Prompt: I wish I could take it all back…
"Wheatley reminiscing on his actions while drinking coffee. Preferably Chell/Wheatley, but w/e anon wants. :)"
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/comfort
I do not intend to take ownership of anything more than the story presented here. Portal belongs to Valve.
Balm
The thing was…things were not really okay.
The thought comes just as he goes to bed, staring at the ceiling. The deep breath of the woman by his side doesn't comfort anymore, just makes things worse, reminding him of how close he was to put out her flame.
They don't talk about it. Well, he doesn't talk about it, given that she can't actually start a conversation through gestures, but still. He doesn't talk about that thing, avoiding it at all costs, no matter how harmful it is for him to try to keep a secret.
It feels almost like a dream now, a period of time suspended somewhere in the back of his head for so long that has become part of the whole picture instead of a specific event, the main attraction. The memory of those 2 minutes that took the Neurotoxic to kick in has been rewound in front of his eyes so many times that it takes a bit of the reality off it, like chipping the paint from a wooden door with use.
He gets out of bed, doesn't even look back as he exits her room in the event that she wakes up, tries to ask him questions. He doesn't have the answers she would seek.
The night is silent, doesn't need an explanation as to why he is preparing coffee at three in the morning if he promised he would be awake earlier the next day, or why he doesn't just talk to her, given that it's ironically the only thing he is good at.
The coffee maker is making this "undercover mission" more complicated, but he manages to keep his panic at bay, constantly checking the room down the hallway for a pissed lady with an ugly frown accentuating the dark circles behind her eyes. It may not seem like it, but she is quite the deep sleeper, he reminds himself with a smile, drumming his fingers in the yellow kitchen table.
It's now a routine, having done this every night in the last two weeks, but he never gets a solution for his problem.
The thing was, she had taken him in so…easily. She had been mad obviously, after all, what at first appeared to be a homeless man had been stalking her for days and then revealed himself to be the traitor she had left to die 10,000 miles underground, but that was just on the beginning.
She seemed fond of him, of his nonsense and his accent, of his eyes and his body, if all that contact in which they had been engaging was any proof, how she sometimes just stared at him while watching T.V. or when he ate the things she generously cooked for them both. He liked that, of course, he thought all of that, all of her, was absolutely lovely, but it also didn't feel…earned.
He hadn't even apologized yet, constantly thinking that right now would not be the best time to bring that whole murder thing back. He would just ruin the mood, give her a reason to kick him out, to stop touching him, to stop caring about him. As if she had just forgotten about all of that, suppressing her memory.
Ha! As if she could. They both made sure there would be things she would never forget.
The nightmares were horrible. He dreamed about the transfer, about a collection of soulless but still alive bodies launching themselves at him, trying to eat him alive and transform him into one of them. She dreamed about the tests, about the lasers, and the constant fear of not knowing if she would be able to go on to the next chamber. The difference was that while she knew how to comfort him, knew exactly where to kiss or when to stay, he did not. She was different, difficult, he could not apply the same principles that worked for him. And at the same time, some part of him knew he didn't deserve to comfort her, how could he? After all, he was the reason she was scared of the moon.
The coffee maker beeped; he rapidly stumbles through the kitchen to shut it off before she discovers him.
He intends to pull out a mug and his heart sinks to his stomach as he sees the yellow and slender one next to the other short and orange, reminding him of all of the things she had changed since his arrival. Her house had never been so cozy, so warm or friendly. Neither had she, he still remembers her first sharp stares and looks of warning, those cerulean eyes beaming with fire that came with not knowing if he was dangerous or not.
She had changed so much for him and he is still the same, he thinks as he grabs the cup and starts filling it with the brown liquid. He knows that it is usually used to combat sleep, but he wants to keep reflecting on it for a little while. Maybe this is the night, that fabled moment when the universe tells him to just get to bed and stop thinking about things that happened three months ago, he just has to tune in at the same hour the universe gives existential answers to nobody. Like those talk shows he enjoys so much.
It also didn't help that he didn't fit with society as a whole, he can't seek help from outside. Out there, he would be considered a murderer, a criminal, a monster, for all he did. And he truly deserved that, don't get him wrong, but spending the rest of his life on a cell won't make Chell stop having nightmares or teach him how to be a better person for her or how to talk about the things that happened down there…they wouldn't understand. He has begun to realize that things are usually so much more complicated than you think.
The first sip is bitter, and he realizes with shame that he has forgotten to put sugar and cream again. He should try tea next, for whatever reason she thinks he would enjoy it more, but he just got used to all this having a tongue to taste and skin to feel things, so he prefers to take it easy of new experiences. For now, he just has to remember to constantly stir the coffee until the cream dissolves and transforms the liquid into a color that resembles a bit the color of her skin.
He takes another sip. Now, that's more like it! It's still a bit hot but the warm trail that coffee makes from his mouth to his stomach leaves him feeling fuzzy and full, so he doesn't mind burning his tongue a bit.
The thing with her being so openly affective with him stirs something in the back of his mind that leaves him feeling guilty, even more than he is already. What if the brain damage thing…is true? He was the only "person" she knew back there, the only human-like interaction she had been allowed to have in all those years. It's not a stretch to think that she has not engaged in human interaction since her escape, she doesn't seem to have many friends aside from him.
A dark cloud fills his mind and his eyes water a little at the thought. Maybe, all of those touches, all of those smiles, all of those things humans do to make other humans feel appreciated are because she doesn't have another option. He is the only option.
It all depends on him.
The pressure of thinking that he is single-handedly responsible for the social part of her existence is…terrifying. Absolutely, completely, bloody terrifying. She was entrusting something extremely precious to someone who couldn't even apologize for trying to murder her. Who couldn't get out of the little Hell he had created in his head.
