Prompt:
"Crippling, debilitating migraine-pain (or whatever the computer equivalent is ...) Soothing and help in the form of medication and ... well, as close to cuddles as you can get with metal spheres/a giant robotic chassis ...
I'd prefer it to be Chell with the migraine (for reasons of this making sense and also because I have this image of her curled up in pain in a corner somewhere and GLaDOS being a bitch about it, and Wheatley just leaving, and Chell thinks he's gone to get another test subject to get him out because she's 'broken' but actually he's gone off to find some kind of Aperture Migraine Cure that probably started out as something else - maybe an early attempt at Neurotoxin? - but which actually works), but really, I will take anything.
Anyone. Wheatley. GLaDOS. Hell, you want to write Space/Fact/Adventure Sphere with a migraine, do it!"
Rating: T
Genre: Romance
I do not intend to take ownership of anything more than the story presented here. Portal belongs to Valve
Migraine
The first wing of Aperture Science´s innovation´s floor is empty except for a little cubicle in the far-left section, where what appears to sound like a rhinoceros with the flu clicks away in his designated keyboard while trying to play multitask with a box of tissues.
This is one of those nights. He doesn't know what exactly causes it, but if he had to bet, he would probably say that all that grime and rust that hides between the tiles above his head are the ones causing these now recurrent episodes of irrepressible allergy that haunt him since his job demotion from respectable finance specialist to replaceable utility area counter.
He scoffs even as this produces hot static in his throat.
"Craig, the utility area counter. They only keep me because they don't have the balls to fire the best employee in the entire finance department".
Now instead of having his own office where all the adults made the difficult decisions and had the important tasks at hand, he has to mingle with tempting idiots that get lost every time they go down to archive to retrieve some paperwork with the same level of vainness as their presence in this company.
His mind forms the picture of the Bristolian Schrute with the heavy-rimmed glasses he met the other day, the epitome of someone who didn't deserve to be in the department assigned by their credentials. Oh, how much he hated that idiot.
An unannounced sneeze breaks him out of his fit of rage while simultaneously pulling him into a string of pathetic coughing and sneezing, his long arms retrieving from their place at the keyboard to uselessly try to shield him from the offending dust particles. He is sure he looks like a well-dressed windmill.
He can't keep up with this.
Defeated, he slowly retrieves himself from his flimsy chair and gets up to search for a well-deserved hot coffee in the employee´s auto-service cafeteria, praying that for the love of God they didn't take all the espresso packets like they did last time. All the 12 capsules meaning to last a week, gone in less than 24 hours! At least they knew how to keep themselves awake during the higher-up's surprise revisions; formality separated them from the animals in charge of the regulation in the testing chambers.
He arrives at the mini-refreshing station, but the sudden wave of pain that traverses his skull almost makes him curl up on the floor.
"Aghhhh, what the hell?!"
He slowly massages the space between his eyebrows as he pulls out a chair, moaning in disdain when the simple strategy doesn't work. The pain just keeps escalating as his nose refills with mucus, and he thinks he is going to cry at just how fucking frustrating it is to be him lately.
The downgrade affects him more than he lets show. He hasn't told anyone in the office, the last thing he wants is to fraternize with knuckleheads, but he thinks they are starting to notice that his mean behavior it's not just because he was born with a sharp tongue.
He liked his job, he did it better than anyone! And because of that, he started to point out the obvious flaws in Aperture's business model that seemed to not have changed since the '70s. No wonder the company is bankrupt, the old man upstairs keeps buying moon rocks by the ton and nobody is sensible enough to stop him!
What was his reward? Finding that all his things had been boxed up and sent 10,000 miles underground, in the middle of a goddamn salt mine! What was more insulting was the note at the end, the single thing that stopped him from going up and screaming his heart out at Social Services for this abuse of power. Passive-aggressive statements are a signature for Aperture, almost at the same level as mind-numbing inventions are.
The migraine escalates with the bitter memory, so he tries his best to calm it down. He now holds his breath when his nose almost blows up out in the open, and he thinks his brain is going to come out of his tear ducts. Grabbing another tissue from his pocket, he rubs carefully at his temples in order to regain as much control of his body to find an aspirin lying around somewhere; he has already burned through his emergency pills in the cubicle and cannot regret enough not checking if the pharmacist had any before they closed. ´
Another thing that makes his existence suck even more lately: the mediocrity that seems to have sucked the soul out of every competent employee in this section of the company.
