug in both hands, leaning on the counter beside the sink and tipping his head back on the cabinets above, though it hardly reaches. That’s one thing Darnold hasn’t gotten used to: the house is vertically stretched, made specifically for Tommy and G-Man, though the latter isn’t often home, like tonight. Darnold’s around half a foot shorter than Tommy, which makes him a whole foot shorter than his father. The first time Tommy caught him standing on a chair to reach plates on an upper shelf, he laughed so hard he cried. Darnold had crossed his arms, leaning one hip on the island as he waited out Tommy’s wheezing with an unimpressed frown, but he could see a smile in the corners of his eyes.
Tommy’s content with silence most of the time, and it’s like a physical presence here, making itself at home in the dark shadows and hard granite and soft clothes that make up the kitchen. It’s a comfort as he sips his tea, but he can see Darnold fidgeting, tapping his fingers together like he misses the texture of his nearly-everpresent lab gloves. At one second left on the timer, he lurches towards the microwave before it can go off, grabbing his mug and busying himself with blowing on the drink.
Tommy sighs through his nose. Darnold’s the type of person to scold inanimate objects and mutter under his breath when working on a project (and Tommy can’t say he doesn’t find it amusing and a little endearing to watch), so the fact that he’s been quiet for a few minutes is likely a bad sign. “You couldn’t… You couldn’t sleep, either?” he says, trying to prod him into conversation.
“Oh, no, I slept,” says Darnold, letting out a rueful chuckle as he shifts the mug in his hands, gauging its temperature. “Decided to stop that business after one too many nightmares.”
“Ah,” Tommy starts, then shuts his mouth. Shit, what do people say to stuff like that? “Do you, um, you wanna talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” Darnold says. Tommy starts to assure him that’s alright, but he continues. “It was, um, just the basic shit, y’know. Being trapped in my lab after the Resonance Cascade. Either aliens breaking down the door and killing me or no one ever finding me at all, so I just… waste away in there.” Judging the tea cool enough, he lifts it to his lips and sips for a long moment. “Can’t really tell ya which is worse.”
Okay, apparently he actually did want to talk about it. Tommy sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That… doesn’t sound very good.” He mentally kicks himself when Darnold raises an eyebrow, looking at him over the rim of the mug. “I don’t— My, um, mine tend to be more... violent? Nightmares about Black Mesa, I mean. But I still... I still get that fear of— of isolation. Kind of… surprised it doesn’t bother me more, to be honest, since I grew up here alone, most of the time… when I was a teenager. My dad was around when I was a kid, but he got, uh... I guess he thought I could be left alone more and he was always busy, so.” He buries his face in his mug, slurping at his tea, and hunches his shoulders. Darnold stays silent, avoiding his eyes. Not sure where to go from there, Tommy tries to end on a lighter note. “It’s, uh, it’s been a lot nicer lately, now that you and Sunkist are here. Like— like, I have some good memories with this house, but… it’s too big for one person, y’know?”
Darnold looks at him again, thinking about that for a moment. “Aw,” he starts, with a sympathetic tone that instantly puts Tommy on edge. “Did you not have any pets as a kid?”
That… wasn’t the question he expected, but it’s certainly one he has an answer for. “No, I— I did not ,” he says, feeling the creases of his face pull into a scowl. “I’m allergic to most pet dander and my dad didn’t, um…” How does he explain that he and his father time-traveled often, and having his house in a pocket dimension meant jumps back home could be more unpredictable than a jackrabbit hyped up on caffeine, and that’s pretty bad for a mortal pet that needs daily care? “...He, uhhh, doesn’t really like animals. My first pet was Sunkist, who I made as my graduate project when I got my master’s degree in biology, um, and I had minors in— in engineering and physics from my bachelor’s, so that’s evident in, uhh, all the things she can do! She’s— She’s perfect!” He’s holding his mug in one hand, the other making twitchy, enthusiastic gestures to accentuate his words. Sue him, he fucking loves talking about his dog! “I did— did— But I made her in grad school so that’s still... It was well after I lived here.” He shrugs, feeling his grin fall.