If only he had not done those things. If only he had not stopped the elevator right in front of her, if only he had missed the opportunity to show them how powerful he was, how not crushable and expendable he was anymore if he had only given up on the possibility of obtaining revenge or demonstrate to himself that he could do things right, prove to himself he was not a self-absorbed idiot…maybe things would be different.
He thinks about it way too often. He imagines she takes up the lift, leaving him to see the sky and the clouds but not for too long, coming back to check on him. He imagines that they both figure out the testing protocols before the itch settles in, maybe by Her own word, it doesn't really matter, that they found the transfer machine and turn him into a human so he can leave to the surface with her. Sure, he would complain about being a smelly human at first, but he would get to it eventually, the little time he has been one has taught him that it isn't so bad. He sometimes puts Her back in charge after that, so She won't be an angry potato anymore and lets them go. Then they escape together, see the sunset. She lives the life she wants to live, find a mate that suits her, someone athletic, her size, that understands her needs, attends to her as she attends to him.
Then they would part ways and find happiness the way it's supposed to. The right way. The way he can't figure out just now but give him five minutes more of cloud sighting and he may give you a concrete answer!
And the picture should be beautiful and good but…it still makes him sad. It depresses him that it won't ever become true. He will never be able to take anything back.
He cries a bit. Well, not a bit, he cries a lot. He hasn't even finished the first cup and the flood of emotions has already made his nose itchy and his shoulders tense, frustrated to no end that he can't find an answer to this problem.
Should he leave? Should he risk the possibility of reminding her that he is a danger to her wellbeing, that he can crush her with a single blow if he gets too angry or too sad? That he can throw to the trash the most valuable thing he has because he is too much of an idiot to understand what it means to have someone to care for you? To like you. Because he doesn't know that people generally hate individuals like him. Idiotic, unstable, tainted with corruption and hate.
And still, he wants her to like him. He selfishly thinks of himself ad the owner of that smile, that she is not allowed to see another one but him, that he is relieved that she doesn't have any friends because she would drop him the second, she realizes she has picked wrong, forgiven too easily.
That devilish part of him, the same one that got tempted at the core transfer to just give in and take what he wanted, wants to keep her with him and give her no explanation as to why he is awake right now if he promised he would be up early tomorrow, wants to be comforted without having to do the same. Because caring for her has begun to shatter the image he has of himself, the image he had of the Intelligence Dampening Sphere and what it has become.
Because changing, admitting, apologizing is so bloody difficult.
He feels a hand reach his shoulder and he turns, he almost breaks the mug by accident.
"I-I-what are you doing here, luv?" he asks her between stutters, shielding his face from her so he can wipe off the tears.
"I thought you had something to do earlier in the morning. You know, your job? At the restaurant? T-they start really early, you know that! You have to go search for the vegetables in the market, and the help that Miss to prepare those ovens and-"
He feels as if he is going to break. He just thought about hurting her and having her so close is doing bad things to his brain. It´s just that she is so tiny compared to him, her small arm on his back while he tries to hide his obvious discomfort with stutters and babbles…
She hugs him, puts the cup away and shushes him so he can stop this farce. She knows him better than he does, sometimes.
The thing just happens. He accommodates his long arms around her waist and suddenly he feels his face itch again without warning, all of the things he thought about coming back with the force of a truck, leaving him weak and in need of support as he hides his face into her abdomen.
The yellow light of the kitchen lamp makes a good spectator, converting the small place into a cocoon of reliability instead of self-loathing. She lights up every room if it makes him more comfortable.
"I-Its just-" he says between sobs, his throat not willing to cooperate with him in delivering full sentences.
"I-I am sorry. I am so so so sorry. F-for what I did back there, and for being with you, and for not apologizing, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry-"
They stay like that for a while. Him wetting her shirt with tears while trying to say all of those things that are on his mind and she simply holding him, letting the coffee run cold while he hangs on to her tightly as if she is going to disappear. She assured him not in her silent way, alternating between strokes and kisses on his head. She is not going anywhere.
It's ugly to cry, to feel everything that goes through your head manifest itself onto the physical realm. It's uncomfortable at first to admit that he thinks she is brain-damaged, tell her that she can find someone else, and admit at the same time that he wouldn't know what to do without her. It's hard to say out loud that he is as crushable, expendable, and useless as he was back then.
But it was necessary.
The fog leaves his mind, the pinch in his chest resulting from keeping a horrible secret vanishing with the relief of not hiding anything from her. Though the uncertainty is still there, it's not as bad as before.
She asks him if he is finished. He nods yes, but just because he doesn't have the energy to lie anymore. He guides him to their bedroom, where he has been sleeping for the past three months. She pulls out the covers and motions for him to join her, a thing he does reverently, and almost on instinct holds her close as she stands beside him, positioning his head below her neck so he can feel a bit tiny compared to her.
They tangle their legs and while he falls asleep, she murmurs weakly her acceptance, her forgiveness, her own apologies. It's almost like a dream.
The next day, she is still there when he wakes up, she should have been at work three hours ago, judging by the clock in the kitchen; she makes them breakfast and repeats her answer with pen and paper, explaining that it hurts to speak.
He has never felt so full of energy before, not even with the coffee.
A/N: Hello there! Didn't expect me to show up again so early huh? Well, consider this a one-time occasion, because I am not staying up all night again for a fill, hopefully.
So, about the prompt. At first, this started as a type of vent, but then somehow turned out to be something more comfy-angsty and I am happy to say that I liked the result! Not bad for having been written in one sitting. I have been feeling out of place lately, so Wheatley feeling confused about himself seemed a good place to distill my feelings. And I love Chelley with a burning passion so, this practically wrote itself haha.
Thank you for reading! I will be back as soon as I finish some fills I have lying around, I think you are going to like them.