When Wheatley steps out of his bedroom with bleary eyes and flannel pajamas, he starts to think he's dreaming.
The den has been completely transformed from the night before. Everything is dressed up with generous stretches of tinsel and small festive carvings. Two candles sit on the coffee table at the room's center, thick twin columns of crimson and emerald wax, spindly wicks burning with drops of flickering flame. The soft pine tucked into the nearest corner by the windowsill winks with spirals of golden glittering lights. Something faint and sweet permeates the air; some sort of pastry, perhaps, though he can't be sure.
Wheatley has lived through decades upon decades of Christmases. To say that none of them have been quite like this would be… well, a severe understatement, if he's perfectly honest. While it's true that he has the whole no-longer-a-robot thing to thank for that—gratitude to the Great Maniacal Godface; let no one say he won't give credit where credit is due—it's also true that his previous holidays haven't exactly been spent with anyone other than entire metaphorical (and literal) warehouses of flipping vegetables.
As far as he's concerned, sharing a flat with another living human on the surface is rather good as far as improvements go.
Lifting his glasses and rubbing an eye with his thumb, he follows the sweet scent of batter and sugar into the kitchen. He finds Chell leaning against the counter by the oven, holding a large bowl with some sort of thick mixture in the crook of her arm. Hair pulled up and clad in lavender bedclothes, she works a whisk with her wrist and keeps a soft focus on the digital timer on the stove's front. Miniature figures of Saint Nick and his reindeer accompany her on the snowy expanse of kitchen countertop at her back. On top of the fridge (he's not even sure how she's managed to reach that; she's so small), a silvern cluster of angels poise in silent song, elegant wings spread open.
"Been awful busy this morning, now haven't you?" Wheatley draws up beside her with a yawn, tucking himself between her and the cabinets. "Honestly, I'm afraid to ask when you got up. I mean, the whole place is decorated now. Must've been extremely early from the looks of it. Put lots of detail in. You know, I didn't even think you kept decorations. Little knickknacks and all that. Uh, tiny ornaments. Glass things. Shiny stuff. You understand. Just had you figured for the no-nonsense sort, that's all. Not too big on the whole holiday spirit thing."
When he notices her give a pointed side glance from the corner of her eye, something sinks along his ribs and he forces a hard swallow. It hasn't been too terribly long since Chell took him in, but with body language being one of her primary forms of communication, Wheatley has learned to recognize her expressions over the months. He knows that look: it's one of those she's reserved for occasions when he's said something particularly insensitive.
"Ah, not that I mind the decorations," he amends, plucking one of the reindeer from the counter for emphasis. The wooden carving is almost soft under the pads of his fingers; the brown paint is worn and fades into the wood's natural lightness around the hooves. "Just wanted to make that clear, all right? Definitely do not mind. At all. Looks rather nice, actually. Very much liked the candles. Nice touch, I think. Lights're nice as well. Very lovely. Very festive. Makes a good atmosphere in my opinion."
Chell says nothing. Instead, she concentrates on the texture and thickness of the batter, teeth rolling onto her lower lip. Her lack of response doesn't necessarily surprise him; from their time together, he knows that she is a very logical and methodical person, and he also knows that everything she does is with precision and purpose. However, with strands of loose hair by her temples and a small fleck of batter by her cheek—whether she'd decided to have a taste or whether it's simply a product of some sort of whisking crossfire, he's not sure—she has a disheveled yet pleasant appearance, and it stirs a palpable warmth behind his breastbone.
"So, um, thanks for decorating," says Wheatley, toying with the reindeer between his fingers. "It's really… it really is nice. I appreciate it. I do. Makes things a bit less dull, I think." Before she can react, he hastily adds, "Not that this is dull! Because it's not. I didn't really mean it like that. Nothing's dull with you. You make things the opposite of dull, actually. I just meant, well, you know—ah, come to think of it, maybe you don't know. Not sure how long you were back there… Must've been a while, though. Don't remember what your little room said. I'm sure it was a long time, at any rate."
