It is by suffering that human beings become angels.
-Victor Hugo
-:-
White wings rotted, the feathers charring black and curling like dead leaves. The angel of death straddled him, her hand pressing, but not crushing. Tendrils of hair escaped her messy ponytail and dangled in his face. He made himself meet her eyes. Grey twinned with blue, storm clouds breaking over the ocean. They raked over his face with a cold interest, a tiger studying its prey.
He had to look away.
Don't let her! said Cube. Not after all that. Not after you fought so hard to stay alive.
"Staying alive isn't the same as living," he whispered. Chell's fingers tightened, and again he met her eyes. "It would be kind." He sounded as though he had swallowed sand. The back of his mouth burned for water, but it didn't matter now. Thirst would be one of his last human experiences, right along with asphyxiation. No doubt GLaDOS would be thrilled when she found out. The last staff member reduced to another body rotting on the shiny floor of Aperture. The image wasn't exactly comforting, but the thought of peace, a way out of this madness, was far too tempting.
Suicide's a sin, Henry said in a memory, but so is murder.
Poor Doctor Field. Do you think he made the right choice? Another memory, the first thing GLaDOS had said to him when he dared use the security cameras to look into her chamber. For once, he didn't notice her. All he could see was Henry lying on the floor, his head –
He shuddered. That wouldn't be the last thing he saw in his mind. He needed something he had enjoyed, something beautiful. Chell shifted on top of him, and he realised he didn't need to look far. The hand had started to clamp down and his lips tingled with trapped blood. Their eyes met again and he tried his best to smile. I don't hate you. He raised a hand and ran his fingertips across her cheek. What did it matter now? He was going to die anyway –
No. He had been dead for a long time.
The world began to dim, black blooming at the edges of his vision. Grey dots swam, little fish that grew bigger and bigger, eating all the light. His body twitched, the primal instinct to survive kicking in, but frantic flails were reduced to tremors.
Yeah, that's right, Doug, Henry cooed, louder than usual. We're all waiting for you. We can work together again. There's so many more experiments we can do, and we'll have an eternity to do them all –
No! He felt Cube's panic, but there was nothing he could do now. Darkness rolled across his eyes. Henry grabbed his shoulder, pulled him down. Cube's wings pulled him up.
He didn't care which way he went. It was over.
Silence in his head.
At last.
Silence.
-:-
Noise.
Sensation.
Slick warmth spread across his shirt. Oil, something leaking oil. How could that be? Aperture hadn't used oil as fuel for decades. The choking pressure around his throat and the weight on his lower stomach had vanished. Light began to filter through the darkness, bit by bit. Breath rasped back into his lungs. Pain shot through his chest with the thud of his heart. The world appeared as a dirty-white halogen blob. When he blinked, the pictures on the wall materialised in stinging detail. He sat up, and the rush of blood to his head made the room spin. His neck felt swollen, bruised, and when he swallowed it was like trying to force a whole egg down his oesophagus. A sudden coughing bout scraped his throat raw and turned his mouth into a desert. Damn, now he really needed some water.
Still alive! Cube chirped. A foul answer nearly found its way past the egg, but then he noticed the blood. All the blood. So much more than before. Fear drove a dagger of ice into his stomach. He was on his feet before the thought had registered and raised his head to look at Chell. What he saw almost turned it away.
She was leaning against the wall, hunched over and shaking. One hand smeared red over Schrödinger's cat and the other pressed against her side. As he watched, her face tightened, eyes closing and mouth opening as a spasm shook her body. Blood ran rivers down the orange jumpsuit and dripped onto the floor.
She didn't make a sound.
He snatched at a discarded medi kit and fumbled through band-aidsand tape. The wounds in her side must have torn open as she leaped on him. Damn, damn, damn – he should have listened to Henry. Plastic wrappings tangled around his fingers. Why did the gauze and bandages have to be at the very bottom? Eyes followed his movements, narrowed by pain. Her breath came in hard pants, rattling like there was a piece of metal in her lungs. He hoped not. He could barely deal with lacerations; conducting full-blown operations would put him in a nervous coma.
