Chapter Text
“Can someone make me a large latte for front? The line up is getting long!”
Gordon starts the drink with a tight nod to his coworker, flinching at the specific hiss of the espresso machine that mimics those god awful headcrabs. His head throbs in time with his racing heart. The line just keeps growing. It’s as if all these people pointed at this specific cafe and collectively decided: yes, this is where I want to get my pick-me-up today.
Remember, this is better than having no job, Gordon admonishes himself for the fourth time this shift, passing the hastily made drink to a grumbling lady at front. He practically runs to the next till to take the next salaryman’s order. It’s simple enough—a large latte and a large decaf with 2 sugars for his friend—yet the man taps his watch impatiently as Gordon ushers him to his left to make his drink.
He keeps his head down, fighting the urge to flinch at the temperamental steam wand in front of him. He can’t believe he’s currently losing his mind over a twelve-dollars-an-hour paycheck. The indignity of it all is a slow and deliberate insult. He’d survived Black Mesa for this.
“Too much more of this and I’m gonna quit!” A teenage coworker groans, running past the back counter right beside Gordon, panting and clutching a stack of unwashed ceramic mugs to his apron.
Ignoring the bitching beside him, Gordon finishes making the drinks, barely having the wherewithal to try and offer a customer-service smile. When the man doesn't even look back at him, Gordon barely suppresses a growl.
The man annoys him, but most people annoy him these days.
He hates it here. Every second behind this counter. All he can do is bite his cheek and grit his teeth and look forward to his next paycheck because his shitty apartment lease doesn’t pay for itself.
"Can I get someone up front?!" Gordon calls over the noise of the grinding coffee beans, scrambling back to his feet and desperately wiping down the counter. Of course his cries for help go unnoticed, and he goes around the corner to zip back to the till, just narrowly missing a collision with the shift supervisor.
“Can I help who’s next?” Gordon barks out, forcing a strained, customer-service grimace as he approaches the primary register.
“uh, yea.”
Gordon freezes.
It’s so familiar. That same low, monotonous cadence he hates that makes the hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck stand up.
Gordon turns his head slowly, and his stomach drops out from under him.
He easily spots the customer. Standing right in front of the pastry case, looking completely out of place among the tired office workers and college students, is Benrey. He’s still got the stupid underbite, the blue tactical vest, and that oversized helmet sliding off-center, like apparently finding one that fits has been too much to ask for three years.
His dirty boots leave a trail of dried mud across the carpet.
Gordon stares at it.
Of course.
“yo. you gonna take my order?" Benrey waves at him from the other side at Gordon's blank stare. "i mean we can just keep staring at each other. 's cool.”
Gordon finds it funny for a stupid second. He thought he got the last laugh when he had personally riddled lead bullet holes into his alien visage inside that dark cavern of Xen. He killed him. He had to destroy his passport to do so. G-man in all his practiced and cold inflection had affirmed he’d been dealt with.
Gordon was an idiot for believing him. That for three whole years, he had let himself believe that one part of Black Mesa was finally finished.
But Benrey just stands in the cafe like he belongs there. Stupid underbite. Crooked helmet. Mud on the carpet.
Alive.
His mind races, trying to figure out if he's finally snapped. If the undiagnosed PTSD has cashed in and produced visual and auditory hallucinations.
He shifts his weight, his hand instinctively reaching for a crowbar that hasn't been on his hip in years.
“What—” Gordon grips the edge of the counter, staring in absolute, horrified confusion at the guard. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“bro, finally," Benrey says, pointedly ignoring his question. His eyes drift down to the name tag pinned to Gordon's green apron. "i’ve been waiting for like, an hour. kind of bad customer service, not gonna lie. this is the line for passports, right?"
Gordon figures out that this is real before the guard can even finish his sentence. He reaches across the counter, grabs Benrey by the collar of his tactical vest, and yanks him forward.
“hey, whoa, bro—” Benrey yowls as Gordon shoves the register aside, sending gift cards clattering to the floor while he drags the security guard bodily over the counter. The cafe erupts into horrified shouting as customers scatter backwards.
“Holy shit, that barista’s gone rogue!”
“What the hell, Gordon? Put him down!”
“I-I am taking my break!” Gordon stammers at his terrified teenage coworker. It’s not hard to shove Benrey hard by the shoulders when he doesn’t put up a fight. He marches him directly through the swinging doors of the employee breakroom and out the back door into the grimy alleyway. The sun is bright out but it casts a shadow on the adjacent walls behind the coffee shop.