Wheatley places the carving back on the countertop, nudging it line with the rest of the other painted miniatures. Chell has slowed her whisking, he notes, although her eyes are still focused on the sweet-smelling contents of the mixing bowl.
"Anyway," he continues, rubbing his fingers along his knuckles, "Christmas wasn't really… Right, well, to put it one way, it wasn't the most festive of holidays there. Most likely because everyone was dead. Or, uh, sleeping. Mostly dead. I mean, I didn't have arms, or… or hands. Or legs. Not like I could go around hanging ornaments or anything. And She wasn't in a state to set up knickknacks, either. Not that She would. I can't see Her doing that, if I'm honest. She'd be more like to use 'em for turret target practice or something, and their aim is already spot on, you know, so it would be sort of pointless."
Chell pauses and inspects her progress. Seeming satisfied with the consistency of the batter, she places the bowl on the counter by the stove. With a thin smile, she turns to him and raises a finger, hold on, and then promptly strides out of the kitchen, the cuffs of her pajama bottoms brushing against the linoleum floor.
"Hey, wait," he calls, "where you popping off to?" But she's already out of the room; if she can hear, she doesn't bother to reply.
With a shrug, Wheatley shifts his attention to the oven. Equal parts drowsy and puzzled, he indulges his curiosity (and the familiar emptiness that's begun to root in his stomach) and peers inside. A wave of heat envelops his nose as he pulls back the door, and when he squints through the fog on his lenses, he thinks he can discern the blotted shapes of cookies atop a smooth baking sheet. Chocolate chip, he thinks; they don't smell like peanut butter. Well, at least he doesn't think so. Not that he's an expert on smells or anything.
Chell returns a few moments later, a brightly colored package of a generous width nestled between her arms. Its wrapping is a vivid red speckled with aurum flecks, a gold-sheened ribbon fastened on top. She approaches him slow footsteps and a downcast gaze, wisps of dark hair framing her temples—a countenance that seems almost shy—and she holds it out for him to see.
"Well, this is nicely done, now isn't it?" says Wheatley. With one hand, he sketches his fingers over the paper, inspecting its rectangular shape. "I mean, really, you've got some quality stuff right here. Proper color scheme, shiny bow. Not like I'm some sort of judge on things like this or anything, but I think it's lovely."
With a curve pinching at the side of her mouth, Chell presses the side of the gift against his belly. The wrapping makes soft crinkling sounds as it shifts along the flannel of his shirt.
"Oh." Wheatley blinks, trying to parse the gesture's meaning. Realization sinks in after a moment or two, oh, and the pulse in his neck skips once too many. "That's… that's for me then?"
She nods, nudging it closer.
"I, uh, well, I don't… don't really know what to say, if I'm honest. Wasn't really expecting anything. Not like this." His face grows hot under her steady gaze, flourishing into a somewhat pleasant smoulder. Warmth curls up inside his chest and swells right by his lungs. Flexing his hands, he reaches down to settle them on the present's sides. "I'm supposed to open it, yeah?"
Chell nods again in reply.
Gingerly, he tears open the wrapping with curious fingertips. Pieces of shorn paper float to the floor in a leisurely waltz. Underneath it all is a thin, white, rectangular box. Chell runs her hand along the underside of it, and then peels back a translucent strip of tape. She lifts one end of the box's lid with her finger, coaxing him to do the rest.
Wheatley does, and as the top comes off, it takes a moment for him to realize exactly what he's looking at. Inside, there is a carefully folded piece of clothing amongst crisp sheets of delicate tissue paper. He digs a hand into the dark blue fabric and pulls it out to have a better look.
"It's a jumper," he remarks, eyeing the garment with a degree of awe. More of it spills out of the box and unfurls toward his knees. "A bloody long jumper."