Gauze – check. Now he just needed – bandages. Check. Next came the hard part.
He faced her, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. The band of tight heat around his neck hadn't eased, but the egg had shrunk to a marble. When he spoke, his words rasped like sandpaper against old wood.
"I'm not hers."
Eyes watched him, bright with pain. Did she even understand what he was saying? He took a step towards her, stopped when she flinched back. Then took a breath. Another step.
All the blood, moaned Cube. Oh, God, how can you bear it?
It's just blood, you silly little prop. Test subjects are full of it, they leak it all the time during experiments. This is no different. Henry sounded sniffy.
Ignoring them hadn't worked for the past twelve years and it wouldn't work now. "Hush. Both of you. I need to concentrate." Chell bared her teeth at his voice and tried to shrink back further. Her back pressed flush against the wall, and those stormy eyes widened. He could almost hear her thoughts – Trapped. No escape. Pain. Flee. Although it tore him apart inside, losing her would be even worse.
Gotta hurt to help, said Henry before slinking away. And you will hurt her.
It almost made him wish she was still unconscious. The gauze and bandages were crushed in his fist. No more hesitating. Hesitating could mean her death. Blood didn't care about feelings, it flowed where it could. The last few steps to her were crossed as quickly as he dared. Her face filled his vision, eyes still wide and lips parting as he leaned in close. Fingers slid the Aperture Science issue t-shirt up, trembled against the padding; he was shaking more than her. Couldn't touch. Had to touch. Hesitation would kill her. No more, do something. His hand wrapped around the one she held against her side (so small, so soft) and gauze dabbed the sodden bandages he had –
Pain cracked through the side of his face. His head snapped back and a cry burned his throat. Dots of colour burst like fireworks behind his eyelids. He blinked, shook his head to clear it just in time to see Chell raise her fist again.
For a person suffering severe blood loss, her physical abilities were still remarkably... physical. The second punch almost dislodged his hold and he felt a smooth trickle run from his nose. He hunched his shoulders, kept his hands pressing down. When he opened his mouth to ask her to stop, the next blow hit the side of his jaw. He stumbled backwards, but his hands gripped tighter.
They fell together, her body against his. His shoulders and back smacked against the floor. More bruises that wouldn't heal. She rolled off him and lay on her side, pain pinching her lips into a white line. Ignoring the ache in his back, he sat up and reached for the medi kit. A high-pitched whine cut through his ears and more blood dripped from his nose. He gave himself a quick check-over – nothing broken, just swelling and bruises. His teeth rattled when he turned his head, though whether that was from her punches or a lack of vitamin C he didn't know. He hoped for the former; scurvy was a hell of a way to go.
Flesh quivered under his hands. Her arms jerked as though she was trying to lift them, but soon dropped beside her head and stayed there. He snipped away the saturated bandages, aware of her eyes still fixed on him. That look of desperation and defiance felt so familiar. Where had he seen that before? Gauze blotted with red as he tried to remember. A tiger's gaze behind a storm…
A painting. No – several paintings. A wall of time hanging in Aperture's lobby, the first thing that greeted all new staff members. Cave Johnson glared at them from canvases, shrinking even the most rowdy scientist under his painted stare. Whoever the artist was, they deserved a medal. Each painting seemed ten years older than the last, beginning with a young, smiling man who seemed to know that he was surveying the latest batch of Aperture's recruits. You belong to us now. That smile had faded through the years. The last picture showed him pale, gaunt, dark rings under his eyes, knuckles white as he gripped the arm of his chair. The storm clouds seemed their darkest ever, lightning threatening to tear through them at any moment. I will not die. I refuse to die.
"'And they die an equal death - the idler and the man of mighty deeds.'"
Chell stirred at his words, though he suspected that was probably because of his voice and not her recognition of Homer's Iliad. She most likely didn't even know that a world existed outside of Aperture's shiny white walls. He taped a section of gauze down and hoped that she wouldn't bleed through it. "Henry loved him," he said, the words awkward in the quiet room. Talking to a real person felt so strange. "Always wanted to be like him. In a way, he was. The same desire for results. The same disregard for –" Human life, he finished inside his head.