When they hit the brick wall outside, Gordon slams his forearm against Benrey's chest, pinning him there. Gordon’s other hand wildly grabs the sharpest thing in his apron pocket—a metal box cutter used for opening today’s shipments—and presses the blade directly under Benrey's chin.
“For fuck’s sake,” Gordon growls, stringing together a series of colorful, breathless swears, though his voice is shaking so hard he can barely articulate them. "Why? Why now?"
“hey, hey, whoa hey!” Benrey says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. He doesn't look particularly threatened though, leaning against the brick alleyway with annoying ease. "don't even think about slicing me, man. i just found you and respawned and you’re gonna kill me again? it took like, forever. loading screens are awful."
Gordon could feel the pure, blinding rage before he processed it.
“What the hell are you doing here?!” Gordon doesn’t lower his shaky hold on the box cutter, his chest heaving, eyes wild and bloodshot. “I killed you! How are you not dead?!”
"uh.." Benrey smacks his lips before shrugging against the wall. "you did. i was supposed to be dead, yeah. in case you know... you forgot that you totally murdered me? honestly," Benrey chided, but then clears his throat, realizing it wasn't really helping his case. "but, seeing that we’re best bros, i changed my mind. i came back. you're welcome. we can play Kane & Lynch 2: Dog Days now.”
“Wha— Best bros? No, I don’t want anything to do with you!” Gordon stands up a little straighter, his apron stained with coffee grounds and smelling stale. “You tried killing us—Doctor Coomer, Bubby, Tommy—in case you forgot! On the off chance you’re brain-damaged from whatever respawn is for you, let me explain. I hate you,” Gordon points a violently shaking finger at Benrey. “And you’re supposed to be dead!”
“no?” Benrey glances down at his perfectly intact security vest, looking back at Gordon with that annoying blank expression. "i got a pulse right now. you— oh hey, your arm grew back. that’s coooool, bro. but you got a little scar there lil’ clumsy boy. didn’t regenerate it properly, didja?” When the box cutter edges closer, Benrey adds lamely, “also could you put that knife down or something? please? it's making me uncomfortable."
“No, I won’t put down the— I should gut you where you stand! I shouldn’t have let you follow me into the test chamber the first time, why did you come back now? Oh my god, I-I’m gonna get fired over this, and I can’t afford rent as it is!” He messes up his hair-netted scalp with nervous scratching, visor askew. “You don’t get to show up here acting like we’re best friends after everything you pulled! We’re. Not. Friends. I don’t want any more casual visits from you. If you don’t start running, I’ll start carving,” Gordon barks.
Benrey lets out an annoyed huff, lowering his hands. "what, i don't even get a 'welcome back' from gordon feetman? damn, rude. rejecting my offer to hang out? we were gonna eat mud and sand and then watch some AVGN, man." Benrey adjusts his crooked helmet. "guess i'll just leave then since you’re being soooo pissy right now.
“anyway, see you at the end of your shift."
He says it casually but hell if it doesn’t make Gordon piss himself wet with terror. Benrey turns on his heel and walks down the alleyway, his boots splashing in the puddles of old coffee waste and stubby cigarette butts.
"Don't you dare come back! I mean it!" Gordon warns him, his voice cracking with panic as he watches the guard retreat. "If you come near me, I will kill you again!"
Benrey doesn't turn around. He just raises a hand and flashes Gordon a lazy peace sign.
Gordon slumps back against the brick wall of the alleyway, the box cutter slipping from his trembling fingers to clatter against the asphalt. He wipes his shaking hands over his face, inhaling the smell of garbage and morning air.
Gordon had almost managed to carve out something resembling peace before Benrey just materialized in the middle of a Tuesday morning rush.
What the hell was Benrey thinking? That stupid alien is going to ruin the tiny, pathetic fraction of a life Gordon has managed to scrape together if he keeps trying to play friends.
He hikes his foot up against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath to calm his racing heart, and tries very, very hard not to think about the fact that his shift ends in exactly four hours.
Gordon eventually pushes back through the employee breakroom doors. He tries to compose himself before entering but his hands were still trembling so violently he shoved them deep into his apron pockets, nails digging crescent shapes into his palm.
His shift supervisor is waiting for him, arms crossed, face mottled red with fury.
