A/N: Okay, I know I haven't updated this for years. I've been through some hard times these past two years and sadly lost my will to write. But for anyone who is still following this story, I'm finally finishing what I started. So I will update every other day until this story is complete. I hope you can still enjoy it.
Chapter 17 - Operation: Decorate!
PROLOGUE - A year had passed. It seemed like such a short amount of time, yet so much had happened. First and foremost, after a considerable amount of persuasion, Chell had coaxed Wheatley through his nervous jitters, and found herself pregnant (again). Since the time before Chell never made it past a couple of short months, as she came up to eight months pregnant her and Wheatley were beginning to discover the pre-birth blues. Back ache came around more often than Wheatley's stupid questions, strange cravings came and went and pointless arguments started to rear their ugly heads more often than ever. The last argument involved Chell having to buy maternity clothing, and Wheatley commenting on the unborn child making her "fat". It was yet another memory of the harsh criticisms on her size from Aperture Laboratories. However, as always, they were pulling through. Just as they always would.
Wheatley POV - Sharp, scratchy scraping sounds filled my ears, the sound of metal on metal. It made me cringe and sent a shiver up my spine, forcing my knees to buckle slightly and my arms to jolt uneasily. I never did think to wonder what made that metallic screech as I stood with my head at least two and a half metres above the ground upon a shaky step ladder. A mistake I would have to regret later, as the noise cried out again and the ladder suddenly slipped, rolling down its bottom half and throwing me to the ground. An oozy, sticky substance could be felt through the seat of my trousers and I groaned as lifting myself up slightly revealed I had landed on a black tray full of thick, gloopy paint. Rick burst into the room, like a headstrong superhero, upon hearing the commotion and the swinging of the door into the wall behind it sent a shake through the entire room. With a squeal and a clatter, the ladder tumbled from its unstable wall perch, and landed atop my body, knocking me flat on my back and walloping me hard on the forehead.
"Huh?" Rick questioned, standing in doorway with one hand on his hip and the other scratching his glossy hair; he appeared to be a puzzled superhero now. After surveying the room, his eyebrows shot into a cruel, taunting expression - a mixture of disbelief, shock, and pure amusement. All I could do was raise my head a few centimetres, release a whisper of a groan which faded from my ghostly lips and allow my heavy head to hit the cold floor once more. Finally deciding his assistance was required, Rick wore his signature smirk - one signalling he had found an adventure and he was the brave warrior. Yet again, I appeared to be playing the damsel in distress.
"C'mere mate," he smiled, sympathy shining mercifully through the humour, after dodging the various paint cans and brushes and sheets strewn across the ground. "Let's get this off of you." Strong arms pulled the icy, metal ladder, yanking it onto teetering feet and leaning it precariously against the wall for at least the third time today. Although that was the first time it fell on me.
"Th-thanks," I panted, catching my breath as I tried to shake the choking feeling of being badly winded. "Th-think we n-need a new ladder."
"Maybe," Rick chuckled, surveying the room with eyes hiding a film of tiredness. "Or perhaps it's time for a break. A break with caffeine. And food. I'm hungry."
"Al-always hungry," I tried to laugh in my breathless state, causing a strange, raspy chuckle to leave my pale lips.
"Who is?" Rick countered, smirking gently.
"Y-YOU!"
"True, but I have a good metabolism so it doesn't even matter what I eat," Rick shrugged, still wearing his infectious but goofy smile.
"In-insides are probably unhealth-unhealthy as anything," I added smartly, repeating the words I hear Chell say so often. I heaved myself to unsteady feet. A surge of dizziness washed through me, and I clung to Rick's arm for stability, whimpering softly. "Oww! My h-head."
"It hurts?"
"Mmmhmm"
"Uh oh. I'm sorry mate," Rick murmured quietly, so as not to give me an even worse headache. He gently helped me downstairs. As I collapsed on the sofa, I caught the edge of a worried frown when he let his poker-face expression slip briefly. Although I could feel the wet paint soaking into the sofa below me, I had no energy left to care. I closed my heavy eyelids and gave into the concussed sensation forcing me into unconsciousness.