But I always liked you, Doug. You were my favourite assistant, did you know that? The ghost of Henry's hand lay on his shoulder. I saved you. Out of all the brilliant minds in that room, I gave the key to safety to the scruffy little schizophrenic technician who was scared of other people. If I had such a disregard for life, why would I do that? Why would I help you?
He closed his mouth. Henry hadn't known it would turn out the way it did. Those words were just wishful thinking on his part. He had been given the key card so he wouldn't panic and make a scene.
For the thousandth time in that room, he wondered if, at the very end, Henry had regretted it all.
Chell's arm lifted again, and it was his turn to flinch away. All she did, however, was lay her hand over the gauze he had taped down, delicate fingers examining the patch of cotton. Her eyes stayed on him, almost accusing, and he could see her make the connection. Maybe that would be enough to keep her from hitting him again. Her other arm braced against the floor. The breath caught in his throat, one hand going to her hip in warning. Surely she couldn't.
Lips curled away from her teeth as she hauled herself into a sitting position. Pain flashed across her face again, but behind it, determination sparked. He stood, took a step back and held his hands out, palms facing towards her. Now he just had to hope that she recognised body language. And language in general.
"I don't think you should do that. Please. You could rip the wound open again, and you really don't have that much blood left to lose. Look, just stay lying down, and I'll see if I can – no, don't try to –"
She rose to one knee, the heel springs clicking against the floor. Bloody fingers clenched, the index one on her left hand twitching almost spasmodically. Like a newborn fawn she wobbled to her feet before stumbling back down. Anxiety made him dart forward and her pointed glare sent him right back again.
Cube watched along with him, silently urging her on. Its excitement surprised him. She had killed it once.
And you've killed me many times.
His lips pressed together hard and the corners of his eyes began to prickle. He sniffed, said nothing.
A smacking sound jolted his focus. She had made it to the wall and stood shaking, still watching him. The blood on her face had dried, and now he wanted to touch her, to wipe all that blood off and then keep touching. Her hand slapped the wall again and her lips curved upwards. That smile drew a frown from him. It wasn't a real smile – it felt imitated, like a robot that had been given a picture and a theory but had no real feeling behind the movement. He cleared his throat, unsure of exactly what he wanted to say, and then tilted his head as her arm stretched out, palm open. That false smile had disappeared behind a blank veil. He took a step forward.
"What do you want?" Her brow furrowed and fingers twitched up in impatience. "Chell? Can you understand me? Can you talk?"
She's broken. Henry said, not without some glee.
"She isn't." What did she want? "Just… point. Can you do that?"
The hand remained outstretched. He swallowed, tried not to let the curl in his stomach overwhelm him. Henry couldn't be right. She was a thing of perfection – an angel. Angels did not break.
Her fist hit the wall this time. He jumped back, nearly tripped over his own feet. She held one finger up and then traced it around the gauze. Heat crept into his face. Of course. He stooped to pick up the bandages off the floor, still keeping his eyes on her, and then reached out his own arm. The cool silk of her skin brushed his as their fingers touched. It lit a fire in his cheeks. He wondered if the bare skin of her arm would be that silky, or her shoulder, neck, or further down –
Henry's disgust doused cold water over his emotions. That's sick, Doug. She's a test subject. You'd be better off going and fucking a turret instead of her. Try and have a little bit of dignity, will you?
"I can think what I like –"
No. You can't.
The urge to run to his locker and gulp down the last two pills had never been so strong.
Chell tied the ends of the bandage together and tucked the knot underneath. Tidy. He couldn't have done a better job. She looked strangely proud, like a child who had just learned how to tie her shoelace. It made him want to pat her arm, congratulate her. Stupid. She was an adult, was he really going to patronise her in such a way?
A sigh escaped her as she leaned against the wall, and, after another glare at him, closed her eyes. Relief swept through him. She wasn't bouncing around the room, or trying to pounce on him again – maybe they could, calmly, talk. Or rather, he would talk to her and she would stare at him like he was mad.
