Wheatley wrenches himself away from her and retreats to the end of the bed, breathing heavily and shaking. Chell props herself up and tilts her head at him, the question in her eyes.
"I, I, I… I can't do it. I can't. I'm sorry love I just… i-it's too close. T-to the other thing."
She knows the thing he is referring to, that insatiable 'Itch' that had consumed him and twisted his tiny mind into something sharp and vicious. Now, so far from that place, here in their safe space, it continues to torment them both.
She reaches out to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but her fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches and pulls away. "Don't," he chokes.
It isn't the first time this had happened. They have spent months together following their ejection from Aperture, months of slow travel, slower learning and a gradual rebuilding of the trust they had lost. In a world apparently devoid of all other human company, they have grown closer in more ways than just emotionally. A particularly chilly night had been the decider, but on the edge of the deed he had become distraught. Chell, eternally patient with him by this point, had been content to simply hold him as he broke down, babbling incoherently about itches and testing, and she had understood.
These days, when it all gets too much, he won't even let her touch him. There's a point he can't seem to get past, a certain spike in sensation that sets off a reaction in his brain and renders him a shaking, often hysterical mess.
He understands the biology involved; he knows it's not the same thing, and that it's not going to hurt him or Chell – quite the opposite, in fact – but the psychological reaction is too strong and he is reduced to a quivering wreck whenever it presents itself.
It is presenting itself more often these days. The physical proximity coupled with the emotional bond they have formed and the failed attempts at copulation only fuel it and there are days when he can't bring himself to look at her for fear it will come back.
She knows it haunts him, that overwhelming sensation so closely mapped to human arousal that he finds it impossible to separate the two. To his mind, it is always the Itch, a constant reminder of what he has done in the past and what he fears doing again. It terrifies him, and he simply cannot allow himself to relax, let alone enjoy himself.
That night, he sleeps on the couch, too afraid and ashamed to even be in the same room.
The morning after is unusually awkward. Normally he is content with her reassurance and she is content to be patient, but today they are both on edge. They sit in strained silence in the brightly lit kitchen of the abandoned house they have settled into, both of them dwelling on the issue but neither knowing how to broach the subject.
Wheatley is, as usual, the first to speak.
"I'm a bloody failure," he mutters, head down. She starts to reassure him but he holds up a hand. "I AM, love. It's the most basic organic function! Amoebas can do it! Or at least they do that… splitting… thing…" he shakes his head and grunts "…ngh. You know what I mean."
Chell nods and takes his hand.
"It's not your fault."
For a moment they sit in silence, before he speaks again.
"I, I want it to stop."
"I know-,"
"No, no, I mean I want it to stop TODAY. Just… just do it. Get it over-with, sort of thing." He pauses. "…A-and I want you to do it. To make me do it."
Chell realizes what he's suggesting and shakes her head fervently.
"No," he says "listen. I'm terrified, love, I am. But… but I've been terrified before. Back there, and with all that human body business, and the thing that always pushed me over the edge was, was you, and, and, and… I just… I need you to do it again. T-to push me. I need you to help me, love." He is practically pleading by this point.
She looks away and bites her lip. She knows he's right; he needs physical evidence to differentiate between the Itch and arousal, between orgasm and euphoria, and he won't do it on his own, but she is reluctant to put him through something that will no doubt cause him pain. Still, what other option do they have? Eventually she makes up her mind.
She takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom, and already she can feel him trembling slightly. Sitting down on the bed, she beckons for him to join her. She grasps his shoulders and manoeuvres him so that he is propped up against the backboard. With a quick movement she is straddling him, and she places her hands on his belt. Her eyes meet his, silently asking permission. He bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and nods.
She gently undoes the buckle and slides the leather out from around his waist, discarding it on the floor beside her. Her hands move to his fly and she hears his breath catch, but she continues and makes swift work of his pants and boxers before he has a chance to change his mind. He's asked her to do this and she is resolute. She casts her attention to his shirt and makes a move to unbutton it; he places a hand on her wrist.
