Bad Blood
There was something horrible between them and completely one-sided. It was ever-present; crawling beneath his artificial skin like nanobots stitching from the inside. And then there was his own hand rubbing the back of his neck like it was a natural movement and all preprogrammed. He was uncomfortable in this body, in her home, on this planet.
Humans called it bad blood.
It all came down to the fact that he wasn't sorry. He did what he wanted to do and if he apologised afterwards it was only because he was back to being pretty much powerless: not a good state to be in; play nice, Wheatley. You're better off making her think it was an accident.
The strangest part was that after he had uttered his little lie (which she believed, thank God) he felt something stiffen in his chest. It tasted bad to say it and that was frightening as lies generally didn't hurt. They didn't make you feel guiltier, at least, not when you got away with them.
She hadn't said much, but all that night she had held him close.
He had hated it.
He tried to pin it on her humanness, her body a disgusting collection of cells alive and dying, growing and shedding. He didn't let her touch him after that, but the terrible crawling was made so much worse. Worse when she looked at him and all he saw was acceptance; worse because what she was accepting wasn't true.
The night that she had plucked him from space like it was nothing more than picking up the dry-cleaning he had painted her the most tragic of pictures,
It was like being a prisoner, I couldn't do anything, luv. I was helpless. He lied.
It was the chassis,
He had said.
I'm sorry,
He had said.
And she looked at him and believed it.
I know, I know.
She had saved him because even without the lie she believed.
That's when all this crawling business started.
He had never been so at a loss and that was saying something. He sometimes forgot he wasn't what he used to be; not powerful anymore, not as smart. On a sunny day in April he spent his time smashing everything in sight only to have her come home to a broken apartment and a very uncertain android.
He thought for sure she would tell him to get a job or maybe kick him out. Lament all her damaged things like the petty human that she was, but much to his disappointment she didn't do any of that. She hurried to him to make sure he was okay, she touched the damaged tissue of his hands and he pulled them away; couldn't look her in the eye.
Whatever this was, bad blood or worse circuitry, he couldn't explain it or deal with it. He was tearing from the inside out and if this wasn't dying he would be very much surprised.
His mind conjured all sorts of things, especially at night. There was a voice rambling in his head that said she didn't really like him, didn't trust him, and couldn't want him. She was planning something deep and dark and terrible. She had to be.
Not one of the horrible things his brain conjured ever came true and somehow he felt cheated.
It all came to a sudden, blistering head when on a rainy day in June she decided to throw a birthday party all for him. She had cooked and cleaned and hung ridiculous decorations. She had baked him a cake, sang him a song and gave him a present.
He couldn't do this anymore.
He kicked a chair, smashed a plate and tore the decorations from the walls all the while yelling at her to,
stop!
Stop!
STOP!
She looked at him as if he was something terrible and new.
I lied! He cried, I did it! It was me! His voice coming even though his brain was reeling, telling him to shut up, shut up, shut up!
It wasn't the chassis
He yelled,
I'm not sorry!
He yelled as well.
And she looked at him as if she knew the entire time.
And then it struck him: she had always known; from the very beginning. She had plucked him from space, brought him to her home, gave him clothes and made sure he always knew that there was someone there; someone by his side to help him through. She hadn't believed his cock-and-bull story, but she had believed in him; believed that underneath all that selfish, narcissistic, pathetic programming there was a person, real and whole and worth something.
Where he had abandoned and betrayed her she had never given up on him.
She was his companion and his champion.
In complete contradiction to his previous words he felt his jaw, heavily unhinge,
I'm sorry, he said and he meant it. He really meant it.
I know, she said, I know.
AN: I will be posting another chapter of Mutable Deeds I'm just hammering out chapter three.
I wrote this at 3AM and as such it is a little odd, nonetheless, I hope it makes you feel something.