You are mad. Do you think she can sense it, that huge fuck-up in your brain? Do you think she can tell you're a crazy man?
Leave him alone! Cube was his little mongoose against the snake that Henry had become.
I'm sorry, I don't talk to inanimate objects. You're not even real. You were never real.
I'm real… aren't I?
In the corner, Cube lay on its side, a nasty scar running through the exposed heart. He smiled, although his throat constricted around his next words.
"Of course you're real. As real as I am –"
Something bumped against his shoulder, knocked him against a wall. Dazed, he shook his head and blinked. What on earth was that? Had he been wrong, did Chell decide that he needed another throttling?
She still needed his help – there was no way he would die before he was absolutely sure she would recover. He spun, prepared to dart away if she went for him, but what he saw made him freeze. The lump in his throat came back with vengeance.
Elegant fingers stroked the dents and pitted scars that marred Cube's surfaces. A small, real smile on Chell's face made his hand clench, though not in anger. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She knelt down beside Cube, and the position reminded him of someone praying. The carpet wore out under his feet as he paced in the background. They both seemed so happy to see the other, so much so that he felt like an intruder on the scene, a stranger interrupting an emotional reunion between two friends.
Scents mingled in the air where she had rushed past him, sweat and blood weaving through one another. Delight and self-disgust fought an equal battle inside his body as he took a deep breath. Arousal, a sensation he thought buried for good, prickled in his groin. He bit the inside of his lip until it tasted sharp and turned his attention to other things. Chell had nearly died of blood loss. She needed water and food. His own body could go to hell.
Water first. Easy enough – Aperture had a water distilling tank used for certain tests, and he had managed to store much of it throughout the facility. GLaDOS had been most vocal about the exploration of exposing test subjects to environments in which their respiratory functions were hampered. Her hypothesis had been that they would solve tests quicker when experiencing the effects of drowning.
All the researchers managed to glean from those tests was a room full of dead subjects and a lot of wet turrets.
The small cupboards in the office had proved a godsend. He rifled through one, knocking away paint cans and brushes until he found the handle of one of the water containers. Heartbeat loud in his ears, he turned to Chell and Cube, clutching the water against his chest as though it were a precious child. Would she thank him, maybe offer him a smile? He cleared his throat and walked towards her, pausing for a fraction of a second after each step in case her body language told him to back off.
"I… thought you might like some water. It's clean. Quite lukewarm, but clean. You must be thirsty after doing those tests. And after your… accident." He sat the water container in front of her, blushing like a child offering flowers to a monarch. Cube purred as she stared at him, her fingers still moving across its surface. "I know how it feels to lose one. To be forced to kill it after it helped you. She's done it to me before. They come back, of course, but it's still so hard." Was that twitch of her lips a reflection of grief or mockery? Either way he retreated to a respectful distance and leaned against a wall. Staring at her so hard was probably detrimental to what he was trying to achieve, so he averted his eyes, pretended to examine the painting of Cube with wings.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slender arm stretch out for the container. In a way it felt so wrong – like he was feeding a particularly skittish animal at the zoo. The last thing he wanted her to be was an animal. Angels were not broken, and they were not animals. She had to use both hands to lift it to her mouth, and for a moment he was terrified that she would rip her wound open again, but the look of contentment on her face when she took the first swallow set him at ease.
When he moved towards the cupboard again she set the water down and tensed, tracking his movements. He spared her one quick glance and then turned his attention back to the cupboard. A thick file lay on one shelf, the pages tattered, smudged, and curling in the corners. Her file. All the words, charts and graphs were tattooed inside his memory. An old photo glared at him from the page, matched the one she wore so frequently.
Chell. Last name redacted.
His finger brushed the photograph, touched her printed face. Even back then, she had been beautiful. The interview he could recite without looking, (and he would be lying if he didn't admit to doing just that a few times) and every time it gave him strength.
Why should Aperture Science accept you as a research volunteer, and would anyone file a police report if you went missing?