Rick POV - Chell had set me up on a very important job today, whilst she attended some doctor's appointment. She had asked me personally to decorate the boring, empty room situated upstairs and to the back of the house, which had recently been allocated as the baby's future nursery. It held a matter of urgency, as the kid was due in a month, and could easily come early. But then again, it could come late, meaning the poor thing would already be showing characteristics of his or her father.
Chell warned me hastily that perhaps Wheatley shouldn't be allowed to help, as he's clumsy and inexperienced, just before leaving, but I arrogantly decided to let him help anyway - it was his child's new bedroom after all. Not my best decision ever. Wheatley practically fell down the stairs, hearing my voice in the hallway as I stepped into his home, and Chell stepped out. I greeted him with a warmly and we twisted our palms outwards to contribute to our top secret handshake that isn't very secret.
"Are ya up for building a baby room today then, Wheats?" I grinned, chuckling as his eyes lit up excitedly.
"You betcha!" He replied, giggling slightly with the hysteria of being able to help, like a toddler.
"Alrighty then, let's get started!" I said, picking up the giant black box at my feet with some difficulty which I tried to hide from Wheatley's curious eyes.
"What's that?" He asked, pointing to it like a five year old.
"A tool box. It has loads of tools that we'll need in it."
"Oh, okay. That will be useful I guess. No, really, I'm purely guessing, to be completely honest with you I've never decorated before, but I'm sure I will pick it up quickly - somebody once told me I am a very efficient and fast learner, although they weren't the best teacher-"
"D'ya wanna start then? Where's the decorating stuff?" I interrupted, sighing with annoyance and impatience, but feeling cheerful nonetheless. Wheatley nodded jerkily, before motioning towards the stairs and, funnily enough, allowing me to pass so he could in fact follow me, despite it being his house. I wasn't particularly sure where to go.
I could feel mystified eyes upon my arm carrying the gigantic, heavy toolbox and smiled cockily, hamming up my act. I knew the muscles in my arm would tense, separating into thick bands and showing off the large tendons reaching up from my sharp elbows until they disappeared into the tight black sleeve of my top. I swung the box to and fro ever so slightly, even though it was quite a hefty weight and made my arm ache noticeably. What can I say; I'm a smug sort of guy. Wheatley often wondered aloud how I could possibly be so muscular and physically fit when I just ate junk food constantly and I secretly enjoyed the attention. He looked away uneasily, before leaning around me and opening a door to my left.
"Here's all the stuff we'll need," he instructed me, allowing me to enter the room first. I knew the room he had motioned towards to be the study, which was often used as a dumping ground, however never before had it looked messy enough to become completely unrecognisable. Tonnes of boxes full of baby stuff leant precariously against two of the walls and a whole array of paint cans were piled up in a small pyramid, sporting loads of different colours. Paintbrushes and rollers and packets of nails littered the floor, making it like a mine field just to reach a few inches from the doorway.
"Whoa..." I muttered, gently setting my tool box on the wooden floor. "We're gonna be busy just finding the stuff we need, let alone assembling it! It's a bloomin' tip!"
"Hey! I moved everything into this room!" Wheatley complained, crossing his arms.
"Exactly," I commented slyly, smirking. Wheatley cleverly decided not to give me the satisfaction of a reaction, though I knew my teasing had an impact in some way.
"What happens first?" Wheatley whined quietly, already bored of surveying the temporary storage room.
"Well, we paint the walls in the kiddy's room - what colour does Chell want?"
He shrugged ineptly, saying how he grabbed about ten different colours and then made a dash for it. He then picked up a big paintbrush, stroking the soft bristles absentmindedly.
"Great. Well we'll have to choose then and prey she doesn't kill us for picking 'clashing colours' or something," I sighed, taking a tentative step towards the paint cans in the midst of the messy room from Hell. Wheatley hopped straight into the battlefield, collecting up painting covers (in other words old white sheets specked in dried paint from previous decorating sessions), explaining to me how every surface had to be covered whilst painting, otherwise there might be spillages on the actual desired furniture. He felt inclined to add this included the floor whilst prodding me roughly, which elicited a peeved 'no shit' from my full lips. In fact, the only thing currently in the baby's room was a floor, a door, four walls, a window and a ceiling. Wheatley handed the sheets to me, before standing still for a moment, looking awkward. I whistled, like a master would to his dog, and he snapped out of his unhelpful phase and decided to make himself useful.
