"Severance" Part Five
Fandom: Portal
Pairing: Cave/Caroline
Rating: T
Summary: Cave adjusts to life without his secretary.
Disclaimer: Portal and all associated characters belong to Valve. I just borrow them for my own sick pleasure.
Cave Johnson was absent from work for the next two days.
The facility’s weekend shift spent the time trying not to panic. After all, there was no reason to worry. Sure he hadn’t missed a day of work in years, and when he did it was always scheduled by Caroline weeks in advance-but he was the boss. If he needed time off, he could take it. He’d probably call in to explain any minute.
Any minute…
But noon on the first day came and went without a word, and people were getting anxious. Gossip traveled in hushed whispers-something was up, but no one knew what, and everyone was itching to find out. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he’d been assassinated. Maybe the company was in legal trouble, and he and Caroline had fled to South America. By the time that particular rumor made the rounds, Caroline was pregnant, Cave was hiding billions of embezzled company dollars in a secret offshore bank account, and they were both wanted for treason against the US government.
Things were getting out of hand.
In an uneasy meeting during their lunch break, Aperture’s department heads decided to do something. After some debate, they settled on what was obviously the most professional thing to do-drawing lots to decide who had to call Mr. Johnson’s house. The head of HR won. He was best for it, anyway, the others agreed-everybody knew how good he was with people. He promptly passed the job on to his assistant.
Looking around the conference table at the circle of executives, the luckless man wished he hadn’t shown up today either. He felt their eyes on him as he picked up the phone and slowly dialed the number. His hands shook.
Through the receiver he heard a ring on the other end. Then another. And another. The ringing continued unanswered for over a minute, and he thought with relief that maybe he wouldn’t have to talk to the boss after all-but just as he was about to give up, someone picked up the phone.
“Mr. Johns-”
CRASH.
A loud slamming noise from the other end, some indecipherable yelling in what they recognized as Mr. Johnson’s angry voice, and then the call suddenly cut off.
The assistant looked up from the phone at the gathered department heads, his face ashen. “I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.”
They decided not to call again that day.
Day two, and still no one had heard from the boss or his secretary. Their absence was starting to take its toll. Important callers expecting to speak with the CEO didn’t like being redirected to various executives, which caused more than a few heated arguments over the phone. Without Mr. Johnson’s pet secretary nipping at their heels, employee productivity took a nosedive. And nobody could get into the file room because Caroline had the only key.
The department heads gathered again over lunch, slightly more frazzled than the day before. Running the company by committee clearly wasn’t working-so they decided to make another call. A unanimous decision gave the task again to the head of HR’s hapless assistant. Watched intently by the gathered execs, he took a steadying breath and began to dial.
Rrrring. Rrrring. Rrrring. Rrrr-and then someone picked up, and Johnson’s raspy, tired voice answered the phone. “Yeah?”
It wasn’t his usual businesslike greeting, but it wasn’t incoherent shouting either. Hopefully that was a good sign. The assistant fought to keep his voice from shaking as he began, “M-mr. Johnson? This is Jim Parish.”
“Who?”
“Assistant to the head of HR, sir. I-I’m calling because you haven’t been at work.”
“So?”
“We, uh-we were worried.”
“Bullshit.”
At least that wasn’t a monosyllable. “There’s no one in charge here, sir. We at least need some kind of instructions.”
“Don’t blow anything up unless it’s part of a test. Keep testing. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“That’s good to hear, sir-”
“If there’s a scratch on that facility when I get back, you’re all fired.”
“I-”
Parish started to respond, but Cave hung up before the man could get a word out. He shot a glare at the phone. “Morons.” He was out of booze, he felt like shit, and he really didn’t need idiot employees whining at him this early in the morning. Never mind that it was after noon. He’d had a long couple of days.