HR Notes: Subject refused to answer.
Do you have any self-esteem issues that could hinder/assist scientific research, and if not, would you be willing to create some?
HR Notes: Subject refused to answer.
Are you aware that we accept lack of answers as consent?
HR Notes: Subject refused to answer.
The bruises around his neck throbbed. Saliva drenched his mouth in the effort to rehydrate. He looked up from the file, saw Chell was still drinking, and bent his head to the paper again. He could wait.
Subject shows abnormal levels of tenacity. She never gives up. Ever. Testing would defeat purpose of research, and a recorded hostility test yielding 98.52% shows subject could realistically prove a threat to other subjects/staff/facility. HR Notes: Subject had to be sedated for three hours of hos- test. Recommend a repeat with stronger restraints.
Rejected. Do NOT test.
Underlined for emphasis. Someone had been scared of her.
Soft footsteps scuffed against the carpet. Before he could look up again, the file was snatched from his hands. He blinked, almost took a step backwards. She fled back to the corner with Cube, holding the file above her head as though in triumph of her little skirmish. To his surprise, he nearly went after her. That file had seen him through some difficult times, and if she tore it up–
No. She had a right to see it.
Her eyes flicked over the pages. Left to right, drop, then left to right again. She could read.
A gush of breath left him, relief weakening his knees. She still retained the mental capacity to recognise letters and words, but did she understand what he was saying? He opened his mouth to ask her, and then noticed how her brow furrowed and lip curled.
Her eyes rose to his. She lowered the file.
Under that cold gaze, instinct made him shrink back against the wall. Orange and red blurred, grew closer. His own eyes found a spot on the floor to focus on. Apologies rotted on his tongue. There was nothing he could say to make it better. She had read their crimes against her, and she would judge him.
A piece of paper was thrust in his face. He flinched, then drew back. The page had come from the file, her details bulleted down the side. Height. Weight. Age. Method of acquisition.
We tore her away from everything, and it was so sweet to watch. Like ripping a baby from a womb. Oh, you should have been there, Doug. You should have seen her eyes.
Henry's increasing vitriol scared him more than the thought of GLaDOS finally entrapping him in a test chamber. What was wrong with him?
You're getting closer, said Cube.
"To what?" Chell waved the paper in front of him again. He took it from her, but his attention was on Cube.
To the edge.
Yes. You don't know how right you are, little prop. Henry slithered around his mind, pale coils insubstantial, but constricting nonetheless.
"This will be over before then." Childish wishing. He looked at the paper, Chell's finger jabbing at the top line.
Subject name: Chell [REDACTED].
Someone had been scared of her, and someone, maybe the same person, had wanted her to disappear into the system.
Strands of black hair fell across her face as she watched him. Sweat and blood reached his nose again and his heart thudded hard inside his chest. He started breathing through his mouth.
"I don't know who you were – are." Her lips pressed together and one hand clenched into a fist. "I'm sorry. I- I looked. I tried to. They changed it years ago, purged a lot of things from the records. I couldn't even recover it using Cave Johnson's details." The next words were considered very carefully. "I think you were someone important. Or you threatened Aperture somehow. Have you heard of Black Mesa?"
A blank stare.
"Do you remember anything before you woke up in the Enrichment Centre?"
Her expression didn't change.
He sighed and eased his body away from her. The painting of Angel Chell graced the wall in front of him. He fought the urge to run a hand over it. "I'm one of the people who did this. So if you want to leave, you can. I won't try and stop you." The lump in his throat was back. Tears prickled. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the angel's stomach. "This has to end. And if it means anything, I'm sorry it had to be you."
Cool plaster soothed hot skin. He could smell the dry paint against his nose. Any moment now, the door would whoosh open and she would vanish back into the bowels of Aperture.
And he would be alone again.
"I'll be all right," he whispered against the wall, "I'm always all right. Always alone and always right. Lucky, lucky rats. You can't fire rats. Just make them run the maze again and again and again until they fall down–"
The tears ran. He braced his hands against the wall and gritted his teeth. "But the maze doesn't have an end. A circle. Infinity. It happens again. You'll leave like he did. You'll leave, and then everyone will die. I told him not to go. I… I tried. I didn't want anyone to die!"
