A/N: This one's premise is so unlikely that I consider it a what-if fic - but the what-if is so interesting that I couldn't help but explore it. I'm still working on the WIPs I've posted already, in addition to a pile of half-finished fics I'll get to sometime, but this one nagged at me until I got enough down to post.

So here it is. What if Caroline quit?

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She woke before dawn to a cold, lonely unease in the back of her mind. It followed her as she rolled over and slid out of bed, padded to the bathroom on bare feet, and twisted the knob of the shower. As the room filled with steam, she let her nightgown fall to the ground and stepped into the spray. It wasn't until warm water on her skin brought her to full consciousness that she registered what the empty feeling was.

Her boss wasn't there.

She didn't need to get up early today, because she didn't have a job anymore.

The thought made her stomach twist. What the hell was I thinking last night? It was a boiling-over of things she'd been thinking for a long time, of course, but last night something had sent her over the edge—one minute they were talking calmly, and the next she was attempting to talk calmly as he roared and raged that she was a science-hating traitor—

"I'm sorry, sir. I need to do what's best for me."

"Like hell, best for you! This company is best for you!"

"No, sir, it isn't."

"Well that's fine! That's FINE, Caroline! You prance your perky ass off to Black Mesa if that's what you want!"

"Sir—"

"I don't wanna hear it! You're not gonna quit, 'cause you are FIRED, missy! D'you hear me? FIRED!"

"Sir—!"

"I want you gone, you little bitch! Clean out your desk and get the hell out of my building!"

"But—"

"NOW!"

And she'd fled, barely suppressing her tears, not even stopping to grab her few personal belongings from her desk on the way out. And here she was. At home, alone, when she should be doing science.

She felt a lump in her throat brought on by the memory. Resting her head on the cool tile wall of the shower, she allowed herself a few deep, hitching breaths—but the tears didn't follow. That was a good sign. Probably.

The shower provided an adequate distraction. She let her mind go blank as she lathered and rinsed, focusing on the warm water flowing down her skin, letting it drive away her thoughts. When she was finished she wrung the water from her long hair and stepped out—only to catch sight of herself in the bathroom mirror.

That made her pause. She looked her bare form over critically—a little too curvy, a little too tall, heavy breasts and thick thighs, sallow skin, an unfortunate nose… But he had never minded those things. "Gorgeous, kiddo. Pretty as a postcard." He knew every inch of her body as well as she did. And he would never see it again.

She got the feeling that if he didn't, no one would. Only Mr. Johnson had ever seen her like this. Only Mr. Johnson laid claim to her body with eager hands and hungry kisses, on her mouth or anywhere—everywhere—else. Only Mr. Johnson knew what it was to slip into the deepest recesses of her, to make her whimper and moan and howl his name, and afterwards to fall asleep with her snuggled in his arms. She would miss snuggling in his arms.

It wasn't that she didn't care for him. She did—more than anyone she'd ever met. The thought of leaving made her stomach twist. It wasn't easy to say goodbye to the strength of his embrace, the easy confidence of his laugh, the warmth in his rough voice as he said "That's my girl"—usually accompanied by a pat on the head or a swat on the rump—

But that was why she had to go. That patronizing attitude. She simply couldn't take it anymore. She was a grown woman now, not the naïve girl he'd taken a shine to in her job interview all those years ago—and superior or not, he had no right to use her like a plaything and treat her like a child. For twelve years she'd obeyed his every command, and for twelve years he'd taken her for granted every damn day.

Well. Let him try taking her for granted now.

She felt a pang of near-regret at the thought. He'd taken advantage of her, yes, but he'd relied on her too. The company relied on her. Without her there—who would file the paperwork? Nobody in that place could file properly; her carefully-organized system would be a mess in a matter of hours. And who would take calls? Mr. Johnson could never be trusted in charge of his own phone. He'd get bored, he'd ignore it, he'd give flippant and insulting answers to callers who caught him in an off mood, even if they were important—she'd learned very quickly that filtering the CEO's calls was a lot more essential than she first thought. And what about the million other things she took care of? Organizing his schedule, sorting through proposals so he didn't have to read the boring ones, monitoring inventory so they had enough of the essentials (and she just knew the lab boys would seize the opportunity to order six hundred trampolines again), double- and triple-checking the numbers from Accounting, doing damage control to prevent potential lawsuits—and the tests! Oh god, who would keep track of the tests? The Enrichment Center would shake itself to pieces without her—she had to get back right away—

She bolted out the bathroom door and started to snatch an outfit from her closet when something stopped her. Maybe Aperture was flailing like a headless snake without her—but maybe it wasn't. Aperture Science was a multimillion-dollar corporation with thousands of employees. How would the absence of just one make any impact at all? It had been going strong for five years before she came to work there. She wanted the best for the company, of course… but if it could be successful without her, it meant she wasn't really necessary at all. It meant she was replaceable.

