Prompt: Wheatley hates arguing with Chell, even though he starts most of them.


He hated seeing her like this, full of malice and resentment that made the glare of her eyes slice like a sword.

She knew she should have left him there. After everything, she should have left any trace of Aperture in that wheat field. But he begged and pleaded- he was bleeding and hysterical and whatever trace of a conscience she had left screamed at her. So she picked him up and dragged him along with her. Repaired his wounds.

When he first kissed her, she knew it wasn't going to work, but oh, nobody had ever shown affection towards her and his lips tasted so sweet, and soon she was kissing him back with all the spite she could muster. She didn't want a relationship with him, that much he knew. She despised him. But oh, he loved her, and even if all she gave him was halfhearted kisses, he would take them.

The arguments would start off about simple things. Maybe a laugh. The words would quicken, get more charged. Then they escalated, and it soon became apparent that they weren't really about who forgot to get milk.

He wished his touch and his words were consoling. But they only were lemon on the wound.