He turned, saw her standing just feet away. Through the blur of tears, her head tilted at him, face a smudge of colour. "Don't leave." The quiver in his voice made him cringe. Clinging to her like a child with its favourite toy was –
Pathetic, Doug. Really.
"I'm sorry." He didn't know who he was apologising to. Chell frowned, but, after wiping away the tears, he couldn't see any real anger in it. She stalked back over to Cube, stroking the metal with sincere devotion. His eyes followed the movements her hands made. Fingertips trailed over the scars and bullet holes. He had scars. Maybe she would touch him like that –
Focus, said Cube. There's other things to do here, and it's getting harder to hold on to you.
It was right. She didn't seem to be going anywhere for the moment.
Hunger rolled inside him, thunderous in its demands. He picked up the water container and sated the barren desert in his mouth, drinking and drinking until his stomach felt full. His head cleared a little, and he managed to force away all the buzzing energy between his legs. Definitely not the time for things like that.
The cupboard again, and this time his hand disappeared even further inside. One thing that really hit home in the past few months was how the value of things changed. Life was no longer about the thrill of creation, or promotions, or pay checks. When it came down to it, very few things really mattered.
He withdrew his arm. This. This little tin can. All the money in the world couldn't make him part with it. All the scientific knowledge of the future wouldn't force him to give it up.
And he was going to hand it over to her in a heartbeat.
Knees creaking, he sat on the floor a couple of metres from her, placed the can between them and crossed his legs. She watched, wary. For a while, he didn't move. Staring might have upset her, so he let his eyes run over Cube, the floor and the wall. His hands rested on his knees, palms up and open in placation. Weaponless. Not a threat. No reason to panic.
Seconds inched by, stretching into minutes. The nervous hunch of her shoulders eased. She began to look at the can more than at him.
"You're hungry after all those tests, right?" Her gaze flicked to his face as he spoke. "This is my last can. I'm sorry. If I had more…"
If I had more, I would still give you every last one.
He took the tin, hands shaking for a different reason than her proximity, pulled the ring tab back, then peeled the lid off.
A summer's day cocooned in metal. Juice. Fruit trees. He was eight again. The only false voices were the ones he gave to the townspeople as Godzilla rampaged around Legoville. Peach trees grew wild in the garden, the heat turning the fruit on the branches until the boughs bent under their weight. They would pluck them off, he on his father's shoulders to reach the highest, then bite through the velvet and into the sweet mush beneath.
He glanced down at the sunny segments in their syrup, and the smell bloomed up at him like an invisible flower. A tight groan left his throat. His stomach yowled back, demanding sustenance that had been denied by water. It would be so easy to take a couple, just a couple. He could almost taste them – sugary and slick in their own juice. Chell shifted. He hadn't even realised his hand was halfway to the can. Trembling, he pulled back, clenched his jaw against the flood in his mouth.
Light flashed off the tin as she raised it. Nostrils quivering, she took a deep, delicate sniff and blinked as though surprised. A smile cracked his chapped lips.
"I know, they're nice. Go ahead. All for you."
Suspicion narrowed her eyes, but the rim touched her mouth anyway. One sip and she paused, regarded the contents again, and then threw her head back, throat bobbing as she gulped. Her eyes closed. A trickle of syrup slipped down her chin, her neck. He swallowed hard.
Lips swollen and breathing fast, she placed the can back on the floor. Her tongue swiped over the wayward juice on her chin.
The threads of the carpet seemed incredibly interesting today.
Metal scraped against cotton. The tin appeared in his view. He frowned, looked up at her. She stared back, raised her eyebrows as though his unspoken question was obvious. Half the peach segments were still there. He pushed it back to her.
"I can't."
A palm slapped the ground. He didn't relent. "No. You need it more than I do."
