Everything was awful and then it got a little bit better and now it's all much, much worse.
Ow.
Only, no, because ow doesn't even touch how badly he hurts right now, how far beyond pain this goes. It's just the cherry on top of a day like today, after a week like this week, and the longest November of Gordon's entire life. There's the temptation to call today a perfect storm, but Gordon knows enough about storms to know that each and every one of them is perfect in its own special way.
And there's nothing really all that special about today.
There's nothing new or unique or rare or unpredictable about being this tired, after a day like today. There's nothing but mundanity in all the death he's seen this week, numbers that climb up out of tragedy and into the territory of statistic. There's nothing out of the ordinary about another bad day in a month of bad days.
These are the things he'd think about, if he hadn't just cracked his skull off the marble tiles of Penelope's shower floor, hadn't halfway drowned himself, and hadn't just woken up shivering bodily and in the onset of hypothermia, with Penelope looking down at him, stricken and terrified.
So right now, all Gordon's really capable of getting a handle on is the fact that he's cold, and that the only point of warmth in the whole entire world is the hand that's clasping his shoulder, while his whole body shakes and his teeth start to chatter, in such a way that makes the pain in his head so much the worse. It seems to take an enormous amount of effort to lift his head and meet Parker's worried gaze.
"Easy, lad," Parker says softly, and then he says something else that sounds like it's coming from underwater, and then, "There now, let me have a look—" Blunt, calloused fingertips get hold of his jaw, tilt his head to the side, and Parker sucks a disapproving breath through his teeth, but his voice is chipper, falsely positive as he says, "H'ugly as sin, but not too bad. Looks a fright, though, gave 'er ladyship quite a scare. Can you sit tight a minute without keeling over?"
He doesn't think he can nod, but his teeth are chattering too badly to try and get words past them. He's sat at the edge of the plush divan in the corner of the bathroom, both his hands clinging to the edge of it, and he knows if he lets go, he'll fall again. Gordon's not sure if he'll get back up, if he falls again. So he manages to mumble something that hopefully sounds vaguely affirmative, and intends to stay put.
Parker's hand squeezes his shoulder and then carefully lets go, though he lingers for a few moments in the immediate vicinity, as though he hasn't taken Gordon at his word. Probably wise. "There now. Won't be a tick. You just stay right where you're put, Master Gordon."
Parker's boots splash across the bathroom floor, and Gordon closes his eyes against the brightness of white and gold, glaring at him off the sheen of water. The shivering hasn't stopped and he doesn't know if he's ever going to be warm again. When Parker comes and wraps a robe around his shoulders, it doesn't seem to make the barest bit of difference. When Parker presses a damp hand towel against his left temple, Gordon can see out the corner of his eye that it comes away bloody. When the older man curses softly and pulls him abruptly into a rough sort of hug, he realizes it's because he's just started crying again, and he's just the second person to catch on.
He's not sure why the hell that's happening. It's not like he's actually upset, his head just hurts.
He'd kind of prefer for Parker to go back to off the cuff insults and general disdain. That's what Parker's for, that's his function. It's not that Gordon thinks Parker doesn't care, it's just that he's not supposed to seem as though he does. It's kind of hard, when presented with a shoulder to cry on, not to default into crying on it.
Whatever Parker's for, there's no two ways around the fact that he's direct about achieving his aims. If Gordon were a little less out of it, he'd be impressed by the older man's efficiency. He might even have taken the time to say so.
Instead, he gets put to bed. Pen puts in an appearance for what seems like only a few moments, before Parker shoos her away and Gordon gets annoyed with him. There's a hazy stretch of time during which Parker is by turns kind and brusque, performing some fairly basic first-aid and a light scolding, and then helping Gordon dry off and providing him with a pair of pajamas. By the time he finds himself folded into a four-poster bed in one of the manor's many guest rooms, the sun's already going down outside. The room is all high ceilings and deep blue shadows, but the space is cast in red by the light of the sunset. Part of his brain automatically recites the rhyme that goes with the phenomneon—Red sky at night, sailor's delight.
So tomorrow should be better.
Except he doesn't think it will be.
But he doesn't want to think about that.
And he's spared from doing so, because Penelope's come back. It seems like for keeps this time, because the blankets on the other side of the bed get turned down, and there's the rustle of soft cotton sheets and the shuffle of her limbs as she slips beneath them. There's something odd about that, and it takes him a minute to remember just how early it still is.
