[Part 11]

Chell barely stirred as she woke.

Eyes cracking open, she found herself briefly disoriented by her surroundings—when had she felt so comfortable, so well-rested, so safe at any point in her life? A groan, half confusion and half pleasure, filtered past her lips. She lifted her head slightly to glance around the room, the memory of the previous day returning to her. They had, by sheer luck, found a small group of employee dormitories, and with them food, a shower, fresh clothes, and a bed. For both of them. And she had just enjoyed her first good night's sleep in—she didn't know how long.

She drew in a deep breath, holding it in for a long moment, then exhaled, allowing her head to drop back onto the blissfully soft pillow, staring at the ceiling above her.

Lying in the tangled pile of sheets, she silently thanked her room's original occupant, who had seemed rather keen on stockpiling extra linens. Before climbing into bed, she had thrown as many pieces of cloth as she could find over the mattress, then burrowed beneath them to form a warm, cozy nest, exulting in her acquisition of a real bed—though, she noticed, it appeared that at some point during the night she'd kicked half of the sheets away from her and onto the floor.

She ran her fingers over the remaining cloth, gathering it up in her fist and releasing it again, smoothing the wrinkles with short, careful strokes. She was still in awe of their texture, a softness she had never known could exist, so soft it felt nearly liquid beneath her hand. This was a luxury altogether new to her. As far as she could remember—admittedly not as far back as she suspected might be normal—she had been forced to endure stiff, cold incubation capsules, or those rather pathetic excuses for mattresses Aperture had installed in its numerous relaxation facilities, their paper-thin sheets rough and scratchy against her skin.

She pondered the unnatural silence of the room for a few moments before realizing exactly why the stillness seemed so odd—she could not remember the last time she had awoken in peace without the jarring and demanding voice of an artificial intelligence quickly invading her senses.

Her thoughts returned to her new companion, the drowsy, ill-dressed man she had left in favor of a far less complicated night's sleep. A smile tugged at her lips at the memory of his sleepy-eyed pleading, at how quickly he had forgotten his protests as he succumbed to his fatigue. She would be lying to herself if she said that the request hadn't been inviting, but she suspected that a firm and unwavering stance toward his more physical needs would be more sensible in the long run. Chell had been glad to bring him food to repay him for that which he'd so generously given her before, glad to wash him and guide him to a good night's rest after his unexpected burst of competence had freed them from wandering through the relaxation center for the rest of their lives.

But the line had to be drawn somewhere.

She stretched, long and hard and satisfying, shuddering as her muscles tensed and relaxed, then fell limply back down to the bed. The buzz of warmth, of solitude, of truly alien comfort filled her senses, leaving her somehow—for lack of a better word—happy.

But despite herself, her thoughts soon fell on the dark, all-too-familiar circular chamber she knew she would soon revisit, a twinge of anxiety gripping her chest. A friendly voice, a full belly, and several days of respite from the AI's cruel taunts and tests had left her soft, had allowed her to forget, if just for a moment, the very immediate mortal danger both she and that friendly voice were in. It disturbed her slightly that she had so readily let her guard down, though she could not blame herself for needing a rest after everything she'd been through.

But the time for resting was over.

She sat up, casting a glance to the side table, and noticed that there was no clock anywhere in the room. For all she knew, she had slept for years—again—and, in a way, it almost felt like she had. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood, inhaling sharply at the sudden jolt of pain. It was nothing unbearable, just a persistent, punishing ache in her lower legs, concentrated where the long-fall boots had come in contact with her skin. She leaned down to massage the sore tissue, wincing at the contact, though she had felt far, far worse before.

Careful not to move too suddenly on her still-recovering legs, she stepped toward the bathroom, nearly leaping out of her skin at the sight of something bright in the bathtub before recognizing their jumpsuits still soaking from the previous day. Kneeling beside the tub, a rolled-up towel supporting her protesting knees, she reached inside and began to wash the clothes as well as she could, wringing the soapy water out of them before dipping them back in, scrubbing them against each other in an effort to clear away some of the stains.

His jumpsuit, almost comically oversized compared to hers, proved far easier to clean. This was presumably from his utter lack of testing experience, she mused as she rinsed out the soap before draping it over the door to dry. Her own poor, mistreated outfit seemed to have suffered permanent stains in addition to more than a few nicks, gouges, and singe marks from her closer calls. Thankfully, Aperture had seen fit to clothe their test subjects in only the finest synthetic materials, and though her jumpsuit was an utter mess, it was still at least structurally sound.