Wheatley gave me a hand carrying the sheets across the hallway and into the dull white room with its pine wood planks lying solemnly beneath our feet.
"Jeez, this room looks like death warmed up! We had better shove a bright colour on the walls quickly; otherwise I might turn into a zombie from the greyness of it all!" I laughed, nudging Wheatley with a hint of rejection when he didn't join in. I couldn't be fazed for long, and proceeded to show off my best zombie impression, snorting and growling with shaky outstretched hands. To finish my performance, I leapt across his left shoulder and pretended to eat his brains as I scrabbled across his hair with stiff fingers, which I had come to know solely as either the act of a zombie, or something a cannibal would do. I suppose they're both the same thing, right? Either way, Wheatley finally laughed, pushing my face away and shaking me off, his blue eyes twinkling like a child's at Christmas. He then proceeded to grab two corners of the largest sheet and, with my help, lay it across the floor. We needed a couple more to ensure the floor was no longer visible, then we returned to the study to decide on a colour.
"Yellow?" I asked, pointing to this ghastly paint can, the shade of curdled milk, with a cheeky grin.
"No!" Wheatley initially yelped, although he began to smile back, suddenly acknowledging my joke.
"Yeah mate, I agree. So..." I paused, scratching the short, fawn
stubble covering my chin as I envisioned another suggestion.
"Green? Red? Orange? Pink? Purple?" To all of which Wheatley shook his head in a blunt manner, causing me further desperation in order to find the perfect paint.
"What about this?" I motioned to a strange shade of turquoise - the colour of sapphires and summer skies and exotic oceans all mixed into one. Even the can holding the colour appeared to shimmer and gleam like a disco ball under the spotlight; the longer we stared in awe at it, the more beautiful it became. Our eyes met, an invisible connection made between the big blue and the snake green, and both of us shouted 'yes!' triumphantly before grabbing the paint and charging out of the room excitedly.
"Oh, er... Shall I get the paintbrushes and the paint and the rollers and stuff then? What about the tool box? The nails? The furniture in their little boxes?" Wheatley asked as we stood in the empty room with only the desired paint tin, sounding a little baffled. However, he had the same joy on his tone as myself. Just as we always laughed together, played together, got into trouble together, supported each other, and sometimes, fought together. Who would've thought that the stupid man who I practically followed home all those years ago would become equally dependant on me. In that moment, the realisation hit, the metaphorical lightbulb lit above my head, and I knew I had found a best friend in the most unlikely of characters. It felt like finding the brightest of lights in the darkest of places. Up until now I had called Wheatley my 'bff' without really knowing what that meant. I then mentally hit myself for letting that wave of pathetic, cloying, poetic mush wash through me and switched my rude, arrogant facet back on.
Wheatley broke my musing anyway as he hurried over to me, and dropped an assortment of rollers and brushes at my feet. I took the paint can from him wordlessly, and pulled my car keys out of my deep trouser pocket.
"Why do you need your keys?" he quizzed, confusion pulling at his brows.
"So I can do this," I smiled, directly before using a key as leverage to pop open the stiff paint lid.
"Ahhh," Wheatley exclaimed as understanding filled him. "That's a good idea."
Placing the paint can on the floor, I hastily warned the inexperienced and clumsy decorator next to me not to knock it over. Evaluating their pros and cons, I decided which roller to equip before coating it in the gorgeous paint, and wiping it across the wall in a clean stroke. For a moment, Wheatley held an expression as though he was considering not helping after all, for fear of messing up my neat handiwork. However, one expectant glance from me struck him with a hint of guilt of impending abandonment on his behalf, urging him to pick up a brush and join in. At first he looked worried, splatting the brush unevenly across the wall, leaving too much paint on the bristles so it ran down the white in shocking drips, but after watching my own calculated strokes cautiously, he slowly began to get the hang of it. Painting wasn't hard, not really. Yet I still told Wheatley not to go near the skirting board or ceiling, knowing he would accidentally splatter them with flecks of bright blue. Which we didn't want happening, let's be honest.
