Prompt 027: "Wheatley finds out he's going to be a dad."
Chell is sick, and Wheatley is afraid.
He's on his knees on the cold bathroom tile, holding back her dark hair. She's beside him, curled in a heap by the toilet, shivering and exhausted and utterly spent. He's tried to pick her up, tried to carry her to the bed, the couch, somewhere she can rest, but she's only shoved his arms away and locked her legs around the toilet's white porcelain base. She refuses to move, and he doesn't know why.
This is nothing like a common cold. Wheatley knows because she's had those before. Sniffles and coughs don't faze her. Sure, she might have some soup or take a painkiller or two, but she always powers through, business as usual. She's never been like this before. Never.
"Can I get you anything?" he asks, his free hand rubbing the small of her back. "Feeling pretty helpless here. And concerned. A lot of concern. Maybe a wet cloth for your head? Or some water? Or… no, maybe not water. You might—well, might throw it up again. Eugh." He wrinkles his nose at the prospect. No matter how much time he's spent in a human body, he will never be completely okay with bodily excretions. "But it could make you feel better, you know? Always a chance. A possibility. When you're not… um. Vomiting."
Chell only shakes her head and leans forward. Wheatley massages the muscles in her back and tries his best to block out the retching sounds with a grimace.
It's a few days of these episodes until Wheatley convinces her to go to the doctor. After a particularly bad spell, her obstinacy lets up, and she finally agrees. His argument is when you can barely keep the essentials in your belly, it's time to get some help.
"All right. Easy now. I've got you, love. Up you go."
Chell leans on him as she climbs out of the car. She cinches an arm around his middle and buries her face into his shirt, and when they begin their trek across the parking lot under the noonday sun, he notices that her steps are shaking when her trainers hit the pavement.
Wheatley has never seen her so weak. Then again, she's severely dehydrated and hasn't been able to eat a proper meal in days. Anyone in her situation would be knocked down a few pegs. He knows he would be far, far worse.
The waiting room is a nice little place. White painted walls, maple wood tables splayed with magazines. Wheatley gathers the clipboards and paperwork from the receptionist while Chell finds a place to sit among the aluminum chairs dressed in geometric patterns and purple cushions. As he sits down beside her, he feels her head loll against his shoulder, nose nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt. His heart knots pleasantly behind his breastbone and he leans over to kiss her forehead.
When they call her back, Chell follows the doctor alone. Wheatley wants to be with her; he wants to know what's wrong, wants to know what's happening, but there is a sinking feeling between his ribs that he would only be in the way, and so he remains in the waiting room and watches the door meet the frame and the bronze knob twist shut.
Wheatley fidgets without her presence. He takes to flipping through the magazines, glancing at the pictures and the colorful words printed in bold fonts. He cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt and tangles his fingers amongst themselves in worry. The hands of the clock on the wall tick by, far too slow, and he wishes more than ever that he'd asked to accompany her.
Thirty minutes pass, and the door creaks open.
"Wheatley?" says a nurse, peering out.
"Oh! Yes, that's me, I'm Wheatley," he says, scrambling from his seat. "Is she all right? She is, isn't she? Please tell me she is."
The nurse nods, beckoning him beyond the door with a flick of her hand.
Wheatley joins Chell in the examination room. It's plastered with posters illustrating the spine, the eye, and the structures of the inner ear. She hops off the table and engulfs him in a voracious hug.
"Oof," he grunts, circling his arms around her. "All right, little less grip, can't—haah—okay—right, that's better, okay, thank you." Wheatley draws in a deep breath, savoring her closeness, and gently rubs down her backbone. "So what's the matter then? What happened? What did they say? You are okay, aren't you? I—well, I hope so. I've been worried. As you could probably tell. Ha, I mean, I never really shut up about it. Just want you to be all right."
Chell pulls away, and although there is a warm, definite smile upon her mouth, what he notices is the tears in the crescents of her eyes.
"Whoa, hey, what's wrong?" Wheatley bends down, bony hands framing her face. His thumbs brush at the corners, soaking away the wetness. "Why are you crying? What happened? It's all right, you can tell me. Well, if you don't, that's fine, but I just—I'm here, okay? I'm here."
Still grinning, wider now, she clasps her hand over one of his. The heat from her palm seeps into him and she guides him down to rest against her lower belly.
"I'm sorry," says Wheatley, knitting his brow. "I don't understand. What's that mean?"
Chell bites into her lower lip, staring at him with pale blue eyes. She looks weary and weak; her hair is disheveled, untucked strands by her temples, charcoal half-moons sketched beneath her eyes, a subtle slump in posture. But there is strength there, he knows there is; she can overcome anything.
"You," she murmurs, soft and quiet, a delicate melody, barely there, "are going to be a father."
He's never used to the shock of her voice, never, but god, her words—
Wheatley sinks to the floor, hands against her stomach, stunned. "So you mean—I'm—no, we're—we'll be parents then? The both of us? Really?"
Chell nods as her fingers entwine with his hair.
There is a moment of tight clarity, a portrait of what could be: a little wisp of a thing, brunet and blue-eyed, an amalgam of Chell's softer features and his sharp cheekbones, a tiny body that might yet grow into his towering height.
In a whirl, Wheatley sweeps her off her feet. He hooks an arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back, drawing her against the fluttering joy his chest. He's not sure where the tears are coming from, wet and cold and sliding down his face, but he nuzzles into her, laughing, forehead pressed close.
For once, he's speechless. And in the best of ways.