Sighing, she drained the tub and laid out her own jumpsuit next to his before turning to face the mirror.

The woman staring back at her looked entirely different from the woman she'd seen the previous day, before the shower and the food and the sleep. That woman had been pale and haggard, exhausted and hungry—regardless of how approving Wheatley's gaze had seemed. But this woman's eyes were wide open, her back straighter, her face brighter, her hair…

…incredibly tangled.

She picked at her hair, silently cursing herself for having neglected to care for it before sleeping. It was almost wavy now, its dark length contorted into odd, irregular shapes atop her head. Rummaging through the bathroom drawers, she located a brush then set to untangling her hair—a far more challenging task than she'd anticipated—before pulling it back up into a ponytail.

She smiled at her image in the mirror, fighting valiantly to ignore the fact that she was simply delaying the inevitable.

She scanned the countertop for her next indulgence, her eyes locking on a toothbrush and toothpaste nearby. Picking up the toothpaste, she noted that it was the same brand her companion had admitted to eating not too long before. She felt brief disgust at the thought of using another person's toothbrush, but her more practical side won the argument—after all, how long had it been since it had even seen a human mouth? She honestly did not know, nor did she really care. After cleaning her teeth multiple times, she felt satisfied, running her tongue along the newly smooth surfaces in her mouth, licking the sharp flavor of mint from her lips. Yet another alien sensation.

Leaving the bathroom, she noted that the ache in her legs had thankfully begun to subside a bit. In its place she felt a pang of hunger—and she had just eaten how long ago? She really was going soft—and found herself wondering if Wheatley might be awake to share some breakfast before they set out again. She grabbed a few slices of beef jerky and a leftover can of vegetables on her way to the door. Pausing with one hand on the doorknob, she felt an oddly out-of-place draft and looked down at herself in surprise. After digging through the mess of sheets, she found her pajama bottoms and pulled them back on, covering her legs—no need to confuse him any more than she already had—then returned to the door, swinging it open and stepping out into the corridor.

She had already half-kicked the obstruction before she saw it at her feet. Dropping her food on the carpet and leaping backwards—her legs protested bitterly at the movement—she fell to an instinctive crouch. But just as soon as she'd reacted, she relaxed, realizing exactly what it was that stood (or, more aptly, lay) in her path.

It was Wheatley.

He was lying on his side directly outside of her door, facing away from her. She felt a brief surge of panic at the unbidden thought that GLaDOS had simply killed him then tossed his body at her door for fun, but then she saw him shift slightly, his chest moving as he breathed.

She crept forward to get a better look at him, crouching silently over his still form. He was curled into a tight ball, his long legs drawn up to his chest, an arm slung around them to hold them in place. His lips were twitching slightly, as though he were carrying on a conversation in his sleep—she smiled at the thought. Even while unconscious, the man couldn't shut up.

Still, she winced at the sight of his uncomfortable position, wondering exactly what had compelled him to sleep in such a strange place, especially when she had left him in a perfectly good bed. He hadn't even brought a pillow or a blanket to protect himself from the cold metal walkway, she noted, eyeing his bare feet—and shins, thanks to the poorly-fitting pajamas—exposed to the open air.

Kneeling beside him, she couldn't help but wonder exactly how long he had lain outside her door, hoping that he hadn't wandered into the corridor directly after her to wait until she awoke. A pang of guilt rose in her at the sheer plausibility of that scenario. She understood that he had issues with being left alone—she supposed a lifetime of near-total solitude could easily do that to someone, though she found herself unaffected by her own similar situation—but she hadn't realized his aversion was quite this severe. If she'd known that he would put himself through something like this simply to be closer to her, she would have stayed in his room and made a bed for herself out of sheets and blankets on the floor.

She sighed. Without a well-rested body, he would be useless, slow, and likely cranky during the trek ahead—she knew it.

Reaching out, she grasped his shoulder in her hand and squeezed, gently shaking him. At her touch, his entire body jerked violently, shuddering awake even as he rolled out of her reach. Laying face-down against the walkway, his legs contorted to fit in the narrow space, he lifted his head, his eyes wide and confused.

