Prompt 010: "Could you maybe write something about human!wheatley crying for the first time? (either sad or happy, just as long as it ends in some chelley fluff :D) thanks ~3"

Wheatley has driven for miles.

His brown hair's luster is sunkissed gold and his uncovered shoulders blush red with sunburn. His boot presses hard against the gas pedal and the Jeep Wrangler he jacked several hundred miles back powers over 90 down the deserted highway. Fierce wind curves around his face and down his lungs, and the longer he chases the setting sun, the more he feels alive. There's only one radio station in this stagnant heat—some sort of old 30's or 40's swing—and he has it cranked as loud as it'll go.

Adjusting his glasses, he glances to the bundle of rolled up maps in the passenger seat. Each one marks a place he's been, charted, searched. There are several tied together with a shoelace, anchored by a water canteen and satchel of supplies.

Months ago, he emerged from the shed a pale, pitiful husk. The Transfer sucked him out of the mechanical body he once had and placed him in this fleshy one. It was a death sentence; not only would She get her wish of revenge, he now had the opportunity to die in the most gruesome ways possible.

A piece of work, She is. Bloody brilliant. Too bad he's proving Her wrong.

Wheatley passes a large, green sign bolted onto the side of the road. City names are listed one after the other by their closeness in miles. They are all very plain, hardly noteworthy, names like Rockville and Eldridge and Delwood. They will only be more places to pause at, places to chart; places that will be empty and void of people, or places where the survivors have gathered to build.

"Eldridge, next right," he says, another sign whizzing past. "That might be where the radio's coming from. Might as well give it a go."

He lets off the gas and slows, pulling onto the curving exit ramp. Dried grass and withered bushes line the road. The dirt is cracked and weathered; alligator skin.

Eldridge swerves into view, and it's not quite as impressive as he's imagined. It's not a city, but a town, bearing shoddy buildings and ramshackle roads. Still, there's hope: black smoke billows up toward the purple-blush sky from somewhere in the center.

"And that was the classic 'Sing Sing Sing,' by Benny Goodman. Up next, we have another block of swingin' music comin' your way, straight outta Eldridge!"

Wheatley flips the radio knob down to a murmur and lets the Wrangler coast. He passes run down houses with crumbling bricks, dried up fountains, blinking traffic lights. At least there's power in this place, he thinks. That's a plus.

Following the smoke, he rounds a bend, spinning the steering wheel, and then there are people. Camping along the sidewalks, in their parked cars, all clustered together with umbrellas or tarps spread over chairs and the backs of pickup trucks.

Wheatley pumps on the breaks and slows to a halt. "Oi," he calls to a nearby huddle of people, "I'm looking for someone—what is this place?"

An elderly fellow with a scraggly beard dressed in a poncho stands up, sweat soaked bandana wrapped around his forehead. "Go toward the bonfire, son!" he calls back. "Lost folks always turn up there!"

"Bonfire, yeah?" says Wheatley. "Thanks mate! Much appreciated!"

It doesn't take him long to find the bonfire. It's gigantic, billowing, surrounded by cracked cinderblocks and broken boulders. Thick, coiling smoke climbs toward the sun in a cloudy pillar. Crowds of people are congregated around its massive perimeter, dressed in light clothes or accompanied by more parasols and tarps.

Wheatley's heart jumps out of his throat when he sees her. Slamming on the breaks, he shoves the gear shift in park and bolts out of the Jeep, not even bothering to snatch the keys out of the ignition.

Her back is to him, her face to the fire, but he knows. She's in ripped jeans and a white tank, her hair long, brown, tied back in a ponytail at the base of her head. Her shoulders, her legs, her shape, the way she holds herself; he knows.

Wheatley stumbles to her, adrenaline flooding him, drowning him. His tongue is caught in his throat, and even though he's practiced what he would say in his head, his mind is strangely blank. He's had speeches rehearsed, dozens of them, dozens for dozens of scenarios, but nothing has prepared him for this.

"Hey," he says, breathless.

Chell looks over her shoulder. When she sees him out of the corner of her eye, she spins around, body on alert. Her eyes, stern and guarded, look so beautiful in the glare of the roaring fire.

He wants to say things like "Do you remember me?" and "Been a while, hasn't it?" and "I'm so sorry," but he doesn't. Can't. He's being smothered in his own panic and he doesn't know what to do and he doesn't want to lose her again and so he's rushing to her, damn everything else, crashing into her and wrapping his arms so tight around her waist and crushing her to him as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

"I… I finally found you." Something is hurting in the back of his mouth and wetness is welling up in his eyes. His voice sounds hoarse to his ears. He's never done this before and his own reaction is making things worse.

Chell's legs are way off the ground and she's hanging there, limp. He's shaking with silent sobs, tears smearing her neck, and after a few moments, he feels her arms slowly make their way across the plane of his back. Her hands clasp together at the base of his neck, just near his shoulder blades, and begin to knead.

Wheatley hiccups, crying, dampness soaking his cheeks. He doesn't know why she's not cracking him in the jaw. She has every right. But he is so incredibly grateful she's not.

The bonfire burns long into the night. Smoke swells into the darkness and blots out the face of the moon. They sit in the back of the Wrangler, watching the flames as they ignite the sky.

Wheatley sniffles against her, overwhelmed, and Chell holds him tight.