The pharmacist is never there, the "I´ll be back in 10!" signal with the smiley face is so common on top of that counter that now is part of the scenery. The employees rarely show results; that can be blamed on the delayed paychecks and missing numbers on their bank accounts. If he were more empathetic, he could have told them that no matter how much they wail and scream for their bills they will never come out as they should. It's not that they don't want you to have your money in time sweetheart, we literally don't have enough funds to maintain 50% of the company functioning!
The Kafkaesque horror that takes place every fifteen days would be enough to make all of the staff willing to leave, but for some strange reason, they always stay. It's as if they had a weird case of Stockholm syndrome.
He groans again, the ache in his head has become worse. The mucus inside of the nasal septum is stubborn enough to not go down with a single blow and instead multiplies every time its host tries to get rid of it. There is a mountain of dirty napkins on the table and his mouth now tastes like sea salt.
He wants to go home, he knows he needs to rest, at least to forget about this place for a while, but he can't. He may act arrogant, he may say he is too good for this place and that they don't deserve him, but he rather likes what he does. To do things right, to deliver well-resumed reports, neatly piled paper, and harmonic cake graphics. It's something imprinted in him as a person, his essence, the way he just is, the reason why he was so valuable to his superiors. This sense of responsibility granted him the title of Manager in the first place, he wasn't ashamed of it.
But it does have its drawbacks. For once, he can't let things slip, at least not while he can help it. So, when he noticed the pile of crumpled paper in the social security employee's desk, Craig couldn't just let it rest. Now the after-mentioned reports were sitting on his desk, waiting to be alphabetically labeled and registered in the Aperture Science Innovators Intel Data. Which means he had to scan them, all 156 of them. What kind of image would the Security worker have of him when he practically ripped all those folders off her hands and proceeded to give her a lecture about proper order and how important it was to do your damn job if he stopped through the middle of the task? And for one little migraine? He was made of sterner stuff; he would show them.
The pulsing only gets worse. Now he can feel his heartbeat everywhere in his head, like a poorly trained drummer trying to play Whiplash in a music store. The faint white light coming from above suddenly becomes unbearable, the cheap plastic from the spotlights irritates him even more.
If only he could get a damn aspirin…
He doesn't hear the door opening, but he does see a pair of brown shoes from the shield his fingers formed against his face to protect him from the glow of the ceiling.
The person (why is anyone here? Departure time passed hours ago) doesn't seem to notice him. The sound of the coffee maker hurts his eardrums, but it soon transforms into a background noise against all of the chaos going through his head. The reports, the office, the downgrade…crying doesn't seem like a bad idea right now, maybe he could catch some sleep before the outburst and return to his cubicle as if nothing had happened.
A tap on his shoulder makes him look up, where a familiar face greets him.
"Ah, it's you. You game a fright."
The woman smiles a little and sits down in the leftover chair without asking, but this doesn't bother him. It´s her, after all.
He first met her in his journey from the golden cage of his office to the salt mines mere hours after his deployment by the big man himself. Back in the elevator, both had been subjected to a long wait when the belts failed due to lack of maintenance. Predictable, but still no less irritating. His comments about the incompetence and lack of skills from whoever oversaw the damn thing were overheard by her, and before he knew it, he discovered her name was Chell. It still irritates him the fact that he doesn't know exactly what role she is supposed to be fulfilling, she is not much of a talker, but she makes up for it by being a good listener and a better company if needed, she strikes him as one of those fabled people who are easy to be around. He thought he would never see one in his life.
"I´m sorry you have to see me like this, by the way. It´s just…another stupid migraine"
She urges him to follow, but he doesn't want to. Speaking and breathing are enough difficult tasks on their own, trying to do them simultaneously may result in him sounding like the horn of a car by the end of the sentence.
She thinks about the information provided and grabs something in her back pocket. He looks up again and is greeted by an innocent-looking piece of paper folded in the shape of a rectangle. When he doesn't take it, she shoves it insistently against his nose.
"Fine fine quit your yelling! What is this?"
The package itself contains a suspicious white pill with a line down the middle. It's imprinted with a bold "N", a thing that just makes him even more suspicious about the whereabouts Chell got this from.
"Are you trying to drug me?" He asks boldly.
She rolls her eyes and signals for him to read the paper in which the sample is wrapped. It looks like data containing the ingredients inside the little pill, he is not a pharmaceutical specialist, so he doesn't exactly know what is what, but at least he doesn't read "Cyanide" on the list. He would certainly prefer something else than Almonds to be his last supper.