“Care to explain what the hell that was, Freeman?”
Gordon swallows hard, his throat dry. The cafe is quieter now, the morning rush having finally bled out into the streets, leaving behind a mess of thrown out straw wrappers and stained tables.
“I’m... I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. That man—he’s an old... an old acquaintance. A stalker. He’s been harassing me for years. I panicked.”
It’s the closest thing to the truth that won’t get him locked in a psychiatric ward.
His supervisor pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sharp breath. His other coworkers watch nearby, looking sympathetic and disappointed. “You dragged a man over the counter, Gordon. If he files a police report, corporate is going to have my ass, and then I’m firing yours.”
“He won’t file a police report,” Gordon says immediately. Benrey doesn't even have an understanding of the legal system. He barely lets himself hope Benrey keeps this between them, but it hasn’t stopped him from getting others involved in messing with Gordon before. Bubby. The soldiers who cut his arm off. Phantom pain threatens to bloom on the scar in his arm. “He won’t. I swear. It won’t happen again. Please. I really need this job.”
The supervisor stares at him for a long, agonizing moment, taking in Gordon’s pale, sweat-slicked face and desperate eyes. “One warning. Clean up the gift cards you spilled on the floor during your fight. And if your ‘stalker’ comes back, you call the police. You don’t assault him.”
“Right. Yes. Understood.”
The last four hours of Gordon’s shift are an exercise in psychological torture.
Every time the little silver bell above the cafe door chimes, Gordon’s heart seizes. He flinches at the sight of blue jackets. He listens for that specific low, monotone inflection under the mundane chatter of the cafe. ‘See you at the end of your shift,’ Benrey had said. The threat loops in Gordon’s head like a broken record. He spends the remainder of his hours white-knuckling the espresso tamp, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But four o'clock rolls around, and Benrey never shows.
Gordon practically sprints out of the back door when he’s finally off the clock. He keeps his head on a swivel the entire walk to the bus stop and the wait for the transit, his hand hovering near the pocket of his hoodie where he’d stolen the cafe shop’s box cutter.
Gordon couldn’t will his anxiety down to drive after the Resonance Cascade, so he had sold his car for an advance on his shitty apartment lease. Oh, the prospective joy to run Benrey over with his sedan almost makes him miss it.
He takes the long way back from the bus stop to his apartment building, weaving through alleys to make sure he isn't being followed.
You’re so close to home. Just a bit more and you’ll be safe.
By the time Gordon reaches his apartment door on the third floor of his dingy complex, his nerves are completely frayed. He fumbles with his keys, drops them once, picks them up with a curse, and finally manages to unlock the deadbolt.
He pushes the door open, stepping into the dim, cramped entryway.
“Dad?”
The word instantly acts like a localized defibrillator on Gordon’s nervous system. The tension bleeding out of his shoulders is palpable.
Gordon kicks his boots off, locks the deadbolt behind him, and steps into the living room. Sitting at the small, scuffed dining table, surrounded by a mess of crayons and scattered homework papers, is Joshua.
“Hey, buddy,” Gordon whispers out, not fully trusting his voice. He feels weightless with relief and joy, like his heart was about to burst.
He crosses the room in three long strides and pulls his son into a tight hug, burying his face in Joshua's hair before he could even think of breaking down in front of him. The kid smells like cheap apple shampoo and graphite. He feels entirely, wonderfully normal. For a second, the smell of burnt coffee and Benrey vanishes from Gordon's mind.
Joshua hugs him back, though he squirms a little after a moment. “You’re squeezing too hard, Dad.”
“Sorry. Sorry,” Gordon murmurs, feeling that surge of joy again at the sound of his son’s voice. He pulls back and rests his hands on Joshua’s shoulders. He forces a smile, looking over the boy’s face, checking him for... well, for anything. “How was school? You get home okay?”
“Yeah, it was fine. Mrs. Robertson gave us a bunch of math homework though.” Joshua kicks his legs under the table, taking a handful of cashews to munch on. His eyes darted to Gordon’s face. The kid is entirely too observant for a ten-year-old. “Are you okay? You look pale. Did you get yelled at by the coffee boss again?"
Gordon lets out a weak, breathy laugh, reaching out to ruffle Joshua’s hair. “Something like that. Just a long day, Josh. Just really tired.”
“You should sit down,” Joshua says seriously, pointing his crayon at the worn-out sofa. “I can make you a sandwich. We still have peanut butter.”
