Was this being dead? Wheatley couldn't tell – he couldn't tell much of anything. He couldn't feel, he couldn't move, he could hardly even think. It required a great deal of focus and even that was slipping away. Everything was, he thought sadly. The sudden feeling of loss was intense, simply because feeling was all there was anymore. Sadness, resignation, and more than anything, a gnawing fear. He wasn't scared of dying. No, he knew he was safe with her. He was scared of being alone. He always had been, but it was so much more here, where ever here was. Was she there? Was she still lying next to him and caring and being close? He couldn't tell. He wanted her there; he didn't want to be alone. Everything was raw thought and codes and feelings, but even those were so distant, he couldn't tell what was really his. Everything was in a fuzz, a sort of static. All of his senses had gone completely off line, and he wanted nothing more than to call out to her, to move and reach and touch her and to beg her to never leave, beg her to stay there with him forever. He thought of her. The thoughts flooded what was left of his consciousness, warming him.

Despite his fear, just the thought of her calmed him and made him feel infinitely better. He let her fill his mind, memories and her general feeling. He imagined her still, lying next to him on the bed, with her arms around him – safe with her. He was always safe with her.

He thought about her, and her alone. There was every memory he ever had of her, even the horrible, monstrous, murderous ones that he specifically tried to avoid when he was alive. That look she gave him, full of pure hatred, was the look she'd used to give Her. When he had been alive, just the thought of the way she used to look at him sent shivers through his circuits. But now, in this barely alive state as the rest of his mind was siphoned away, even that was comforting. Just being able to recall her looking at him, despite the obvious amount of hate in her eyes – she was looking at him. At him. Just the thought was enough to reassure him, to ground him and help him remember that he was still there, no matter how little of him there was. But, too soon, it too was sucked away, one memory replaced by the next: The memory of her, kneeling in front of him, so out of focus that he could hardly see her. But, oh, there was no mistaking her. Everything felt off about that memory as she handed him his glasses and he gave a great twitch. That was the night he'd landed.

Then she was smiling at him warm, caring, all previous animosity forgotten, she genuinely cared about him. And – man alive – he would give the world for her. He remembered vaguely the sentence, the job of taking care of the humans. It was nothing like how it was with her – he was more than happy to take care of her, wanted more than anything to make sure she was okay. At first, the need to protect her had been driven by guilt, but even that had melted away. Everything they had was genuine, a miracle he'd never thought possible during his stay in purgatory.

Her laughter was replaced with the dim light of the early morning living room. He recalled how she'd come tentatively down the stairs of their old home, braced with a brass lamp to bludgeon him to death out of fear. The night terrors never stopped plaguing her, but she'd learned that day that the dreams were just that – dreams. She'd dropped the lamp and had collapsed on the couch and he'd held her, resting his chin on the top of her head, as she shuddered in his arms. He could almost feel her, there, and fought to hold onto the memory, but it was fleeting.

He had the vague impression that she was sitting in front of him, her hands on his face, though he couldn't feel them, nor could he move, to raise his hands to meet hers. He recalled the soft scent of dirt all around, mercifully masking the smell of burning rubber and plastic. He wanted to lean into her and have her mutter those honest reassurances, but it was just him and her and that singular moment, frozen in time until the memory dissolved into another.

He should have felt her beneath him. She was there, curled against him. There was a swell of joy at the memory – he recalled this night as his favorite. Chell was asleep peacefully in his arms for the first time, and they were both free of guilt and anger and fear and – for once in his life, for the very first time – everything was perfect. Oh, it was a feeling unlike anything else. It was the first time he could recall feeling true happiness. Sure, he'd felt relief, and hope and a whole bunch of other positive emotions, but this, this perfect contention to just exist, peacefully and with her. This, he knew, was the biggest step they took together. It warmed every wire in his body to have her there, safe, asleep, and trusting.

Yes, he thought, as the memory began to slip away. That was his favorite one.

He'd remembered she'd woken up in his arms, calm and just as happy as he was. She was there and he wasn't sure what happened next, only that she was so close. She smile gently and said something, and…

And…

He didn't know. All that existed was the memory of her face, her kindness and compassion, all for him. And, in this lovely, barely conscious state of mind, he felt better than he ever had. A sweeping sense of calm came over him. Death didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would. In fact, it was pleasant.

There was a sharp pain in his chest – the first true sensation he'd felt since he'd closed his eyes. Something had happened, he was sure, but he didn't want to care. He focused on her, on the warmth of her memory, of her face, until he couldn't care, anymore, and that too left him.

And even the nothingness went away.