She stood, face blank, and walked past him. He grabbed the tin, wobbling as he got to his own feet. "Chell – wait a moment." Her back to him, eyes on his paintings. "Wait. Here, have the rest, please." He offered the tin. All she did was cross her arms, regarding the pictures like a critic at an art gallery. He sighed, risked another look in the tin. Those peaches looked so good…
Cube whispered, afraid she would overhear. You can't make her eat. And if she wants you to have some, maybe you should.
"It wouldn't be right. It doesn't matter what happens to me."
Ultimately, what does matter?
"That she lives."
That matters to you. Maybe to her, it matters that you live.
Red against orange. She bled because of what they did. He would be a fool to entertain the idea that she cared for him, that she reciprocated his desires. Going down that path would only lead to disappointment.
He would keep her as an angel. Untouchable. Something to be worshipped, not lusted after.
And there's the matter of your contract, Henry said, fangs poised. I think 'fucking test subjects' is pretty high up on the list of shit that gets your ass kicked out. Why don't you do yourself a favour. For once. Take her to a test chamber. Let's test her again. For Aperture. Think of all the data we could gather from such a tenacious little girl –
Sugar burned on his tongue, down his throat.
Slices of pleasure slid into his mouth. Too fast to taste. Not enough time to chew.
Metal bent under clutching fingers. Tears.
Moans vibrated his body. Warmth spread from his stomach and set fire to the tips of his fingers. Lava boiled through his veins.
Energy filled him to the brim, overflowed.
He lived.
-:-
He was still holding the can to his mouth long after the final drop of syrup had vanished.
Sheer will forced his hand down. His panting sounded more like sobbing. Pleased, his stomach gave a final gurgle and then fell silent, setting about digesting its first proper meal in months.
Henry slithered back to a hole in his mind. No doubt there would be ramifications for the interruption, but at that moment he didn't care. His brain seemed to have overdosed him on endorphins. A smile tugged the corners of his lips up. This was because of her. She definitely needed thanking.
Her finger, tapping again. This time on one of the paintings. He focused on it, glad to see it stayed motionless on the wall. Cake. A slice of chocolate cake with a cherry balancing on top. The smile on his face threatened to morph into laughter.
"Do you know what I went through to get those peaches? I think cake's off the menu for now."
She shook her head, tapped again and then shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh." The flare of endorphins shrank into a flickering flame. "You want to know what that's all about."
Face blank, she blinked at him. He hoped that was her way of affirmation.
"She – uh, you know, her – she asked us for a motivation. You know. For… test subjects." He scratched a white drop of paint from the wall. Couldn't look at her. "It was supposed to be a joke. What do human females love more than anything else? What would make them run through turrets and across toxic water? Cake. It was supposed to be a joke, that's all." His throat tightened, made his voice thick. "Just a joke."
She certainly wasn't laughing. Nor were the hundreds who came before her.
(We're still here.)
The flame dwindled to a tiny spark.
He kept his eyes on his finger, still scratching though the paint drop had gone. If he looked up and saw disgust on her face, or hatred, GLaDOS wouldn't have to chase him around the facility. He would find a test chamber to sit in, and wait for the neurotoxin to seep out of the walls all by himself.
Flesh against feathers. Her fingers traced each one. Skin, almost as pale as white paint, brushed the wings on the wall. Daring to raise his head, he saw the way she bit her lip and peered up at her angel portrait from beneath black strands. It wasn't hard to deduce her thoughts. Sprouting wings had been a dream of his even before he had become trapped in this place. Who didn't want to fly?
When they touched the painted GLaDOS, Chell's fingers stopped, then snatched away. She stepped back and looked at him, eyes wild.
"It's all right. She can't reach us here."
Her gaze went to all corners of the room. Not convinced. "Trust me, if she could I would be dead long before now. These are the maintenance areas. Not AI controlled, thank God, but she tries her hardest."
Suspicion resurfaced. She returned to Cube. Her arms wound around its frame, lifting and hugging it against her chest. Frost covered his heart, chilled all the way down to the pit of his stomach and turned the peach remains to ice. Fear of being too close to her and too far away warred inside him. He held up his hands. One of the scattered pages of her file lay at his feet, a graph detailing her tenacity level. He swept it aside with his foot.