At first, our banter was random and comical, but once the laughter had trailed off around two successfully painted walls later, I felt the need to step in with a more serious topic.
"So, your little baby is due in what, a month?" You haven't even told me yet, how're you holding up?"
"I'm fine..." he muttered, although his entire stance cried out 'I'm totally not fine!'.
"Awh, c'mon mate! We all know that's total bull!"
"Well, I am a teensy tiny bit afraid. But not much!"
"There's nothing wrong with that, if you just say why," I contemplated how - if any physical contact would be good - it would be of comfort to pat his bony shoulder encouragingly. Besides, I was in an exceptionally good mood today.
"Well, it used to be the fear of... Of miscarriage. But now the baby's nearly here, and I don't know how to feel. I mean, yeah sure, I know roughly what to expect and how to look after it, but I still feel afraid. I have so many questions; what if I'm a bad father, what if I do everything wrong, what if he or she hates me, I mean, I know all of this is stupid, but I don't have any positive thoughts, so if I shake the negativity I think I'll just be empty. Which is worse, in a way. And Chell is so excited, so in love with our child already, and I feel like I've done something wrong because I don't feel that," Wheatley rested his head against the wall mournfully, forgetting it was wet. I pulled his head away with lightning speed, tactfully ignoring the blue smudge on his forehead that stood out like a black cloud in a clear sky, what with his pale blonde hair.
"Aw, Wheats, I wish you would've told me earlier. A problem shared 'n' all that. Look at me," I demanded, prodding his chest a couple of times until he opened his eyes. "Look, two things. One, I know for certain that you will be at least a mediocre dad! You've kept me out of most trouble for years, if you can do that you can do anything. Secondly, it's okay to not feel as connected right now. You aren't carrying the kid inside you, Chell is quite literally connected to that baby in a way you could never be. But as soon as that little boy or girl is born, all the love and admiration you're missing right now will come rushing to you in a big wave, and it won't leave you until the day you die. Women have maternal instincts remember. Be patient, it'll be okay. I promise."
Wheatley looked close to tears as he grinned over what I just said, then pulled me into a brutally tight hug.
"Really? You're sure?" he questioned, most likely wanting to be certain in his usual irrational manner.
"I am one hundred percent guaranteeing you," I winked, smiling slightly.
"Thanks again, Rick. I don't say it enough."
"I'm touched mate, but you don't have to thank me. The truth costs nothing, eh?" I shoved myself away from his death grip, taking a step back. "C'mon, I can't deal with any more mush for today, mate. Besides, we've got two more walls then we're done for painting, so there's no point standing around as if we're watching it dry," I shrugged nonchalantly, and bent over to pick up a matted blue paintbrush which had been dropped some time earlier. Wheatley thought for a few seconds, before smiling and bending down to pick up another brush wholeheartedly.
"How should we go about doing the line by the ceiling?" Wheatley questioned after we had painted the remaining walls, pointing to the thin strip of white below the high ceiling.
"Has Chell got a step ladder?" I inquired, looking up at the walls thoughtfully.
"Erm... One sec," Wheatley muttered, before sprinting from the room. I heard his heavy footfalls as he tumbled down the stairs with his long strides, bouncing off every couple of steps. I sighed. Wheatley, back to his old antics again. Of course, there was no doubt I would soon join in too - we're both as bad as each other.
He returned several minutes later with cobwebs in his hair and dust on the seat of his jeans, lugging a folding metal step ladder. I could only assume they had a loft. He thrust it triumphantly into my arms, and flexed his sore fingers in front of his face, looking down at them as if he expected them to be bleeding or rubbed raw. I clasped the ladder to my chest, staring at him curiously for a few brief seconds, before I carefully slid the ladder up to it's full height (which still wasn't that tall) and locked the two sides together securely.