She jumped a bit herself, not having expected such a violent awakening, but remained calm for his sake, patiently waiting in the doorway for him to remember where he was. He seemed to have significant trouble with the transition between sleep and wakefulness, she had noticed, and she felt a hint of sympathy at that—she could only imagine how frightening it would be to experience sleep for the first time, with no prior knowledge of the process.

Shakily, he drew his limbs in closer to his body and sat up, eyes still trained on her.

He looked absolutely terrible, like he hadn't slept at all, the already-prevalent rings under his eyes somehow deeper now, his skin dull and sweaty, his hair messy and wild. At her steady gaze, he blinked a few times in rapid succession before his gaze dropped to her feet.

"'msorry," he mumbled, almost inaudibly.

She held her arms out to the side in what she hoped he would see as a questioning manner.

"F-for being in your way," he continued softly, inspecting the metal grate beneath him with interest before peeking back up at her. "I didn't mean to fall asleep there. Sorry."

She wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, lying down just outside her door, but she nodded in acceptance of his apology and stood, gesturing toward her room to invite him inside and onto the far more comfortable carpet. He peered past her, warily eyeing her sheets on the floor, but made no move to rise.

"If—if it's alright with you, I think I might just… wait out here," he responded, eyes still fixed on the room behind her.

She studied him closely. Something was definitely off about him—his demeanor was completely different from the last time she had seen him. He was hunched over (but then again, with a body as long as his, how could he not be?) his hands continuously wringing themselves close to his chest, his face fixed in an expression of anxiety.

This was not the man she'd fed and shaved and bathed the previous night—this was the man she'd strangled, punched, and threatened what seemed like ages before. The nervous stutter, the awkward pose, the self-conscious gaze had all returned in the few hours during which they'd been apart. She frowned, more than slightly irritated at having inexplicably returned to square one with the former AI.

If this was what a lack of sleep did to the man, Chell mused while watching him, he would likely prove a difficult companion in the days to come.

As much of a burden as he was when he exuberantly hung all over her, he would be far worse if utterly hindered by his bizarre anxieties. Though it felt cruel, she couldn't help but feel a hint of regret at having accepted the responsibility of caring for the vulnerable man she knew would—and truthfully, already had—slowed her progress toward finally achieving her freedom. But she had made the commitment and could not imagine backing out of it, the thought of leaving him behind twisting her stomach with guilt.

If she planned on keeping him around until and—god willing—after her next ordeal with GLaDOS, she knew that he would need to be alert, communicative, and most importantly, not huddled catatonic on the floor. Despite his clueless demeanor, he had previously shown himself a valuable if somewhat scatterbrained guide, boasting a far greater familiarity with the inner workings of the facility than she possessed, a familiarity she hoped would eventually aid in their efforts.

Staring down at the unmoving mass in the corridor, she rapped on the door frame to get his attention. He stiffened, his eyes fixed on her, his breath quickened somewhat.

His attention gathered, she scooped the dropped can and strips of beef jerky off the floor and displayed them to him. Eyes widening in recognition, his hand came to rest on his partly-exposed belly, squeezing the flesh in anxious discomfort. Chell felt a small thrill at having guessed at least one of the things wrong with her charge, certain that the prospect of food would bring him in from the cold. He seemed tempted, his body leaning forward slightly, but stopped suddenly, grasping at the side of his head with one hand.

So he had a headache as well. She made a mental note to search for painkillers after she fed him, hoping that it would be far less difficult to administer them than it would be to lure him into her room. She stepped forward, catching his attention again, a soft and (she hoped) empathetic smile poised on her face. Squinting, he studied her expression, his gaze alternating between her lips and the food held in her hand. A small smile flitted across his features.

"O-okay, love," he acquiesced with a short nod, seeming utterly defeated.

He stood and followed her into the room. She gestured toward the bed and, after a brief moment's hesitation, he perched himself at its edge to await his food. While he waited patiently, watching her with tired eyes, she began to open the packages for him, remembering the difficulty he'd had with them before. He reached out to snatch a piece of meat from her outstretched hand before shuffling backward on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard with his knees drawn to his chest.

"Thank you."

With that, he began to eat, tearing off small bits of the food with his teeth and slowly chewing them. She watched him, his lethargic movements a striking change from those at their last meal, during which his enthusiasm had very nearly choked him to death. But she shrugged at the difference, ascribing it to his obvious fatigue, and took her place next to him to enjoy her can of string beans.

She was jostled a bit as he shifted, inching away from her on the bed.