As he unfolds the paper and reads a little underlined note, he understands why she gave it to him.
He already knows about the "recycling policy" Aperture employs every time something goes wrong. They can't afford materials from scratch, either that or the government warned all the Factories in Michigan about that bunch of mad scientists that own a Salt mine and the danger they are to society. Nevertheless, Cave Johnson persisted and offered a solution: reusing scrap projects from other areas of the Facility and integrate them into your own project.
Seems like this little white circle is one of those. If what the paper says is correct, the formula of this medicine was originally supposed to be an attempt at recreating a type of Neurotoxin Aperture had stopped producing sometime ago, and now for whatever reason, they wanted gallons of it again.
Craig was tempted to stop reading there and accuse the woman of trying to kill him, but his curiosity got the better of him. Back in the labs, the group of scientists started testing their new venom on some test subjects (The fact that they didn't specify whether they were rats or people unnerved him) but fortunately, it didn't have the mortal effect they were looking for.
However, that didn't mean it didn't have any effect. According to the base readings on the test subject's neuron activity, they had created a drug that, ironically, got rid of fever, general muscle pain, inflammation, and other miscellaneous symptoms caused by being underground. Like aspirin, but Aperture Brand.
"How did you get your hands on this?"
She winks at him and smiles as if saying that she has her secrets.
Should he trust her? Should he trust the pill or the scientists that obviously are as incompetent as those office workers? Another pang of pain reminds him that he doesn't have much of a choice. His mother always told him that his cynicism made him too winy to accept any help, even if it was provided from a trustable source.
He looks up again, where cerulean eyes dare him to challenge her in the field of stubbornness. He knows she is more bull-headed than him.
He sighs. You know what? Fuck it. Any risk of death is better than having to endure this migraine any longer.
He gulps it up in one go, no water needed. This either amazes or puts her off, but he laughs at her grimace, nonetheless.
After a while, she picks on his shirt and gestures to her wrist, an eyebrow asking him a question.
"Yeah, I know it´s late. It´s just…I have something to do. I would have finished earlier if not for the allergy- "he signals the way from which he came from earlier, the lonely light above his cubicle illuminating the stack of unfinished paperwork for her to see "By the way, what are you doing here so late at night? Didn't you guys from Intel were done by 8?"
She nods her head to correct him, but just as she is about to say something she realizes his stunt and looks at him with a playful stare. It's been a fun little game they have been playing ever since they began to see each other regularly. He would try to discover from which department she was exactly from, probably to go yell at her boss to control her little trips across the Facility and start doing her damn job. In response, she visits him wherever she can (or she pleases, he is sure of that) and teases him in a childish, non-serious way, making copies, annoying him with the water dispenser, fooling around with him in his free time. It's as if she is telling him to don't tell her what to do.
It should annoy him, really, but he can make himself be angry for any of those things. Work, as much as he likes it, is boring as hell, so catching the little high ponytail in the corner of his eye when having his lunch breaks is one of the few things that brighten up his days in this underground Kafkaesque nightmare. There is also the fact that since he doesn't know where she works, he doesn't judge her with the same strictness as he does his coworkers. True, he might be disappointed to find out she is a slob as everyone else, but she doesn't strike him as that kind of person…maybe he can give her the benefit of the doubt, just this once.
He begins to feel sleepy, his hooded eyes tremble beneath the fluorescent white light. Is it from the drug or the extra hours have finally catch up with him? By this time, he would be tucked in his bed, with his comfortable pajamas and fresh, soft pillow…
"I didn't read the side effects…do they turn you into a zombie or something?"
He hears her laugh a bit, but it fades away quickly, his face feels numb with hour-long mucus and dried sweat, but it's the most comfortable he has felt in the day. Maybe he can rest a bit now, just a minute before he goes back to work on those reports…
He feels a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, but thankfully he is face down on the table, his arms serving as a bony excuse of a pillow, his companion is unable to see him in such a state.
"You know what? I think I´ll take a nap…Just- wake me up in 5, kay´ ?"
He is asleep as soon as he hears "Sweet dreams, Craig".
"Aeughhh…"
He wakes up in a pool of saliva, immediately disgusted by the clear liquid coming from his mouth. He must look so pathetic right now…
As he stretches up, he notes that something is on his back, covering him. It's a small brown jacket, as he inspects it, he recognizes it; it's Chell´s.
He glances around the room in search of the woman, but she is not there. Fidgeting a bit with his watch tells him why; it´s 3 in the morning. She has already gone home.