Aperture would be just fine without her. After all, she was only a secretary.

Very slowly, she hung the clothes back in her closet. This didn't feel like a getting dressed sort of day. She sank to the bed and curled up on her side—it felt large and empty without him. Her mind wandered to the times—very few, but cherished—when they would both call in sick and spend the day together. Sometimes they'd go out to lunch at a cozy café, or dinner at an upscale restaurant, or a movie at the drive-in once the sun went down, or dancing. Sometimes they'd stay in all day and do nothing but make love and talk. She always ended up with pages and pages of ideas in her notebook by the next morning—somehow those days felt as productive as any in the office.

She felt a smile start to tug at her lips. Those mid-coitus brainstorming sessions, with her bent over and scribbling notes as he took her from behind, until neither of them could form words and she lost control of the pencil… He always said that sex helped his creative process. And they did come up with some brilliant ideas while naked together in the sweat-smelling sheets. His voice echoed through her mind, growling affectionately, "C'mere, you little genius…"

I'll never hear him say that again.

The thought ripped a hole in the pit of her stomach. She curled in on herself with a whimper, fighting down the tears that accompanied the very physical pain. Stop it. I made the right decision. I'm not going to cry.

Didn't she deserve a few tears, though? He was part of her life for twelve years. He was the biggest part. He was her boss, her mentor, her lover—

Stop it. He was awful for you.

But he loved me.

He treated you like chattel.

But I loved him too.

She squeezed her eyes shut. No tears. Do you think he's blubbering like a baby right now? No. He was probably doing just fine. He probably didn't even miss her—after all, he'd been a successful man of science when she was still a teenager. He could manage without her. Easily. Maybe he'd even find someone smarter and prettier and more efficient to take her place—

STOP. Wallowing in self-pity isn't helping anything. You did this to yourself. You made the right choice. Stop moping and do something useful.

She sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed, but made it no further. What was there to do? No filing, no note-taking, no meetings to organize or calls to make—for the first time in twelve years she wasn't doing science. She was going to miss doing science.

Pretty soon she'd have to look for another job.

It was not exactly a pleasant thought, but she'd have to face it eventually—she only had so much extra money squirreled away, after all, and she would have to eat. She could always try another applied sciences company, but after Aperture anything would be a step down. Maybe a research lab, or a medical center? Or—well—there was always Black Mesa…

No. She quashed the thought immediately. Maybe getting away from Aperture was the best thing for her, but she would never betray the company like that. Not ever. Not even if he'd accused her of it already—as if she could deliberately work to sabotage the company she'd poured her heart and soul into all these years. As if she could go behind the back of the man she lo—

Another lump rose in her throat. She felt almost frustrated by it. If she was going to get choked up every time she thought of him, she wasn't going to get far. She'd get over it soon—she just had to keep telling herself that. This was only the transition period. In a few months she'd have a new job, and a new boss, and maybe even a man—one who loved her more than science.

The thought should've eased the dull ache in her chest. It didn't.

God, I'm hopeless. She flopped back onto the bed. She'd slept alone in this bed plenty of times—she could do it again. Forget that they'd spent nearly every night together since that first perfect kiss. Forget that she'd worked at his side every day for the last twelve years. Forget that he was more important to her than she'd ever imagined a person could be…

She looked away, trying to derail her trail of thought—and her eyes fell on a wadded-up black something lying on the floor. She picked it up warily, half-knowing and dreading what it was, and clenched her fingers in the fabric as she recognized it. It was one of his sweaters.

She threw it aside as if it burned to touch. She couldn't deal with it, not yet, not now, not before the smell of him had even left her sheets—

And then it was back in her hands, and her nose dove into it, breathing his musky scent like she would suffocate without it. The too-familiar smell brought tears to her eyes at last. A deep sob shook her body as she squeezed them shut, but she couldn't tear the sweater away. A wrenching agony gripped her belly, screaming at her that she'd made a horrible mistake—but she knew it wasn't a mistake, and that hurt most of all.

Her face still buried in the soft fabric, she curled up on the bed and cried.