The man across from him, who had been smiling as Tommy rambled about Sunkist, now falls into somberness as well, though with an expression more thoughtful than sad. He looks into his mug with clear brown eyes softened by creases in the corners. “Well,” he starts, gaze flicking up to Tommy’s face, “if she’s the perfect dog, as you’re sayin’, then she came into your life at the perfect time, too. I assume you made her right when you needed her.” He glances at the doorway, leading into the living room where Sunkist is still snoozing away. “She seems perfectly happy to be here right now, and she probably, um, wouldn’t be around if she was alive when you were a kid, so. Seeing the way you love her so much, I’m glad she’s here for you now, is all.”
When he returns his gaze to Tommy, his eyes widen, then widen further as panic starts to set in. “Oh— Oh shit, Tommy, I’m sorry, what did I say?!”
The person in question sets his mug on the counter to rub at the tears on his cheeks, blotting them on the sleeves of his pajama shirt. “First— First of all,” Tommy can’t help laughing a little, “I do— I appreciate the sentiment, but Sunkist is immortal! So she’d still be around if I had— if I had somehow made her the same way when I was a kid.”
“O— Oh.” Darnold hunches his shoulders, pressing his lips together in embarrassment, before his eyebrows shoot up and his face alights. “Hey, wait a fuckin’ minute! You made an immortal dog?”
“I— I, uh, yeah!” Tommy says, trying to speak through teary hiccups. “And I’d love— I’d love to tell you about her physiology and the breakthroughs in reversing cell decay I, uh, I had to make to accomplish that, but it’s late, and— and anyway, secondly! That was,” he wipes a missed tear off his jawline with the pad of his thumb, “nicer for you to say than… than ice cream on a summer day.”
He doesn’t know what kind of warmth was in his voice, but it’s enough to make Darnold look away with a hand going to the back of his neck. “You’re, uh, right about it being late, though,” he says, dodging the compliment. “I certainly didn’t expect my rambling thoughts to have such an… effect on you! At least I got a few hours in, but you said you couldn’t sleep at all?” He looks up for confirmation, and when Tommy nods, he continues, tone becoming firm. “Well no wonder your emotions are all over the place, you’re sleep deprived as shit.” They both grin at each other for a moment, tiredness pulling at Darnold’s features.
“We should probably... both go to bed, huh,” Tommy says. Darnold’s smile freezes for a split second, then he acquiesces through an obviously-forced nod.
Tommy bites his lip, considering a plan that, like all plans late at night, is too half-baked for him to truly tell if it’s a good idea or not, and if this man he’s only known closely for about a week will be okay with this. But if it might make Darnold more comfortable... he’s going to go for it. “If… If we’re both…” He sighs and tries again. “I’ve found Sunkist helps a lot if I’m having trouble sleeping. Even just… being near her! I should— should’ve gotten her earlier, but I didn’t wanna disturb her.” He shoots a fond look through the doorway. “I think I’m gonna try sleeping in the living room, see if— if a change in scenery helps at all. You’re, um, welcome to join me. Make it a party!”
Darnold chuckles. “A sleepover with the dog, huh? I suppose that sounds pretty good.”
Tommy clasps his hands together. “Gre— Great! You, um, pick whatever couch you want and I’ll grab, uh…”
“A light so that I can see what I’m even lookin’ at in there?” Darnold asks, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth.
Tommy laughs, then downs the last of the tea in his mug. “I was gonna say pillows and blankets from our rooms, but, uh, that too.” The living room is the largest place in the house, a cavernous space reaching to the floor above, so the ceiling lights in there don’t do much. For the most part it’s lit by its several floor and table lamps, but their usefulness is negated when it’s too dark to even see where they are.
Darnold moves forward, holding his own empty mug in one hand with his other extended, a silent question. Tommy smiles in gratitude, handing him the cup then walking past him. He hears the tinny echo of faucet water hitting the bottom of the sink, and doesn’t pause as he tries to navigate the maze of shifted furniture once again.
“Our backs are not gonna thank us in the morning, though!” he hears from behind him, and his laugh is nearly a cackle from surprise.
Still, he thinks it’ll be worth it, because he’ll get to see Darnold smile again after the night they’ve both had, and Darnold’s sensible opinions with Tommy’s positive outlook might be just what they need to keep thoughts of the game away. They deserve that much, even if only for one night.