"Don't want any accidents," I muttered under my breath as I flicked the last clip and leant the ladder against the first wall we painted - the dry one. The coat of colour was supposedly super-fast drying anyway, which proved to be true.
"Aha, that'll hold!" I told Wheatley triumphantly, patting the metal with muscle-bound hands. "That'll hold or my name's not Rick H- my name's not Rick," I amended to avoid questioning on my surname.
A shiver ran through both of our spines as the ladder let out an almighty sound, somewhat close to a wildebeest bellowing, and fell opposite us with a dramatic clatter.
"I don't think your name can be Rick anymore..." Wheatley said quietly, just another wasted sentence to fill a silence. Kicking him roughly out of the way, I yanked the ladder back onto teetering legs, like a parent hauls up a small child. With strong hands, I heaved myself up the ladder and lowered an outstretched palm to Wheatley's level.
"Paintbrush," I commanded with a firm voice, not wanting to mess around up here, since it wasn't too stable. Wheatley obeyed without uttering a single word and I felt anger and determination rolling from my very centre in huge waves. He then held up the tray of blue paint for me to dip the brush in, which a acknowledged with a grateful yet stern nod and began splashing the white border with bright blue colour. Every time I completed an area, I would hop to the floor, move the ladder across the wall a few metres and repeat the process, Wheatley following me with the paint all the way.
"R-R...Rick?" He stammered softly, looking up at me like a scolded puppy.
"Yeah?"
"Ar'you mad at me?" Wheatley said quickly, one eye squeezed tightly shut in discomfort and nervousness.
"Course not!" I chuckled gently, amused by his naive approach to people's emotions. "Why would I be mad? I just don't want any accidents."
"I dunno, you just glared at me and have barely spoken so I assumed-"
"Assumed wrong, mate. Just as you usually do," I winked, and reached out to playfully bat him round the head - a sign of affection, I promise. However, the unbalanced nature of my gesture caused the ladder to whack me in the crotch, and I scrambled anxiously to get a hold on the ladder as it fell backwards, landing on my left leg heavily.
A weighty yell escaped my mouth, followed by a stream of the worst profanity. Fear pulled Wheatley's pupils into small specks amongst a sea of wide blue and he heaved the ladder off of my leg as fast as humanly possible. Long fingers pulled up the hem of my jeans, wiggling them up to just above my knee and probing the sore area about thirty centimetres above my ankle worriedly. Curious, I leant forwards to see what the fuss was about, and when I saw the cut, I understood. A long wound had split upon my leg and stood agape like a deep ravine. A shocking shade of scarlet blood trickled slowly from the gash, finding a twisted path down my calves onto the floor below as it curved through the fine hairs on my leg.
"It's okay Wheatley, really it is. It doesn't hurt all that- ahh!" I gasped as he poked the tender area where the skin tapered into the cut.
"Hmm, yeah. Like I believe you. Oh, for God's sake, can't you go one day without injury? Go downstairs and clean yourself up! There's bandages in the cupboard under the sink - plasters are too small."
Shocked into submission, I staggered to my feet and hobbled out of the room, incredibly surprised by Wheatley's strict, authoritative outburst. Usually he'd freak out and ask me desperately what to do. Weird.
Icy cold water cleansed my wound, making the blood go paler as it diluted. I continued adding fresh water, but the blood didn't diminish, so I dried the area with a towel and placed my palm on the wound to stem the bleeding. Using my free hand, I fished a bandage from the mass of first aid equipment before me and placed the soft material on my leg, wrapping it round and round and round tightly until I deemed it strong enough to suppress any blood flow. With skilled (and slightly bloody hands) I tied off the bandage and washed my hands thoroughly, not wanting to be unhygienic or stain the baby's bedroom with blood. As I made myself useful, tidying up any mess I could've just left in the kitchen, my ears pricked as I heard a crash from upstairs.
"That bloody ladder," I growled frustratedly, charging towards the origin despite the excruciating pain in my lower limb. I could just tear that hunk of junk into scrap metal! A groan followed the crash, causing my legs to pump faster as I realised that Wheatley could be hurt, just as I was. Feeling adrenalin crash through my veins, I flung myself into the room, eyes frantically flickering across my surroundings for any danger. Then I ran to Wheatley, distress lacing my every step.