The first thing he remembered after the fight was waking sprawled across the sofa in his office, miserably hungover, calling for Caroline and a goddamn aspirin. Of course, Caroline wasn’t there. Caroline was gone for good-and he couldn’t stand to be in that damn facility one more second. He’d dragged himself home in the grey predawn, flopped onto his bed, and slept away the morning, stirring only when roused by that first phone call. And he didn’t want to be disturbed. There was a dent in the table next to the phone from where he’d slammed the receiver against it.
For the rest of the day he’d paced around the house like a bear in a cage, getting more ornery and less coherent as his whiskey disappeared. What the hell right did she have to make him feel this way? Dumb broad. Dumb, cheating broad. Good riddance. His next secretary was gonna be even better, sexy and smart and loyal, unshakably loyal, and probably a better cook, too. Or maybe he should just get a man next time and skip all this bullshit. Women were crazy. Yeah, that was the problem-he had a woman doing a man’s job. This was his own fault for relying on a woman when women were unreliable. Fickle, overemotional, petty, and weak, that was women. The workplace was for men-save the girls for recreation. In fact, he had a mind to fire all the office girls so this never happened again. The men would thank him… Throw him a goddamn party…
Gradually, his thoughts got fuzzier and fuzzier. He didn’t remember passing out in bed.
He did remember the massive headache that greeted him when he awoke that morning, as it was still pounding in his head now. He’d staggered to his feet and gone immediately to his good friend Jack-but this bottle too was empty. It took him a long moment to process that only a dribble of amber liquid swished around the bottom. His first lucid thought of the morning was Well, shit.
Losing his coping mechanism shocked him into the harsh light of reality, as much as the harsh light itself on his sensitive retinas. He needed a fucking aspirin. He shambled to the bathroom to find one-and the sight that met his gaze in the medicine cabinet mirror was a shadow of a man. His eyes were bloodshot and squinting against the light, and bags of exhaustion hung heavy beneath them. His chin was rough with stubble, his hair was tousled, and a sickly pallor blanched his face. He was still wearing his rumpled shirt from three days ago.
He scratched his scalp and tried to open his eyes fully. I look like a goddamn homeless person.
The pills behind the mirror were a more welcome sight. He took two and chugged a glass of tap water after them, pulling a face at the stale morning-breath taste in his mouth. His tongue felt dry and thick. He swallowed hard, leaning heavily on the sink to steady himself, and at last worked up the nerve to brush his teeth. That helped somewhat. He spat out the toothpaste froth, swished a mouthful of water, spat again, and finally felt just human enough to swig another glass of water and drag himself back to bed.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but by the time the phone got him up again his headache had started to subside. Luckily for Mr. Parish. Now that he was up again, he thought as he noticed the pit stains under his arms, maybe it was time to get his act together. The CEO of the world’s best science company couldn’t go around looking like a homeless person. He kept telling himself that, fighting the overwhelming allure of the bed, until he finally worked up the motivation to head back to the bathroom. A quick splash of water served to wash his face-but god, he stank. No way was he getting out of a shower.
He stripped off his wrinkled, sweaty clothes, turned the hot water knob as far as it would go, and stepped into the steaming spray. His body slowly relaxed as the heat melted away his aches and pains. That felt nice. He scrubbed himself down with soap and let everything wash out of his mind except the warm water on his skin. He’d had hangovers worse than this. He could almost pretend he was recovering from a late night with his business associates-whiskey, cigars, and a good bull session. Yeah. Maybe when he got out of the shower breakfast would be waiting for him.
Of course, he knew that wouldn’t happen. Nobody to cook for him now. Not like that was a problem-he could get girls with a snap of his fingers. It was about time he got back in the game, anyway. He was Cave Johnson, babe magnet, the number one prize for young starlets and supermodels everywhere-depriving the female population of that was a crime. And yet, trying to think back, he couldn’t remember where he’d left his little black book. It was ages since he’d needed it. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last girl he’d fooled around with before his secretary. All those women to choose from, and he hadn’t had another one in… years…
The realization felt strange. How long, five years? Longer? In all that time, he hadn’t held or kissed anyone but her. He hadn’t taken anyone else out for dinner or dancing, or curled up beside anyone else in bed. He’d slept alone, of course, but only on business trips-and he always had her waiting for him. Unfamiliar hotel beds seemed less cold when he thought of her. It was nice, somehow, that no matter how far apart they were she was thinking of him too.