It's kind of ridiculous, that she'd be here. It's not even properly nighttime yet. Penelope's a creature of darkness more than she is a creature of daylight. This is usually the part of the day where she really starts to come alive. Not that he's complaining. And not that he wants her to go, just that this isn't where she would be, if he hadn't come stumbling across her threshold, hauling all of his damage and also a not insubstantial quantity of Peruvian mudslide.
But she's here, anyway, regardless of where she might be otherwise.
And then her fingertips ghost gently across his lips and he realizes he hasn't opened his eyes.
When he does, the first thing he sees is just that she's crying. In an awful, silent way, with tears brimming in her eyes that fall loose when she blinks and trace along the paths where tears have fallen before, because she just can't help it. When Pen cries, at least in public, it's usually a tight, restrained little burst of theatrics. She'll tear up and then sniffle and then make a show of daubing at her eyes and taking a deep breath and mastering herself. Half the act of Penny showing emotion is in the pageantry of covering it up.
This is different. This is the sort of genuine, actual distress that Gordon's never actually seen from her before, but which represents the I'm sad because you're sad state of being that he tries so hard not to ever be the source of.
So there's nothing to do but reach out and pull her closer, not that she needs much more than the suggestion of an invitation before she nestles insistently against his chest, fits herself into the place where she belongs.
And usually she's the one with the icy hands and feet, but he's still cold through his core, and so she's warm and the weight of her against his aching torso is surprisingly more like comfort than it is like pain. And her hair still smells amazing as he tangles his fingers through it. She's changed out of her pretty dress and into something soft and smooth and yielding and probably still pretty, but he can't see it, can only feel the press of her body through it, which is better, anyway.
This is the part of the script where he tells her it's okay, wraps her up that much tighter and closer and revels in the privilege of being one of the only people in Penny's life to be permitted to see such a vulnerable side of her. Because it is a privilege, even if he can feel tears soaking through the fabric of his t-shirt, to be allowed this close. No one gets this close to Penny and he's lucky and he knows it, and the least he can do is try and make her feel better.
So it should be "Hey, it's okay, I'm okay" or "C'mon, Pen, don't cry". He should crack some stupid joke and get a watery giggle out of her, he should kiss her forehead and then her nose and just work his way down, give them both something else to think about. That's what he's supposed to do, that's what he's for.
Except—
It's a privilege to be here. He's lucky to be this close to her. And she's sad because he is, and they both know it, and keeping up the song and dance around pretending he's okay is exhausting. It's half the reason Gordon's landed here in the first place, literally and figuratively. There's a reason that Virgil had made a detour of a few thousand miles and dropped him off, left him in Penny's company, presumably with the hope that Pen would make everything better.
It was a bad day from the beginning and then it got worse, and he knows he isn't going to change the fact by lying or trying to pretend that anything else is true. So—
"I had a bad day." Quietly, like he's telling her some big secret, as though it's not obvious. As though she needs to be told, when obviously she doesn't, because she'd known from the first moment his boots had hit the ground, down from TB2's cockpit.
Penny nuzzles closer and sighs, and her voice is soft and sad when she says. "I know, darling."
She doesn't, actually. He hopes she never has to. He still can't help but repeat himself, in a voice that's smaller and more broken than he wants it to be, "I mean it was a really, really bad day."
She finds some way to cuddle even closer, presses a kiss against his throat and murmurs, "Dearheart, I can't even imagine."
He laughs at that, weakly, just the tiniest bit, because it's a reflex and because he sure as hell hopes not. He's peripherally aware of the fact that she keeps tabs on where he is in the world and what he's doing, but he hopes that she doesn't think about it too much. The less overlap there is between the worst parts of his job and her, the better. "Good. Don't try."
"If you wanted to talk about it..." She makes the suggestion gently, but trails off, seems to know better. "Later, maybe. You should sleep, my love. I think it would help."
She's probably right about that. As the warmth creeps in, he's less and less able to keep up anything like a conversation, starting to want nothing more than just to sleep. "M'tired." And his head hurts and he's still kinda cold, though between Pen and the heap of blankets he's been buried under, this is finally starting to ease.
"Of course you are. Shhh, darling. Sleep."
The red's still fading from the sky as he closes his eyes again, and he falls asleep with her fingertips brushing through his hair, and her hand holding his.
Maybe things will look better in the morning.