Chell POV - Dusk began to prod at the sky with cloaked fingers, like Death himself. The air seemed thick, as though ribbons of shadows weaved their way in the wind around my face in a tormenting grasp. Everything that was colourful earlier had had it's cheerfulness leeched, leaving a dull grey-black colour. It was late -after the doctor's appointment I went shopping, so both my arms were laden with heavy groceries.
"It sure would be nice if Wheatley were here to help, it's awfully lonely out here at night," I murmured aloud to myself, not caring that talking to myself is crazy. Just letting my vocal chords vibrate with sound was a pleasant sensation after so many years without being able to use them and I would often hum or sing softly to myself.
Relief filled me with a warm, comforting squeeze as I rounded the corner and saw home looking back at me, it's eyes glowing with bright orange light on the lower level. Rick's house was as dark as the outside world - I deduced he was at ours still. In my front garden lay a broken step ladder. It had been pulled apart with quite a lot of force, and held dents and scratches which were definitely deliberate. My lungs filled with plenty of air, ready to question the boys fiercely if necessary. They had obviously been up to some mischief.
"I'm home!" I called, as I entered the hallway and kicked the shoes off of my sore feet.
"We're in the front room!" Rick replied, somewhat quietly. So I dumped the shopping bags by the bottom of the stairs and wandered into the well-lit room. The TV was at a low volume, showing a group of people up to silly antics. A comedy no doubt, but I could've sworn he was watching the children's channel. His eyes barely glanced upon the screen, he motioned towards the sofa, where Wheatley lay upon a sheet. He had blue paint in his hair, and his eyes were shut. Face clear from expression and pale, he would have passed as a body in a morgue. I gasped.
"What happened to Wheatley?" I yelped, going over to him and placing the back of my hand against his cool cheek.
"He fell off the ladder. So did I. That thing is a bloody hazard, I tell ya. I've seen safer crocodile-infested pools. It was so worth beatin' up! I whacked it ya see, knocked it against the ground, then pulled it back up, then ripped it apart - the ol' rickety monster. Kicked its fucking steps in!"
"Right... He's okay though, right? I can see you're fine," a smile edged onto my lips ever so slightly.
"Yeah, he's just sleeping it off. He'll be right as rain in a couple of hours. I put him on a sheet, he fell in the paint. But we finished decorating the room! Just gotta assemble the furniture and put that in there," Rick informed me excitedly. "It looks pretty good, even if I say so myself."
"D'ya wanna show me?" I asked, holding back mixed feelings of anxiety and anticipation. Rick nodded and winked, getting to his feet and grabbing my hand to gently guide me up the stairs. His hand was warm and a little bit rough, yet comforting. It was nice to be able to trust somebody.
"Ladies and... Baby, may I introduce you to your new room!" He called with a voice like a ringmaster before a huge show, opening the door with a flourish and a bow. Laughing cheerily, I entered the room and surveyed my surroundings. Gobsmacked, I took a shaky step backwards, bumping into Rick's chest. I flipped around and hugged him tightly, fighting back tears. Damn pregnancy made me oversensitive, one thing I really could not stand. His grasp was strong as he wound his arms around my back, holding me as close as possible.
"So you like it?" He asked, smirking to himself.
"Yes, I love it, thank you so much! The colour is beautiful, much better than some of the paint colours I caught a glimpse of in the other room yesterday. She'll love it!"
"She?" Rick questioned, eyebrows raised. "I thought the sex was going to stay a secret?"
"Well... The doctor accidentally told me the gender today whilst he was scanning my bump. 'She looks real strong' he said, blurting it out. Of course now I know. Please don't tell Wheatley though," I begged, leaning back to judge his facial expression. They were sincere.
"Of course I won't say anything. But, Chell?"
"Yes, Rick?"
"I bet she'll be beautiful." And he touched his silky lips against my cheek in a warm kiss, before pulling back with flushed cheeks. I smiled empathetically.
"Yeah, she will."