#im gonna go sleep now skjdsjd

[jewishtommycoolatta]

Gone

Word Count:  919

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Gordon is a fundamentally different person now, and cuts his hair to reflect that.

(Just a small fic for my friend @gordos-feeman, based off a headcanon of his.)

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Gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

His arm was gone.

Gordon stared at the stump that was once his right arm, watching his blood flow down from his elbow and pour onto the ground.

Tommy had temporarily left him, searching for medical supplies to help. Far away, Gordon could hear the scuffing of his dress shoes against the concrete, voice muttering something he couldn’t hear. He was too busy watching streams of his own blood stain the metal of his suit.

Gordon was covered in blood, now that he thought about it, idly, as he watched his own life slowly drain. It was stuck in his hair-- once long and curly and neatly pulled into a ponytail, now matted down with grime and blood, sticking to the small exposed part of his neck and all the crevices of the back of the suit. It was messy and stiff, tugging at his scalp whenever he turned his head.

More blood fell from his arm.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d gotten his hair cut-- he had always liked it long, since his earliest college days, and somehow had convinced the uptight scientists of the facility to let him keep it. It had always been him, his silhouette, wild and free. Maybe he was thinking about it too much.

But with it dragging at his scalp, disgusting and dirty, his mind fixated on it.

Gone.

He wanted it gone.

Tommy was back, an unusually pristine first aid kit in his hands. “I found this, Mr. Freeman! It--It’s not much, but it should help stop the--the bleeding.” He kneeled in front of Gordon, hands on the clasp of the kit.

“Tommy.” Gordon put his good hand on the other man’s shoulder, startling him enough that the first aid kit clattered the floor, splashing in the pool of Gordon’s blood.

“You have a knife, right?”

Tommy looked at him with concern. “Yes… why are-- why are you asking?”

“I need you to… to cut my hair off, Tommy. I need it off. Please.” He took his hand off Tommy’s shoulder, reaching back to grab the grimy mess and pull it forwards over his shoulder. “I need it gone.”

“But…” Tommy started, but Gordon leaned in suddenly.

“Gone!” He rasped. His arm was still bleeding, and it was messing with his head. Making him woozy. But all he could feel was the mats under his gloved hand, sticking to his scalp, his forehead, driving him insane.

Tommy still looked concerned, but conceded. “At least let me wrap your arm first, Mr. Freeman.” Gordon nodded, and leaned back again, letting go of his own hair and allowing Tommy to take his bleeding arm. He hissed at the burn of rubbing alcohol on the wound, Tommy murmuring soft apologies up until the stump was securely wrapped in medical gauze. Blood was already seeping through the bandaging, but it would have to do.

“Hair,” he said, and Tommy helped him turn in his spot on the floor, giving him access. He heard Tommy rustle in his pockets, and the small noise of a pocket knife unsheathing. His fingertips tickled the back of Gordon’s neck as he pulled his hair up into his hand.

“Are you-- are you really sure, Mr. Freeman?” He questioned again. Gordon made a small sound of affirmation, and finally there was the rough noise of a slice , and the tension releasing on the right side of his head felt like heaven.

Slice, slice, slice.

Gordon could tell it wasn’t easy cutting the matted mess, listening to Tommy struggle as he slid the knife against his long hair, hand occasionally brushing on his neck and making him shiver. More and more fell away, cold air hitting his head and neck in a way it hadn’t in a long time. It was like breathing for the first time. Like coming out of a cage.

There was one last quick slice, and the rest of the tension on his scalp was finally gone. He tilted his head down and over his shoulder, looking at the semicircle of hair fanning out around him on the floor and in Tommy’s lap. If Tommy cared about the mess, he didn’t show it, just quietly pocketing the knife and offering Gordon his hand to help him stand up.

“There’s a metal beam over--over there,” Tommy said, pointing. He helped Gordon walk over, holding the weaker man up, as he stared at the new man looking back.

His hair, once nearly going to his mid-back, now stopped just below his ears. It looked significantly less curly, uneven and hastily cut, and certainly still dirty with blood, but Gordon reveled in the image.

“...did I do-- I do-- I-- is it good?” Tommy asked nervously, watching his expression in the reflection.

Maybe it was the blood loss, or the stark change, or a strange mix of the two, but Gordon started laughing and crying at the same time. He turned and wrapped Tommy up as best he could with his one arm in a tight hug. “Yes, yes, it’s good. It’s good,” he repeated, tears streaming down to his wide smile. Tommy rubbed the back of his head comfortingly as he grieved and celebrated.

Whether he liked it or not, the old Gordon Freeman was gone.

He died as soon as that core went critical.

And here, supported by the only man he could trust, betrayed, arm missing, hair cut, forever changed, was Gordon Freeman.

Born anew.