“I’ll make dinner in a bit, don’t worry about me,” Gordon promises.
He walks into the tiny kitchen, turning on the faucet to wash the lingering stickiness of syrup and sweat from his hands. As the water runs, Gordon’s eyes drift to the small kitchen window. The glass is thin and hasn't closed properly for however long ago Gordon's moved in, so it constantly lets in a cold draft. The evening shadows are stretching long and dark across the brickwork outside.
Gordon turns the faucet off. He dries his hands on a dish towel, walks back over to the front door, and checks the deadbolt. Locked. He twists the chain into place. Secured.
He walks over to the window by the fire escape, pulling the cheap blinds down and making sure the latch is fully clamped shut.
Joshua watches him from the table, his crayon pausing on the paper. “Dad? It’s still early.” Joshua had gotten used to this routine by now. It started since Gordon came back from Black Mesa, being overdue one whole week in his and his ex-wife’s agreement over child visitation for the kid’s pick up. But it wasn’t even that dark out yet.
Gordon freezes, his hand still resting on the plastic pull-cord of the blinds. He takes a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to drop, forcing himself to project the image of a calm, collected father and not a traumatized physicist turned barista who just held a box cutter to an alien’s throat.
“Just... heard about some break-ins a few blocks over,” Gordon lies smoothly, turning around to give his son a reassuring smile. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Oh. Okay.” Joshua accepts it easily enough, turning back to his math worksheet. “Can you help me with the fractions later?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, buddy. Let me just get changed out of my hoodie.”
Gordon retreats into his cramped bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He leans his back against the cheap wood, sliding down until he hits the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees and hears static.
He has to keep it together. He has to. He fought his way out of Black Mesa for Joshua. He survived the military, survived having barrels exploded at his face, and survived having his fucking arm cut off just so he could come back and be a father to his kid.
Gordon wants to believe Benrey coming back is just another obstacle. But deep down he knows it’s much worse than that.
Benrey knows where he works. God forbid he knows where he lives if he didn’t already.
Benrey could ruin his son’s life.
Gordon’s breath shudders in his chest. If that freak comes anywhere near this apartment, anywhere near Joshua...
Gordon’s hand drops to the floor, his fingers curling into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
He won't just carve him up next time. He'll make sure there isn't enough of Benrey left to respawn.
—————
Gordon waits until the glowing red numbers on the microwave clock read 1:15 AM before he finally lets his guard down.
Joshua has been asleep for hours. Gordon had checked on him three separate times, standing in the doorway of the small bedroom just to listen to the steady, rhythmic breathing of his son and the outside rain pattering against the window. Only then did Gordon allow himself to shake off the tension weighing down on his shoulders.
Fuck it, this was a beer night. Gordon reaches for the six-pack of beer bottles in the back of the dingy fridge, taking two for himself and letting the shame wash over him. He couldn’t afford to get wasted again since Joshua was around, but he really needed to exist without feeling the weight of fucking up at work and the Black Mesa incident crushing his lungs for just five minutes.
Gordon’s hands shake, fingers trembling against the glass, before he takes a swig. The minutes blur together in a haze. The next thing he knows, he’s sprawled loosely onto the worn-out sofa in the living room, mind cotton. A cold, half-drank beer in his hand and the television muted on some late-night infomercial. And despite that, sleep evades him like it usually does.
He is so, so deeply tired. The kind of tired that seeps into the bone marrow and makes his joints ache. Gordon takes another measured swig to help ignore the dark thoughts seeping into his mind.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Gordon freezes. The beer bottle stops halfway to his mouth.
It’s coming from the side door. Specifically, from the fire escape window he had locked and double-checked earlier that afternoon.
Gordon sets the bottle down on the coffee table without making a sound. He stands up, his hand immediately dropping to the waistband of his sweatpants where his 9mm is securely tucked against his spine. He creeps into the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath his bare feet.
Through the thin, drawn blinds, Gordon can see a silhouette blocking out the orange glow of a singular streetlamp outside.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Gordon’s heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He draws the gun, clicks the safety off with his thumb, and positions himself flush against the wall. With his free hand, he reaches out and sharply yanks the blind cord.
Standing outside on the rusted metal grate, completely unaffected by the light drizzle of rain, is Benrey.
He’s wearing the exact same bulky security vest and crooked blue helmet. In one hand, he holds a crumpled plastic convenience store bag. His other hand is raised, a single finger extended, ready to tap the glass again.