"Please leave it on," he begs in a whisper. Chell complies; she knows this is difficult enough already. Instead, she runs her hand down his chest and rests it on his bare thigh, feeling him tense up at the contact. With her other hand she reaches out and lifts his head, then leans down and places her forehead against his. Wheatley stares nervously up at her. Fear is etched onto his face; every line and wrinkle is exaggerated, and he looks so much older than his approximately-thirty-something.
"Are you sure?" she whispers.
"No," he replies. He attempts to laugh but the sound that escapes him is closer to a whimper. Chell brings her other hand up to cup his cheek.
"We don't have to do this," she tells him.
"We do," he says, "I do. Just… just start now. Please?"
She nods, leans in, and places a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Then, without taking her eyes off his, she licks her hand and moves it down his torso to slowly reach between his legs.
He is already at half-mast and she hears a sharp intake of breath as she takes him in hand. He twitches under her touch as she runs her fingers along his length, exploring his body and taking her time as she watches his face for signs of discomfort. Squeezing his eyes closed, his mouth contorts as she tightens her grip. She kisses him again and then slowly, gently, she begins to move her hand.
He is smooth and firm beneath her fingers and she can't help but feel a tiny jolt of something go through her as she strokes him. For weeks, now, she has longed to touch him and to have him touch her and she knows that he wants to feel the same thing without being crippled by fear. They are so close to breaking through, and that thought combined with his weight in her palm only increases her excitement. She pushes the feeling down – there will be time enough for that later. She will make time. For the present, she concentrates on Wheatley.
He is breathing heavily, now, and a strangled noise that could be anything between a groan and a whimper escapes his throat. Chell reaches over and squeezes his hand, and he laces his fingers so tightly into hers that it hurts. She increases the pace; his breathing begins to hitch and catch, and he audibly sobs. A tear slides down his face. Guilt settles like ice in her chest; she knows he needs her to do this and that it's a necessary evil, but that doesn't make it any easier on either of them.
He is throbbing beneath her fingers and she can tell that he's getting close – no wonder he's struggling. She relaxes her hand and goes to ease off the pressure; he's clearly not up to this, and it was cruel to even try.
Suddenly his hand is around hers, repositioning her grip. He opens his eyes to look at her; they are red-rimmed and wet, filled with panic and, perhaps, something that could be called desire.
"D-don't stop." He pants, "I-I can do this. Please. I'm so close, love, it's so close. F-Finish it. Please." His voice cracks.
Chell nods once and leans in to kiss the tears from his cheek. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and she places a reassuring arm around his broad shoulders. His cock is now slick with her saliva and his own pre-cum and her hand slides easily over him as she continues her rhythm from before. The pressure builds and he is sobbing against the skin of her neck, alternatively pleading with her to make it stop and begging her to go on. She feels him pulse and twitch, and suddenly he is clinging to her, his arms around her shoulders crushing her against his chest, trapping her hand between them. A hoarse shout escapes him as he bucks up against her and comes violently.
He doesn't let go of her until he is spent. She climbs off his lap to lie beside him, surreptitiously wiping her hand on the bed-sheet as she does so, before taking him in her arms. He curls into her and trembles, his chest still heaving, and for a while they stay like that until his breathing returns to normal.
Wheatley pulls back a little and studies her thoughtfully for a moment. Chell is relieved to see that, though his eyes are still red and a little watery, he has stopped crying. His features are relaxed and a far cry from the creased, anxious mask he had worn before.
For a moment neither of them says anything, and then a smile tugs at his lips.
"You're okay," he says in disbelief, apparently stunned to find her still beside him and not punched down a test shaft. She smiles and nods. "And so are you," she tells him.
"So I am," he replies with a self-deprecating smile. Still shaking slightly, he tentatively reaches over and places a hand on her hip before pulling her close against him in a warm embrace. He is slow and deliberate, still sheepish and a little hesitant in his newfound confidence. But, she notes with pleasure, he is not afraid.
"Thank you, love," he breathes against her neck.
He leans up to press his lips against hers, and she reciprocates, taking delight in finally being touched without fear.
They are, she decides, going to be just fine.