As he makes his way to his cubicle, the little jacket around his neck, he notes that he can feel the smell again. The perfume coming from the garment hits him as hard as ever, given that he has never been as close to her as he is now. Rust with a bit of vanilla thrown in…it looks like his throat is cured too! He manages to cough weakly before his mouth goes dry and he searches for a water bottle between the cabinets.
So, the pill did work…surprisingly enough, he only slept a few hours between. He may treat the Aperture Scientists with a bit of more respect now, at least until they blow up something again.
Alas, it's time to work. He separates the water bottle from his lips and motions his arm to activate the computer, it had been lying dormant until he got back from the little cafeteria. He is still sore, and his eyes burn like hell but he has to get rid of this task before he goes crazy…
Wait, where are the reports?
He searches frantically for the white papers on the little desk, swearing under his breath that they were right here, but finally, he finds them.
They are all together inside a talk folder with a stick note on top, where a message waits to be read:
"Alphabetical order, just as you like. I took the liberty of turning off your computer when I was finished in case the electrical bill was collected from your salary. In all seriousness though, just go home.
-Chell"
He checks the folder from top to bottom, nothing seems out of order. He is tempted to check the digital equivalent on his computer, but he is so tired…. maybe letting her win this time wouldn't be a bad idea.
He collects his things defeated, his unbreakable sense of responsibility failed to surpass the natural needs of the human body such as nourishment and a sane sleep schedule. As he turns off the lights and exits the underground offices, he reflects briefly about how he is going to get his revenge on her.
No one, absolutely no one helps the former finance specialist without his permission! Part of him tries to convince him she did it just because she knows how difficult it is for him to ask for help, another way of saying "I do whatever I want!"
He arrives home later than he should, being strangely interested in the popular songs playing on the radio that night. His mind travels between her generosity, his revenge plan, and the little brown jacket in the codriver seat. He is too stubborn to recognize any feeling for her beyond admiration.
As he hangs his coat and her jacket on the rack, he notices in amazement a small piece of plastic on the inside pocket. It´s an I.D. It's her ID. And according to this, she works at…
"Chell Portell
I.D Number: 38533
Finance Specialist"
"You have to be fucking kidding me…"
He is too surprised to say anything, feel anything else than the little tickles in his belly that indicate the sudden outburst of manic laughter that explodes from his chest. He hasn't laughed like this in years! He is probably to get yelled at by the neighbors in the morning, but he thinks this horselaugh is worth it.
How could he not like her? she is one of his kind! The type of nerds who prefer to spend their time with prime numbers than with people.
She had so much free time because she was one of the people above! He vaguely remembered escaping from his office to fool around in the Facility back when he was in charge of the funds. You had your own work rhythm, the only person you had to respond to was the man with the sideburns and occasionally his assistant.
He now knows why she never told him anything, it must have been apparent from a mile away that he hated anything to do with his relocation, it must have not been a stretch to think that he would hate the person that replaced him too.
He laughs so much his abdomen hurts; his sore eyes are now wet with tears.
He puts the ID card back in her pocket and decides to think about what he will do in the morning, after all, it's Friday, he may sleep until dinner time if he pleases. As he tucks himself between the sheets, joy and satisfaction that had evaded him ever since the downgrade settles on his chest, and he thanks her silently for indirectly making his night better.
He may be the one visiting on Monday with the excuse of returning the jacket to its rightful owner. He imagines the funny ways her face will go from gratitude to embarrassment, his revenge will be as sweet as that vanilla extract that she uses to identify herself.
And that is a fact.
A/N: Long time no see! I have been going through difficult times this past couple of weeks, so that's why I haven't uploaded as much as I would want to. I will try to complete some snippets I have lying around, we´ll see when I get there.
Anyway, yeah, some Facts/Chell, everybody! It's a crack ship, I know, but I was so tempted to write something with these two ever since I saw someone propose it on the Kink Meme that sooner or later it would come out of me. I also realized that I really like writing Craig/Fact, my version is like a watered-down version of Seto Kaiba, if the arrogant attitude and generous amounts of swearing weren't enough proof.
I didn't come up with the last name I used for Chell in this chapter, I have only seen CrystalLotus98 use it, so I will say that she was the one to come up with that idea originally (check out her stuff, old school Chelley rocks!). Also, the ID number is a little reference to a fill I have been reading over and over back in Round 2, tell me if you get it!
As always, thank you for reading, knowing people are reading my stuff fills me with joy and warm fuzzies.