The material is soft against his skin, he notes, and there are wisps of silver patterns among the background of solid cobalt; snowflakes, he supposes. When he glances back into the box, there is a small note sitting at its bottom. Shifting the sweater into the bend of his arm, he picks it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"'Hope it fits,'" he reads, squinting at the curvy script. "'Had your measurements in mind. Merry Christmas.'" Wheatley looks down at her, bewildered. "Sorry, you measured me? What? When? I don't remember any measuring. Sort of an involved process, measuring—you'd think I would've noticed or something."
Chell grins, the light from the window molding shapes of shadow along the contours of her face. Her brown skin holds a gorgeous glow under the filtered sunbeams, he finds, and Wheatley becomes very aware of just how hard his heart is beating beneath the ladder of his ribs.
"Ah, now that I think about it, that doesn't really matter, does it?" he mutters, placing the note and the box onto the counter. Glancing at the note once again, he can feel burning heat as it flushes his cheeks and the tips of ears. Perhaps flannel pajamas were a poor choice in the grand scheme of things. "Well, uh, let's have a look, shall we?"
His shirt is rather thick, so it takes a bit of wriggling, but Wheatley manages to pull it over his head and down his belly without too much trouble. To his pleasure, the end of the sweater and the cuffs of the sleeves end right where they should: they're not too long, which isn't much of a surprise, but they're not too short, which very much is.
"This is brilliant," he says, admiring the length. The edge of it settles right around his hips; a good, comfortable place for an end, he decides. "Where did you even find this? We've been all over bloody town and there's only a couple stores that've got clothes that fit. Doesn't seem like something out of one of those, either. This is amazing."
Seeming pleased with his reaction, Chell draws close and rubs the end of his left sleeve between her fingers, as if assessing the softness of the fabric. With a quiet sound in her throat, she then moves to the underside of his wrist, his lifelines, his palm, gently touching with a feathery lightness.
"Ah, what're you doing?" asks Wheatley, finding it rather difficult to swallow. The pads of her fingers spark something through the webs of his nerves and jolt up the length of his arm in tender shocks. "I-I mean not that I mind or anything. This is—this is nice. Enjoyable. Rather pleasant. I, uh, you feel—you feel pretty… pretty good, actually."
Tracing the inner spaces of his knuckles, she clasps her hand with his. The pressure sinks through his bones, warm and gripping, and he decides that his new sweater is quite excellent at its job because he's starting to feel uncomfortably hot.
"Um, suppose I ought to thank you," says Wheatley. His thumb strokes at her skin in absent movements, though he's not sure why. "So, uh, thank you. For the jumper. And—well, for everything, come to think of it. You've… you've done a lot, you know. For me, that is. Probably more than I deserve. A lot more. A lot a lot more. And I'm… I'm grateful. Really. I am."
With a nod, she smiles in the warmth of the morning light and acknowledges his admission. That tiny blot of batter is still on her cheek, he notes, and there is a firm compulsion rooted by the knot of his heart to reach out and mop it away with a willowy finger.
"You, uh, you got something there, you know," says Wheatley, mirroring the location of the blemish on his own face with a gentle prod.
Chell's brow knits. With her free hand, she ghosts over to where he gestured along the side of her cheek, but she doesn't catch anything, and so she frowns at her spotless palm in puzzlement.
"Ha, no, nope, sorry, you missed it." A low chuckle stirs in his chest at her expense, though the amused look she gives him suggests she doesn't mind. "It's right there, love. No, to the right. Er, left. My left. Your left? Just—no, here, hang on, let me."
Batting her hand to the side, he leans down and brushes his thumb across her skin. After wiping away the offending speck, he holds up for her to inspect.
"See?" he says. "Just a smatter."
Wheatley then presses it between his lips and licks it clean. Grainy yet sweet, he swirls the mix on his tongue—definitely chocolate chip, he decides after a moment or two—and his mouth begins to water in anticipation of more. The scent from the oven is almost heavenly; the batch that's still baking should be done soon, right?