Mouth already full of food, she cast him a questioning glance, which he noticed with some alarm.

"Oh, uh. Yes. I'm just… giving you some room. This is, after all, your bed, isn't it? And here I am, taking up all this space," he laughed nervously, gesturing toward his own body.

She raised an eyebrow at him—he barely took up any space at all, curled as tightly as he was around himself.

"…and it's not at all because I don't want to be near you or anything. Not that I do want to be near you either, s-so don't worry." He paused, seeming to think hard about something. "And if you're wondering, I did notice that you smell different now, but it's really a quite lovely smell, and not at all part of the reason why I'm… over here," he finished, shoving the rest of the strip of meat into his mouth, apparently hoping to stem the flow of words.

Though it was interesting enough to know that he liked the smell of her shampoo, she was far more interested in the fact that he now seemed able and slightly more willing to speak. She struggled to come up with a gesture to ask the question most prevalent in her mind, but could find no way to visually represent a query about his state of being. Frustrated, she settled for waving her hand at him, then lifting her palms upward.

He watched her, chewing slowly. He began to speak, but froze when she patted his thigh, then pointed at his face, repeating the questioning motion.

He swallowed heavily, his eyes blank, and Chell sighed, nearly ready to give up—she didn't need to know what was wrong with him that badly, as long as he was up and walking—but he answered her.

"I had a bad dream," he responded, his eyes profoundly sad. "A really bad dream."

A nightmare. It made sense—and honestly, she should have guessed it from the start. He had seemed in such good spirits the night before, if not entirely comfortable with his situation then at the very least talkative and animated. But with his lacking experience in human physiology, he had no frame of reference for dreams or nightmares, no way to know for certain that whatever images were plaguing him were simply figments of his imagination. His shock and confusion at waking to her elbow dug into his side had clearly demonstrated that fact.

Despite his considerable height and mass, she decided while observing his hunched form, the man really was still quite fragile, still raw at being thrust into a complex and painful world he had no concrete place in. The twinge of guilt she'd felt at seeing him outside her door returned with full force as she realized the most likely chain of events—he'd had a nightmare, come to her door seeking comfort, but for some reason remained outside. Though she wasn't entirely sure how he'd known which door to come to.

With no soothing words to explain to him that nightmares weren't real and that he was safe with her, she could only comfort him physically, reaching out to stroke his hair as she had before. But he moved away from her, recoiling as though she had burned him, nearly falling off the bed in the process.

Shocked, she pulled her hand back, watching him for an explanation.

He looked away.

"…I don't feel well," he mumbled, holding his abdomen again. "M-my body hurts, and I didn't even do anything to it."

She leaned forward, her lips drawn in a straight line, to press her palm against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut as though he expected her to rip his head off. She let her hand drop to her lap. He didn't have a fever, but he quite obviously needed rest. She shifted a bit to pull the sheets down on her side of the bed, patting the mattress beneath and nodding toward him.

"Yes, it is quite soft, isn't it?" he responded dully, looking away.

Irritated, she smacked the top of the mattress to regain his attention, pointing at his face, then at the bed. He didn't move, didn't even respond this time.

No longer hungry, she stood, clearing away the evidence of their meal while he watched. It was obvious that something else was bothering him, something he could not quite shake—at least not with her there. It frustrated her to no end that she couldn't tell what it was that ate at him so persistently, that he refused to allow her close enough to even comfort him. This was a problem that could not be solved by cubes and buttons, but only by words—if only he were willing and she were able to share them.

She made the easy decision to leave him alone for a while, to escape the suddenly stifling quiet of her room and simply hope that he took the opportunity to rest. In the meantime she would scout around, get a better sense of this new area of the facility, and plan the next steps in their escape. She walked around to his side of the bed and pushed him, his body rolling limply over to a laying position under her applied force. He curled slightly into himself but did not respond otherwise.

Gathering the sheets that had fallen on the floor in her arms, she dumped them over his unmoving form. He continued to watch her through a space between the sheets. As she drew near to the door, she heard a quiet mumble.

"I'll just… stay here, then," he offered to her retreating back.

She entered the hallway, pulling the door closed with a loud click.

Apologize to her. You're in her way.

"'msorry," he mumbled, his voice coming out surprisingly soft. She lifted her arms, palms upward, in a gesture he did not recognize.

She wants to hear you say it, you idiot. What are you sorry for?

