Recent months have been educational for Wheatley. Following his unceremonious expulsion into the wheat field, he has quickly come to learn that a human body has needs, and it has no qualms about voicing them. His stomach makes a godawful gurgling sound when it's hungry, his mouth dries out when he needs to drink, and there's a certain tightness in the abdomen when he needs to… well.
But he thinks he's figured it out, now. For the most part, he's familiar with the body's various urges and has pretty much got the hang of how to make them stop. To his mind, it's a simple process - do what the body says.
So he initially doesn't think much of it when, one morning, he leans down and presses his lips against hers.
The thought had seemed innocuous enough when it had first popped into his head. Wheatley couldn't tell you where it came from – he'd been happily minding his own business when his brain had thrown up the idea and refused to leave him alone. He had been hesitant to begin with, but he had reasoned with himself; he'd coaxed his body into doing far more cringe-worthy things before now. By comparison bringing his face into conjunction with hers had seemed fairly benign. Pleasant, even. He'd had to admit that he did enjoy being close to her.
He wasn't sure what bodily function it was meant to satisfy, but he had been happy enough to run with it.
Now, with his mouth on hers, he's ready to agree that this was a pretty good idea. Her lips are soft and she smells like her shampoo and when he hears her breath catch he can't suppress the feeling of pride and satisfaction that unfolds in his chest.
And then she pulls away, her brow furrowed in confusion and surprise. The good feeling dissolves, replaced immediately by a sinking in his stomach and a rising heat in his face. He attempts to stammer an apology. What on Earth was he thinking? He's probably offended her horribly. He knows that there are some bodily urges that need to be attended to with discretion; why would this be any different? Downright disgusting, when you think about it, mouths…
He is (eventually) silenced by her finger against his lips. Her brow smooths over and she smiles as she releases a huff of what he can only assume is laughter. (Laughter is good, he tells himself, lots of much worse things she could be doing, like murder, or…) A tug on his shirt collar brings him back to Earth.
She has him bent down to her eye level and she examines his stunned features with a smirk. Leaning up on tiptoe, she places her lips briefly against his forehead, then his cheek, before releasing him and turning away. He is left standing in the kitchen with his hand on his face, tracing the lingering sensation of her lips, and he decides that, all things considered, it could have gone much worse.