‘Course she wasn’t thinking about him now. She was with her friend Wolfe at her fancy new job. Drinking champagne in some fancy executive lounge-built with money from his stolen inventions-laughing and talking with her new bosses, hanging on some other guy’s arm. No, she didn’t need ol’ Cave anymore.
The sick, sinking sensation in his stomach didn’t feel like part of the hangover.
Suddenly the warm water wasn’t so relaxing. He finished quickly and shook himself as he stepped out onto the bathroom floor. A large towel dried him off, and then wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror so he could peer inside-the man peering back now looked half-alive, at least. Still a little tired, but more alert than before. And that stubble was rather manly, in a rugged, not-homeless sort of way.
He ran his fingers through his hair. Cave, you still got it. Bet the ladies have missed you. He could get any woman he wanted, no problem. They’d be lucky to have his attention. They’d be falling at his feet, just like old times. Handsome devil. He carefully ignored the threads of grey around his temples.
Yeah, he didn’t need her. That cheating, lying slut did nothing but hold him down. He was Cave Johnson, CEO of Aperture Science-Cave Johnson, science maverick, the greatest innovator in the world-Cave goddamn Johnson! Cave Johnson could do any damn thing he wanted, without some broad to hold his hand! Right? He threw his head back and stuck out his chest in the mirror. Right!
It was time for a fresh start. New secretary, new system-this was an opportunity to make Aperture better than ever. How long had he kept that woman, five years? Ten? He should’ve swapped her for a new model ages ago. Time to get off his ass, quit feeling sorry for himself-not that he had anything to feel sorry about-and get back to doing science. Maybe he wouldn’t wait until tomorrow to go in to the office. The sooner he got back on the ball the better.
He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone.
As the thought crossed his mind again, the sinking feeling in his stomach got worse, turning to a dull ache deep in his gut. He ran his hands through his hair again, then rubbed his eyes in exhaustion as he let his head fall. Maybe he wasn’t quite up to the office yet.
“GINA!”
The temp cringed. Mr. Johnson was back, after two whole days away, and she fervently wished he’d take the rest of the week off. The man was worse than ever. She didn’t know what the hell happened over the weekend-assuming those crazy rumors about the FBI weren’t true-but whatever it was had him taking out his frustrations on anybody within shouting distance. Everything was late, everyone was wrong, and she had to hear her name bawled down the hallway every ten minutes.
“GET THE HELL IN HERE!”
“Coming!” she shouted back, and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. Cave Johnson, world’s biggest pain in the ass.
Poking her head into his office, she found him behind his desk, head in one hand, drumming his fingers with the other. He looked up as she entered. “Where the hell were you? And why are this weekend’s messages not on my desk?”
Her teeth grit against a sharp retort. “I went to the ladies’ room.”
“Are we taking calls in there?”
“Sir-”
“I don’t wanna hear it, just get ‘em in here on the double. And get me a cuppa coffee.”
“Y-”
“Now.”
She took her cue and retreated. God, I should get paid extra for this. A few extra dollars an hour when Mr. J. was in a mood would make him a lot more bearable, mostly because it would add at least a hundred dollars a week to her paycheck. It would never happen, of course, but a girl could dream.
The notepad with the weekend’s messages was on her desk-or she thought it was. A minute of hunting through piles of paper turned up nothing. Shit. She scrunched her face up in concentration, trying to remember where she’d put it… Oh, he was gonna kill her if she didn’t get back in there soon…
And then she had it. File cabinet! She dove to the bottom drawer, rooted through the mound of unsorted files at the bottom-and there it was. Notepad. She grabbed it and darted back into his office. “Here you go!”