"Please." Henry snorted at his begging, the sound closer than it had ever been. "Please don't take it away."
Narrowed eyes went to Cube, back to him, and then to the door.
"It's all I have."
Her consideration lasted a lifetime. Cube said nothing, and he felt a little hurt by its silence. Did it prefer her?
Henry smiled inside his head. Something like that, Doug.
A whimper drove up his throat. He forced it down, the bitter aftertaste chasing away any lingering memory of the peaches. Her eyes gleamed. Under the lights, and with the white walls all around them, they contained tiny moons. She stepped towards him, so close that he could hear every breath she expelled, see the fibres of her t-shirt and how the blood soaked through them. Close enough to study the lines of her face.
An edge of Cube pushed into his chest. He grunted, blinked down at it. She pushed with a little more force. Teeth against her lip again, and this time it was her eyes that couldn't meet his. Stars glittered around the moons. Guilt ripped a hole in his stomach, filled it with ice. How could he make her understand?
The stars fell. She placed Cube on the floor at his feet, a hand patting the metal sides. A moment's pause, and she lay a kiss against one of the hearts. It nearly broke his.
She stood straight and almost military, arms at her side and her chin tilted up. The stars had left sparkling trails in their wake, but no more tumbled from the heavens. Expression leached from her face. She passed him, her shoulder brushing against his, left him trembling and staring at the wall. Schrödinger's cat blinked, the movement in slow, jerking frames. The flames around Angel Chell's legs crept higher.
He turned. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Something in his ear whispered
(Shhhhh.)
and the words wouldn't come.
Her hands on the doorframe. Face towards him. Orange and white and red, red, red. The world smelled of smoke and ash, sullied the white with its mere presence.
He stretched out his arm towards her, what he wanted to say lodged and tangled in his throat like barbed wire. Legs took him one step, then stumbled him onto a knee. The orange and red faded into the darkness. Her eyes were the last things to leave him – storm clouds heavy with pity.
Then darkness.
A scream filtered through the barbed wire as a choking squeak. His arm ached, stayed outstretched. She might come back, burst back through the doorway any second, gather her in her arms and say –
It's over, Doug. Go to sleep.
Just a voice. Could have been Henry, or Cube, or neither. He didn't care.
Painted flames turned painted legs to dust. Angel Chell threw her head back in a scream, wings scraping the walls in repetitive motions like the kicking legs of a dying deer. Schrödinger's cat jumped out of the box.
He gathered Cube up, sat in the corner. Eyes pressed against cold metal until muddy greens and yellows swirled behind his lids.
Smoke and ash.
And voices.
He blocked his ears. Didn't help. They nudged him, whispering and shouting all at once. Individual words were hard to discern, but the tone slipped into his chest and froze his heart. A sob rose, spluttering from him.
They clamoured. They shrieked. They swirled around him, everywhere and nowhere.
And then they stopped.
He didn't know how long he waited. When he opened his eyes, the world was a blur and an ache penetrated his head. Colours danced against white. His paintings.
"Doug."
Rapid blinking was slow to clear his vision, so he closed his eyes once more. Still silent. The ache disappeared. He dared to look.
Henry knelt in front of him. The bullet hole at his temple dribbled a steady stream of blood down his face and on to the collar of his labcoat. Mist plumed in brown irises.
He was smiling.
"Saddle up, Doug," he said, offering his hand. "Time to go."
-:-
No, I am very much alive. Thanks to everyone who kicked my ass via PM's and reviews (or even psychic thoughts) and just everyone who reviewed/favourite/alerted. Hell, even if you just read it, that's great. Hope you enjoyed it. :) Beta'd by Maiafay, who catches those missing commas for me!
I wanted to write some observations (and excuses) about this chapter, but they're too long for this A/N. So I stuck it on the version of this chapter that is now on my DeviantArt page. Link's in my profile, if you are burning with desperation to see what I think.