Gordon stares at him, absolute, unfiltered disbelief warring with a white-hot spike of rage.
Benrey sees him through the glass. He doesn't flinch at the sight of the gun. He just raises his hand and gives a small, lazy wave.
Gordon is going to kill him. He is actually, physically going to murder him and bury him under the floorboards.
If Gordon ignores him, Benrey might just break the glass and wake Joshua. So Gordon violently flips the latch and shoves the window up.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Gordon hisses, keeping his voice to a venomous whisper as he aims the gun directly at Benrey's face.
"yooooo feetman. took you long enough to come," Benrey says, his voice carrying that low, horrible monotone. He then sits cross-legged on the rusted metal grating and gestures to the plastic bag. "i brought snacks. your base was locked, and i was expecting it to open for hours now. weren’t we gonna queue up on your ps3, dude?"
"Shut up. Shut your mouth right now," Gordon snarls, throwing a panicked glance over his shoulder toward the hallway where Joshua is sleeping. He steps up onto the windowsill and climbs out onto the fire escape, pulling the window mostly shut behind him so the cold air—and the noise—won't drift inside.
Outside, standing in the damp, freezing night air, Gordon towers over the seated guard. The barrel of his pistol is inches from Benrey's helmet, yet all he does is stare.
"I told you," Gordon breathes, his chest heaving. "I told you if you came near my apartment, I would kill you."
"yeah, but i brought mountain dew," Benrey says, pulling a violently green two-litre bottle out of the plastic bag like it’s a diplomatic peace offering. "and cool ranch doritos. figured we could, you know. do a co-op run. hang out. you were looking kinda shit in the coffee place. bro."
Gordon stares at the chips. He stares at the soda. He stares at the dead-eyed alien parasite wearing a dead man's face.
It didn't occur to Gordon until this exact moment that Benrey genuinely, fundamentally does not understand that Gordon despises him.
And Gordon starts laughing, rain pelting his face, because the whole thing is so absurd. Fantastic. He's losing his mind.
“nice, that’s a laugh right there. there you go. friend,” Benrey says, sounding proud of himself as Gordon loses himself in maniacal laughter, clutching the windowsill with his free hand. “you gonna let me in, now? the doritos are getting cold.”
"What is wrong with you?" Gordon asks weakly as he barely composes himself, his voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and pent up anger. "What part of my reaction to you makes you think I want you here?"
"uh, because we're friends, man." Benrey tilts his head, the helmet sliding slightly to the left. "we traversed the whole map together. and you killed me, but i came back since we're friends."
"We are not friends!" Gordon’s voice cracks, a desperate, harsh sound in the quiet alleyway. He lowers the gun just enough to gesture wildly between the two of them. "We are not friends! We will never be friends! I don’t ever want to be friends with you! You stalked me, you had my hand cut off, and you mutated into a giant version of yourself and tried killing us over a fucking— a stupid fucking reason! I think that’s what bothers me the most!"
Benrey just looks at Gordon blankly, his face obscured by the night and the rain.
"You haven’t even said sorry!" Gordon scrubs his free hand over his face, feeling the cold rain mix with the sweat on his forehead. “I-I just want to live my life! I don’t want anything to do with you anymore! I just want to live a 9 to 5 and have a boring pathetic life and pay rent and sleep. That's it! Just leave me and my son alone!”
A long stillness looms over them and Gordon didn’t even realize he was hyperventilating when his hold on the gun slips and it lets out a clang of steel against the grates. It’s not fair to him. None of it ever was.
“okay,” Benrey says finally, apparently done watching Gordon collapse under his emotions, before standing up. “i’ll be a good thing… now. not a bad friend. sorry for killing you over missing a month of playstation plus.” He presents to Gordon a pair of outstretched arms.
“you— you wanna hug and make up, man?"
Gordon sees red.
He screams as he punches Benrey in the cheek, digging his knuckles in there, rage welling up in his chest. His veins are bubbling and he can feel his face scalding hot against the cold rain.
Benrey stumbles back, but his eyes are still that stubborn, half-lidded expression underneath the helmet as a bruise starts to form in his cheek.
“you wanna make it even? i’ll buy you a month of playstation plus membership. somehow. i cut off your arm, you can do the same to me, man…” Benrey slumps against the railing, sputtering and dizzy, and he must’ve punched hard because he’s only seen Benrey have such a big response to pain a handful of times.