It's then that he realizes just how close Chell has drawn, and something catches in the back of his throat. Her hand has somehow migrated from his own to the small of his back, bunched in the material of his sweater, and she's brought herself flush with his chest. Everything seems too hot: his clothes, the air, the oven, her skin. His heart pumps feverishly in the space by his lungs, a drumming rhythm on the undersides of his ribs, and he finds that keeping himself steady is far more difficult than it should; shivers climb up his wrists and ripple into the tendons of his hands, shuddering against the curve of her spine as his arms encompass her.
Wheatley has words for nearly any occasion. He discovers that this is not one of them.
He resorts to drawing delicate patterns along the vertebrae of her backbone. His trimmed nails trace indiscernible scribbles and nonsense in circular loops and intersecting starbursts. There are a lot of things he should say, he supposes, things like I'm sorry and I was monstrous and I do not deserve this and holidays are better with you, but there is a knotted mass somewhere above his adam's apple and he can't swallow and she's intoxicatingly close, and so he continues to sketch fractured pieces into the fabric of her nightshirt in hopes that she might extrapolate his thoughts through osmosis.
The kitchen timer goes off with a series of sharp chirrups, but Chell doesn't seem to notice. Her hands have hooked themselves around him quite snugly, and he enjoys the pressure of her head resting just beneath his sternum. He has to pat her back a few times before she recognizes that her attention is required elsewhere and pulls away.
As she retrieves a pair of oven mitts and tends to the sheet inside the oven, Wheatley lingers in place, stunned and unmoving. His hand bunches into the material of the sweater where her residual warmth has soaked in, and it feels like he's wading through a mass of fog as he attempts to process what's happened. They've shared a number of hugs in the past, mainly for comfort or assuaging nightmares or the like, so it's not as if this is any different.
It sure feels like it, though.
Chell sets the cookies on top of a rack to cool. Another baking sheet has been left out for the next batch, and she starts to reach for the mixing bowl that she left on the counter, but she pauses mid-reach to offer him a questioning look.
"Ha, sorry," he says, running his fingers through his thick brown hair. "I'm fine. Really, I'm good. Perfectly fine. Just, uh, a bit dazed. You know, from hunger. Haven't eaten anything. Well, aside from that bit on y—actually, never mind. Don't think that counts. Was really small. Too small. Hardly worth mentioning. Still, point remains: haven't eaten. You understand."
Something soft crosses her countenance, although what he can't be sure. From the smoothness across her brow and the slight curve of her mouth—fondness, perhaps? If he's honest, he would rather like that. He would like it a lot. Prefer it, actually. It's not been ages or anything, but he hopes she's somewhat fond of him after the time they've spent together. She did let him stay here, after all. And she did decorate.
And she did give him a gift.
Biting at his lower lip, Wheatley draws up to her with tentative steps. Chell is spooning out the batter onto the sheet in little dollops, curling her finger into the curve of the spoon to scoop out the lingering pieces. She's only just started, but each drop is roughly equal in shape and size, which only contributes to the practical precision he's known her for. His heart in his throat, he grabs another spoon from the drawer and joins her. When she arches an eyebrow at him, he offers a nervous grin.
"Ah, figured I'd help," he says, rolling a ball of cookie mix into the spoon. "I'm not much use around here as it is. Didn't even get you anything, which I feel awful about. Guess I'm not used to—well, celebrating. Wasn't much of it back there. Wasn't much of anything, really. Just a lot of flipping vegetables."
Chell's shoulders shake with what he thinks is laughter. That's a good thing, right?
After the cookies have been set and placed into the oven, Chell hooks an arm around his waist and tucks herself against his side. Her warmth trickles through his sweater and into his skin, and a part of him wishes he could keep her there even though the rest of him seems to vehemently disagree on temperature consistency.
Wheatley brings a lanky arm around her, relishing her closeness and the saccharine scent of cookies in her hair. "Happy Christmas, love."
Chell doesn't reply, but there is a soft hum somewhere in the hollow of her chest, and that's more than enough.