“’Bout time.” He yanked it out of her hands and started leafing through. She grinned with relief-but the grin turned nervous as his face turned dark. He let out a growl. “The hell is this?”
“The messages you asked for.”
“D’you think this is funny?”
“Sir?”
He threw the pad down and fixed her with a furious glare. “I asked for new messages, not shit from a month ago. Got that?”
Glancing at the pages, she realized that the handwriting on them wasn’t her own. Shit! “I-I’m so-”
“So get the damn messages!”
“Yes sir-”
“Now!”
And she darted away again. Where the hell was that pad? She hunted frantically through the file cabinet again, then checked the drawers of her desk-and there it was, in the small top drawer under the phone. She allowed herself a sigh of relief as she snatched it up, making sure to check that it was the right one before venturing back in. “Found it!” She plunked it on the desk in front of him. Let him yell at her now.
He grabbed it with a wordless growl, checked it over as she held her breath, and after a moment dropped it in grudging acceptance. She grinned again- “Now where’s my coffee?”
“What?”
“Coffee, woman, I told you to get me a goddamn coffee!” His voice rose dangerously.
“Sorry! Be right back!”
“You better be!”
She shut the door hard, cutting off his shout behind her. “Asshole.” Who does he think he is? she mentally grumbled as she stormed to the coffee machine. He owned the company, not the world. It was seriously tempting to sneeze in his drink. She thought about it, eyeing the cup as it filled under the machine’s plastic spigot-but she needed to keep this job. She needed the money. She just had to keep telling herself that, before she snapped his stubborn neck. A steadying breath helped settle her nerves before she ventured back in again. “Here’s your coffee. Sir.”
He was staring intently at the notepad-the first one, not the one he’d wanted. Strange. His expression settled into a glower as he noticed her, and he growled a gruff “Finally” at her as he snatched the cup. He turned back to the notes as he took the first sip-and spluttered wetly as he spat it out again. “Aagh!”
“Sir?”
“You trying to make me sick? The hell is that?”
“Coffee?”
“This is not coffee. This is shit.” He plunked the cup onto his desk, sloshing thin brown liquid over the rim, and rounded on her. “What the hell do I have to do for a drink around here? I haven’t had a decent coffee in over a week! I’m not too happy about that!”
“I can see that, sir-”
“So why don’t you get me a cup of goddamn coffee?”
“I did!” Her voice rose to match his dangerous volume as she felt her nerves fraying to the breaking point. “I’m sorry sir, but-”
“Did I fucking ask if you were sorry?”
Oh, that did it. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a goddamn idiot, and this is shit!”
“It’s the best you’re gonna get!”
His face went beet red with fury. “Now you listen to me-”
But she was too far gone to care. “No, you listen to me, you jerk! I’m sick of this! I’m done! You can get your own damn coffee, ‘cause I QUIT!”
“THEN GET THE HELL OUT!”
“FINE!” And Gina Mancini got the hell out, slamming the door behind her.
“And don’t come back!” Cave shouted after her, determined to have the last word. Good fucking riddance. That damn temp wasn’t worth the trouble-always misplacing files and forgetting appointments, not to mention the fact that she couldn’t take dictation to save her life. And she was never around when he needed her. And she wore too much rouge. He should’ve fired her days ago. He set aside her watery excuse for coffee and turned back to the weekend’s messages, determined to get back to work.
But it was the first notepad, not the second, that stole his attention. He picked it up again, eyes tracing the neat, feminine script that covered the page. Nobody who wrote that fast should have handwriting that pretty. Her pretty words covered the page, not in messages from phone calls, but in her miscellaneous notes from the day. Much of it he recognized as stuff he’d said himself, with her own little notations out beside. In the bottom corner was a neatly squared-off section for her personal lists and reminders-Return library books. New Asimov book, View from a Height. Read Oct. Scientific American! Then a grocery list, ending in the words Experiment with nutmeg, and beside that a note: Logo tie for meeting with Harrison. He’ll want it. And he had wanted it, he remembered-his Aperture tie gave him a little extra confidence boost, and that meeting was important. She’d known to have it ready for him before he even asked.