"F-for being in your way," he continued, his gaze dropping from her expectant gesture. "I didn't mean to fall asleep there. Sorry."

She nodded and motioned to the room behind her.

Look at that. It seems she forgives you. Or maybe she just doesn't want you lurking outside her door any longer.

He looked past her into the room, at her sheets still in a tangle on the floor, his stomach lurching with a flash of memory from the previous night.

Don't go in. She doesn't really want you in there, or else she would have stayed with you last night—

"If—if it's alright, I think I might just... wait out here," he continued, avoiding her gaze.

She's looking at you. What a pity you're so unpleasant to look at. It's really not fair to her.

He nearly fainted at the harsh sound of her knuckles against the door frame, his eyes instinctively landing on her. She had food. At the sight of it, his stomach ached with need and he laid a hand on himself to calm it.

Of course. You would eat her food, wouldn't you? You do know she needs that to stay alive, right?

He winced, his hand clutching at the sudden ache in the side of his head. It had started as a mere whisper following his panicked awakening, barely noticeable above the din of his own muddled thoughts, but there was no denying it now—Her voice was getting louder.

Chell stepped forward and he looked up at her, surprised and confused by the warm smile on her face.

She loves to see you in pain. It makes her happy. Almost as happy as it makes me.

She held out the food again, shaking it slightly before him. His stomach rolled and grumbled and he glanced back up at her face—still smiling, still welcoming. He felt warm seeing her expression, and before he realized it he was responding in kind, his mouth curling into a hesitant smile.

Good, bare your teeth to her. You know how much mammals like that.

But the pain in his stomach won out, trumping the nagging anxiety of Her taunts.

"O-okay, love." He stood to follow her inside, ignoring the voice in his head, his stomach far more compelling than Her guilt trips.

Though she directed him toward her bed, he hesitated at the sight of it, sitting reluctantly at its edge. He reached out to take the offered piece of food, snatching his arm back as her hand grazed his.

You're too close.

He moved away to a safer distance, thanked her, and began to eat.

Not too fast. You know how much it disgusts her.

…slowly.

The bed shifted as she sat next to him, pulling open her can of green food.

Too. Close.

He moved away, his stomach tight, belatedly noting her look, her eyebrows drawn together in the middle of her forehead.

You've offended her— the voice nearly crowed in delight—Just look at her face!

He began to stammer an apology.

"Oh, uh. Yes. I'm just… giving you some room. This is, after all, your bed, isn't it? And here I am, taking up all this space. And it's not at all because I don't want to be near you or anything. Not that I do want to be near you either, s-so don't worry." He paused. "And if you're wondering, I did notice that you smell different now, but it's really a quite lovely smell, and not at all part of the reason why I'm… over here," he stopped and shoved the rest of the strip of meat into his mouth to give it something to do other than talking.

Moron.

She waved at him—though she didn't seem angry—and lifted her palms in the air again. He was mystified, watching her with cautious interest as he chewed. His heart leapt into his throat as she patted his leg and pointed at him, then repeated the final gesture.

I think she wants to know what's wrong with you. You know. Other than the obvious.

"I had a bad dream. A really bad dream."

She seemed sad at that, ducking her chin to look away for a long, quiet moment before reaching out to run her fingers through his hair.

Touchherback

He jerked away, heart racing, meeting her shocked stare.

"…I don't feel well," he began. It was the truth. "M-my body hurts, and I didn't even do anything to it."

He cringed at the sensation of her cool palm on his forehead.

She should break your neck right now. You'd deserve it—

She pulled away the sheets and patted the bed beneath.

"Yes, it is quite soft, isn't it?" he replied, unsure of what she was trying to demonstrate.

Idiot.

She seemed impatient with him now, slapping the bed with her hand. He remained still as she stood and moved away from the bed.

Now she's angry. I wonder what she'll do to you.

He went limp, allowing her to push him down on the bed, resigned to whatever fate she'd decided would suit him, puzzled at the soft mass of cloth she dropped on top of him. He peered out through a space in the sheets, watching her pull the door open. Every inch of him screamed to beg her to stay, not to leave him alone with his own thoughts, but She held him back.

"I'll just… stay here, then."

She left, and all was silent for a moment.

That couldn't have gone any worse, the voice observed with detached interest. Not even if you'd tried.

"No," he agreed quietly. "Probably not."