Benrey presents his other cheek, and Gordon doesn’t believe how he felt even more furious than before. “make it even. come on, i’m wai—”
Gordon slams his fist on the other side of his face with another yell, scrunching up the bone in Benrey’s nose as it collides. Benrey groans out pathetically, reeling as he feels his broken nose that’s now leaking blood and dripping onto his lip.
Fuck, that felt good.
“shit, yeah, ow, that’s… that hurts. you got another i-in you?”
Before he could think about it, he socks Benrey against his jaw, making the guard tumble around and collapse against the fire escape railing. Gordon was laughing now.
“Leave. I mean it. Don’t come back, or I’ll put a bullet through your head next time.
Benrey looks up at Gordon through his bruised and inflamed eyelids, before taking his grocery bags and going down the unlatched fire escape ladder. He walks, dazing through the alleyway in the darkness and rain. And when Gordon can’t see him anymore, he just stares upward and loses himself in the sound of water tapping against iron and brick until his glasses fog up.
It takes him a while until he picks up his gun, hoists up the ladder (did he forget to latch this up before? Is that how he was able to get up here? Shit,) and latches it back on again. He wordlessly clambers up back the fire escape window into his apartment.
Inside, he just stands in the hallway for a long time, dripping wet, holding himself like an old man as he shivers.
His vision was pulsing with black spots, and fuck, did his hands hurt. Now that he wasn’t blinded by a red haze of anger, the memory of the impact made his stomach twist. He remembers the sickening, all-too-human crunch of cartilage under his fist.
No time to feel bad. He keeps his head down as he shuffles to the kitchen sink to soothe his angry and skin-torn hands, blood welling up on his knuckles.
Gordon twists the hot water tap. The apartment pipes groan, a metallic, rattling sound, before a stream of hot water flows out. He thrusts his hands under the spray, hissing through his teeth as the water hits the raw, broken skin of his knuckles.
He watches the water pool in his cupped hands, turning a diluted, pale pink before spiraling down the rusted stainless-steel drain.
Gordon stares at it, his chest breathless as he leans his weight against the edge of the counter.
Red.
Benrey had bruised like a human. He had bled from his broken nose like a human. Some part of Gordon can’t stop wondering why Benrey hadn't spat out his teal and green healing beam, hadn't regenerated, hadn't noclipped out of there. Why limp down the fire escape like a beaten dog? Benrey was capable of a lot of things.
Fuck, he didn't even try to block it, Gordon thought, a miserable, unwanted sliver of pity wedging itself in his throat. Once it came, the scene flashed in his mind, unbidden. Benrey had just stood there, bruised and pathetic in the rain, offering his other cheek. Gordon squeezed his eyes shut, hating Benrey for pushing him to this, but hating himself even more for feeling bad about it. No, he’d punch Benrey a thousand more times until it even felt close to even. He shouldn’t have spouted bullshit if he didn't want to get punched.
He deserved it, Gordon tells himself fiercely, staring at his pale, exhausted reflection in the dark kitchen window. So what if he isn’t an alien anymore? You don’t even know that. He made you feel so much pain. He made your life miserable. He tried to kill you. Turning human doesn’t fucking excuse what he did.
That possibility was having an annoying effect on his conscience. Punching him was justified. It was more than justified. It was three years overdue. Why couldn’t he be as sure as he felt?
He leaves the kitchen, walking mechanically back into the living room. The TV is still playing its muted infomercial, casting a cold blue light across the worn-out sofa. Gordon’s half-drank beer sits on the coffee table, sweating rings into the cheap wood. He walks right past it.
He goes down the narrow hallway and stops in front of Joshua’s door. He pushes it open just a fraction of an inch, listening. The soft, rhythmic sound of his son breathing in the dark is the only thing that grounds Gordon to reality.
Gordon closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool doorframe.
How had he forgotten? He did it to protect his kid. He did it so they could be safe. But as Gordon stands in the suffocating silence of his apartment, nursing his bruised knuckles, he knows with a dreadful, sinking certainty that beating Benrey away tonight didn't fix anything.
Defeated for the night, he retreats to his room, throws his wet clothes in his overflowing hamper, and drops heavy onto the mattress.
He waits for the adrenaline to fade. He waits for the peace he supposedly fought for.
The sky outside his window had turned a deep purple before he finally fell asleep.