And now she was trotting at the heels of some stuffed shirt at Black Mesa, her pen skating over another notepad as she took down the words of some other guy. That sinking feeling gripped his stomach again.
But he had other stuff to worry about. He pushed her out of his head and busied himself with the paperwork on his desk. Without-someone-to help him through it, it was really starting to pile up, and he’d never finish if he didn’t start somewhere. He grabbed a random stack of what looked like financial reports and began to skim. Everything looked in order so far, except… Wait a minute… Shit. The goddamn physicists overspent their budget again. He flipped to their expenses page and let out a growl of frustration. Which idiot thought it was a good idea to order six hundred trampolines? They had Repulsion Gel! They shouldn’t even need one trampoline! If he couldn’t get a full refund it meant they were over budget for the month, which meant having Accounting fiddle with next month’s numbers, which meant checking it over and redoing it himself after they screwed it up… He squeezed the bridge of his nose against an oncoming stress headache. He was a busy man, dammit. He didn’t have time for this. How had he managed it all before?
He knew exactly how, but he shoved the thought away. Cave Johnson did not need a damn assistant to do his job. He could do this. He’d done it for years! Hell, he’d been the best businessman America had ever seen when she was still in grade school. No doe-eyed kid was gonna keep him from doing his science.
I’m not gonna let her win this.
Finally feeling the adrenaline buzz of angry motivation, he ripped open the top drawer of his desk and threw her notepad inside. The thing it landed next to caught his eye-a wadded square of red and white cloth. He ripped it from the drawer with a snarl. He wanted to shred it. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to drop it down the deepest mine shaft where it would never remind him of her again.
Clutching the scarf in a shaking fist, he stroked its silky softness between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, and then tucked it safely in his pocket.
On the way home that night, he drove by the Golden Touch, a gentlemen’s club that used to be a favorite haunt of his. These days he only came by every once in a while, when associates suggested it for business meetings-he’d stopped frequenting the place years ago. He pulled up outside and stared at the windowless building with its heavy wooden double doors, the gilt sign above them beckoning in the dark.
It was time to move on, and as experience had taught him, the best way to forget a broad was with another broad. He thought of the luxurious main room, the rich wood of the bar, the cigar smoke hanging heavy in the air-and the girls onstage gyrating slowly to seductive jazz, their supple bodies inviting imagination in the dim light. Any one of them would love to show him a good time. And Cave Johnson could have the pick of the litter. Find an anonymous girl with huge perky tits and hips like a hooker, maybe go back to the VIP lounge, order a bottle of champagne, get friendly… The thought should’ve excited him.
He felt empty inside, and a little bit sick.
Wiping his mind blank, he pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, not realizing that his fingers twined idly around the square of soft material in his pocket.
At last he made it back home. His dark, silent house greeted him coldly-two more bottles of Jack from the liquor store should’ve kept him company, but he finished barely half of the first before dragging himself off to bed. And yet he couldn’t sleep.
Too exhausted to think and not drunk enough to pass out, he lay awake long into the night, staring at the bare pillow beside him. His mind felt completely drained. At last, moving like a robot, he rose from the bed and went to where he’d slung his jacket over a chair-the scarf was still in his inside pocket. He drew it out, fingered it, pressed it to his lips, and felt himself flooded by calm as her scent overwhelmed him.
Goodnight, Caroline.
As the grey light of predawn peeped in through his window, Cave Johnson fell asleep at last. His secretary’s scarf lay snuggled against his cheek.
A thousand miles away, in a plush Black Mesa executive office, Caroline leaned on a mahogany desk and lit a cigarette.
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
PART 5
PART 6
PART 7
EPILOGUE: Coming Soon