He rolled to his stomach, laying his aching head on a pillow, his breath catching as that scent—that new scent of hers—hit his senses. He groaned. It was strong, but not overwhelming, indescribably sweet and pleasant, better than any other he'd experienced since gaining the ability—apart from the scent of Chell before, when she was tired and sweaty and sleeping beside him. He buried his face in her pillow, catching just a hint of the first scent, hidden cleverly behind the more prevalent sweet one.

You are absolutely disgusting.

He ignored the voice, drawing her sheets tighter around his body, relishing in the return of the warmth he'd foregone in the corridor.

I can't believe she even let you into her room, let alone her bed.

Pulling the sheets up beneath his chin, he allowed his eyes to fall closed.

Sometimes I wonder if she really is brain-damaged.

"Hmm," he responded noncommittally, uninterested in Her musings, his thoughts already fuzzy from fatigue. "I don't know, she's done some pretty clever th—mmff!"

A hand had fallen heavily over his mouth, stifling his speech. His eyes flew open and he saw someone.

Someone he did not recognize.

He stared at her for a moment, petrified, numbly noting her hair—very long and black and shiny—her skin—almost pure white—her lips—red—her outfit—a strange, small black thing wrapped around her body, with no sleeves and no legs. Her lips curled downward in a sneer of disgust.

He tried to call out to Chell, but she forced her hand down harder against his mouth, digging into his cheeks with her sharp nails, tearing his sheets away with her other hand. Growling at the sudden burst of pain, he thrashed his body, momentarily knocking her away before she returned, her hands finding his throat.

She was far stronger than she had any right to be—her arms were thin, but he could not pry her fingers from his throat. His mouth hung open, silently, desperately gasping for breath as the woman climbed onto the bed beside him, then threw a leg over his torso and sat on his stomach, pinning his arms at his sides. She released him and he panted, regaining his breath as best as he could with her dead weight on his torso, his throat aching where her nails had pierced the skin.

He felt weak.

"Wh—who are you?" he breathed feebly, staring into unfathomably dark eyes.

Her lips curled into a broad grin and she slapped him hard across the face, the sting of her palm disorienting him momentarily.

But she did not respond, made no effort to answer his—quite reasonable—question, opting instead to lift her hand to his face once more, and he flinched as her fingertips made gentle contact with the sore flesh. Eyeing her warily, he tried to slow his breathing, to calm his racing heartbeat, anything to stem the overwhelming assault of unpleasant sensations bombarding him.

She stroked lightly at the side of his face, her fingertips barely touching the skin, her head tilted in thoughtful concentration. Slowly, gradually, she increased the pressure, rubbing the already-sore flesh with greater and greater intensity before digging her nails in and dragging them down his cheek.

He gasped at the hot stab of pain from the contact and her face shifted, her eyebrows knotting together, her lips puckering, her head tilting to the side. Tears sprang to his eyes at the sharp sensation, streaming down his face as a confused, choked sob escaped his lips. She wiped the tears away, glancing momentarily at her moist hand before pressing it into the wound, the pain intensifying even further.

She pulled her hand away—he felt faint at the red liquid clinging to her fingers—and reached down, pulling his shirt up around his chest, exposing his torso to the cool air. As he watched, her long, thin fingers danced along the surface of his chest, tangling themselves in the scant patches of light hair, trailing thin, gentle lines over the contours of his ribs before splaying into claws. She dug her nails hard into his flesh, pushing and pulling and tearing at him as he sobbed, fighting vainly to escape from under her.

She stopped, a pleased smile spreading over her features as she watched him struggle, sitting up straight before lazily reaching behind her and seizing him in her fist.

He gasped at the contact, hips jerking involuntarily, staring into her face in abject fear. He could already feel the tips of her nails beginning to dig into the sensitive flesh. Whimpering, he closed his eyes and waited, barely noticing as the pressure of her hand left him.

She laughed.

His eyes flew open at the sound, his mind numb with recognition.

"Now that I have your undivided attention…" She began, Her red lips curling around the low tones of Her voice. "I believe we were discussing a certain someone…?"

She reached back again and squeezed.

He screamed.

A/N: Yes, it was a dream at the end there. (I don't think it's a spoiler to make that clear.)

I'd like to round out this thoroughly depressing chapter by sharing something fun with you - a Tumblr I've begun to compile of this fic juxtaposed with the art different people have drawn based on it! You can find it at .com. There are some really good (and adorable and hilarious) sketches there, so please check it out!