Seperation

Scavenging was a fact of life now. Once she'd realized that, Chell had also realized the necessity of leaving him alone; someone had to keep an eye on their home, and it was better if she was the one looking for the objects they'd need to survive.

The first few trips, she only raided houses on the same street as theirs, always coming back within a few hours. Every time, he waiting expectantly for her to come back, peering out the windows like a puppy waiting for its owner; when she did return, he greeted her just as enthusiastically as any terrier, certainly.

But the pickings got slim, and slowly, she had to push farther out. She didn't even realize how much longer each one took until one day she walked into the house to find dinner on the table, her companion gazing forlornly at his plate, waiting. The moment he noticed her, he was on his feet, gushing about how worried he'd been, and how he knew he didn't normally cook, but he'd wanted to surprise her, and this was alright, right?
She'd sighed and smiled, assuring him that everything was fine, and sat down to eat. The noodles were soggy and the meat was a bit overdone, but she'd had worse. And he looked so happy when she was done.

The next time, she left earlier to make sure she'd be back by five, when they both expected food to be on the table. She even found herself a watch, which she synced with the kitchen clock just in case. But eventually came the time when, even leaving right after lunch, she couldn't find anything in time.

They had a very serious conversation about it. She explained about how, even if she began packing a lunch, sooner or later these trips would last all day. She needed to know that he could handle himself–Are you listening, Wheatley?–that he could deal with her being out of his sight for twenty-four hours or more. He'd wrung his hands, fiddled with his glasses, run his fingers through his hair, straightened his clothes, all the while trying to assure her that of coursehe could handle himself, he could handle anything, she could leave everything to him...

She sighed, and pulled him close, wrapping her arm around his thin shoulders, and quietly promised him she'd be alright. He'd looked up at her, and managed a weak laugh.
"Well, yeah, of course you will, luv! Did…did you think that's what I was worried about? Ol' Wheatley knows you can take care of yourself, never got confused about that,silly, just sort of wondering what'll happen if–"

"Nothing's going to happen."

"Of course not, of course not, but what if…"
The rest of the conversation was a lost cause.

Not long after, she arrived at the base long after sundown, tired but content with the day's haul. She dropped the bag in the living room, set down the basket for her lunch and supper, and headed upstairs. She hesitated outside the door to her room, longing for bed, but knowing she really ought to let him know she was back.

She sighed, and continued down the hall. The knob turned soundlessly in her hand, the door opening to a room that was pitch-dark…
Except for a single blue-white spotlight, illuminating a pair of hands picking at a threadbare edges of the blanket.

"…Wheatley. You should be asleep."

He looked up, the glow temporarily blinding her. The bedside lamp flickered on, revealing a sheepish grin.

"Yes, well, 'should' doesn't necessarily equal 'can,'luv. And I can't. Sleep, that is, no idea why, actually quite tired…"

"Laying down would probably help."

"Yeah, funny thing, tried that...didn't work. Felt pretty silly, actually, after a while, so I sat up, right, and–"

"Wheatley. Turn the flashlight off. Lay down. And go to sleep."

"…Sure thing, luv. Sorry for botherin you." There were two quick clicks, and the room went dark. She turned to go, then paused.

"If you plan to stay up like this every time, you could at least wait in my room; I'm tired, Wheatley. I want to go to bed."

"Wait in your room; got it. See you in the morning, then."

"Goodnight."

She didn't think too much about that conversation, though she didn't forget it. Hell, the system even seemed to work for a while; she'd get home late, go up to her room, throw out her tired housemate, turn off all the lamps he'd had on, and collapse into the bed for a well-earned rest.

And then there was the night of the storm.

It hit on her way home, a huge windstorm that tore into the city with enough force to topple some of the older buildings. She could just barely make out the house (mainly the lights in her window) when the gale took out the power grid, promptly throwing the entire world into darkness.

Chell plowed forwards in a straight line, forcing herself towards the ghost imagse of those glowing windows still dancing on her retinas. The sturdy feel of the first wooden step came as a wave of relief, her hands fumbling for the rail, guiding herself to the door. Inside, she stashed the new supplies under the table in the living room, finding an old lighter she kept out in case of emergency on the mantle. The flicker of the tiny flame helped her up the stairs, where she eased open the door to her room, breath catching in her throat.

It was absolutely dark.

"Wheatley…?"

He wasn't there.That was her first reaction. He hated the dark, he would've turned his flashlight on the moment the lights went out. Maybe he'd gone to get something from his room, or one of the downstairs rooms she hadn't passed through…

But no. As the door opened further, she could make out the distinct shape of someone sprawled on the bed.

A horrible thought struck her: What if he was charging? They were always careful not to plug him in if it looked like there might be a storm but this one had come up at night. He would need a serious charge soon, sleeping only did so much, and he loved to make little "surprises" for her, though his luck tended to get the better of most of them. She knew what an electrical surge could do to a computer or TV, and didn't even want to begin to think about what one would do to him.
Carefully, flame held high to get the maximum amount of light, she hurried over to the bed. He was face-down, curled in on himself slightly, and there was–

No wire.

She was puzzled. It didn't make sense, what was going on? It was dark, but his flashlight was off, he wasn't plugged in, but he wasn't reacting in anyway, he was on the bed, doubtless waiting for her to come back…

The truth of the situation hit her.

It was late; the latest she'd ever come back, and he was coming up on the time when the small recharges of eating and sleeping wouldn't counteract the drain of functioning every day. And every time she left, he stayed up, worrying pointlessly, and wasting moreenergy.

He'd probably sat or lay down on the bed to wait, and fallen asleep. He was a pretty deep sleeper; she doubted he'd have noticed the lack of light, or her coming in, or even the storm itself. Now that she'd calmed down, she could see that his breathing was deep and even, and every so often his fingers or nose would twitch.
His hair was in his face, and his glasses were askew, and his pajamas were too big, and she didn't have the heart to wake him up.

Chell sighed and smiled, as she turned off the lighter and set it on the bedside table. They'd need to find a generator in the morning (both of them, because she couldn't move one on her own,) but for now she climbs in beside him and pulls the blanket over them both. There's a hint of blue light as his eyelids flicker partially open, and he instinctually cuddles closer to her, widening the smile on his partners face. It was by far the gentlest expression she'd ever worn, and one he'd be sorry to miss if he knew.


So my sister asked me today why I write Chelley. To which my answer was, of course, "Why wouldn't I write Chelley?"

Then I went to look at my list of themes, saw this and had the sudden need to write Chelley. And that is why, dispite being sick and exausted, I'm posting this at this ungodly hour of the morning. Enjoy your fluff.