After the last big fight Chell had faced, her hearing had dissipated at the detination of a bomb that nearly blew her apart. It hadn't really mattered; she was about to die anyways, she was only missing out on the sounds of betrayal and viciously screaming robots. But then she'd seen the sky and the stars and the moon, and ironically enough, her hearing would have probably disappeared yet again in the vacuum of space. Again, it didn't really matter.

She could hear now, but that didn't matter either. What mattered was that the glass of the lift wouldn't break no matter how hard she hit it, no matter how many times she struck it. What mattered was that it spat her out onto the surface and Wheatley wasn't there. He was still down There covered in blood and not moving. What mattered was that the door slammed shut behind her. What mattered was that the sun was far too bright, far too hot on her face, and someone was screaming absolute incoherent nonsense as she pried at the door and begged for it to open when she knew it wouldn't. What mattered was that her hands were bleeding before someone pinned her from behind and hauled her away. What mattered was that whoever it was that stopped her was saying something that was supposed to calm her down, but she couldn't hear a word of it. What mattered was that none of it mattered.

Everything hurt.

Chell couldn't reach him. Wheatley was right there, only feet in front of her, and she couldn't reach him. She couldn't save him. She should've known. She should've seen it coming, because the cake was a lie, the cake was a lie, the cake was a lie—

Chell opened her eyes, and she was in her room, in her house. The mattress sank as someone sat next to her, and for a moment Chell hoped beyond hope, hoped beyond reason. She sat up in an instant, her voice frantic.

"Wheatley?"

Guilty green eyes looked down at her.

Oh.

"Michael." Chell distantly hoped she didn't sound as disappointed as she felt, but as everything came crashing back to her that was the least of her problems. Her voice wavered and she hated it. "I don't understand."

"It's okay. Calm down." Michael's voice was placating (she hated that, too), and his hand on her arm wasn't nearly as comforting as it should've been. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know but you have to promise- that you'll be reasonable."

Chell tried to pretend that her hands weren't shaking.

"Where is he?"

"Not here."

He looked so guilty.

She didn't care.

"What do you mean not here?" Chell was supposed to sound strong and angry (furious), but her voice broke. "Where is he?"

"Chell." Michael's voice was soft (sorry), and his gaze matched. "He never came back up the shaft. You came up alone." He stopped. "He told me-"

"Why were you there?"

Chell's words were ice.

Michael tried for a smile that he didn't quite reach.

"It would've been a long walk."

Her eyes were molten. Her voice shook with fury.

"You did this."

He looked so tired.

"You're going to be reasonable, remember?"

"We had a deal. I lived in that hospital for months because you promised me you wouldn't let him do this." Chell's eyes were so angry, so hurt. Betrayed. "And then you helped him?"

"Chell—"

Broken.

"You took him there! You left him there!"

Her eyes were ringed with angry tears, and Michael took one of her shaking hands in his.

"Do remember what you said, when you told me where you came from?" For a moment Chell looked surprised; they didn't speak of Those Days very often. "That in a place like that, you can't afford to be angry. You have to be smart." Something in his eyes was urgent. "Right now I need you to be smart, not angry. I know it's hard, because this is about him, but when it comes to that place, you can't let yourself get too emotional or you don't think. And that's when things get messy."

Chell yanked away.

"Things are already messy, because you didn't think!" She froze, her fire replaced by ice in an instant. "How messy?"

"I don't—"

"Where are the others?" Chell asked. "How much do they know?"

Michael looked from her to the window, out to the road beyond.

"They've always had a… general idea of what's out there." He said slowly. "They know that's where you went. That you're going to be okay now, but that— there was a price." Michael managed a small smile. "They're all safe. All accounted for."

Chell's eyes were empty as they met his.

"Not all of them."

(So guilty.)

"I'm sorry."

(So hurt.)

"Not sorry enough!"

"'Shell-"

"Don't!"

"He knew." Chell hated how soft his voice was, how gentle. "He knew this was going to happen, and he didn't care. He only wanted you to be okay."

She was silent for a long time, but then:

"I have to go back."

Michael looked horrified.

"Why?"

Chell glared at him, incredulous.

"Why?"

"Reasonable." Michael said. Somehow he looked exasperated and sympathetic at the same time. "Chell, he did what he did so that you could get out. If you go back, everything he did will have been for nothing." He looked so guilty, so sorry, like he knew his words would hurt her because they needed to. "He's not there. There's no point."

No point.

No one person at fault, no one person Chell could fight, no one person she could save.

Just one person gone, and nothing she could do.

For so long Chell had tried to be stoic and brave, strong, but now it felt like she was breaking in half, and she finally let herself break.

She sobbed brokenly, furiously. Michael held her as she cried, and she struggled halfheartedly, but he took it and didn't let go. Chell was so sick of feeling helpless. She hated herself for crying, and she hated Michael for holding her, and she hated herself for letting him hold her and she hated, hated, hated.

Wheatley was gone. The blue of his eyes was gone, the sound of his voice was gone, his smile was gone, he was gone. Chell was never going to see him again. She would never hear his voice again, never hear him read to her or ramble on about everything and nothing. There would be no more falling asleep next to him, no more cooking shenanigans, no more watching him explore the surface, no more reading sessions, no more cuddling, no more laughter. Chell would never even get to tell him-

God, they couldn't even have a proper funeral.

"Hey," Michael smoothed a hand between Chell's shoulder blades as she sobbed, and it felt comforting and wrong. "You're okay now. You're gonna be okay." She met his eyes, and somehow he actually seemed to believe what he was saying. "Sam's already looked you over. Says you're in perfect health. You're free to stay here if you want, or come back to the hospital if you'd rather have some company. She ordered me to stick around for a few days, just to keep an eye on you. But you're gonna be okay. Okay?"

Chell didn't answer. She stared at the window with glassy eyes, watching the dust dance in shafts of light.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She was not okay.

In her early days in Horizon, Chell spent a lot of time thinking about ghosts. At the time the ghosts she thought about were fairly far removed from her (physically speaking at least): they were orbiting the moon or miles underground, voices that no one would ever hear again, demons down under the sea. But now her house was filled with ghosts. These were much closer and not so easily labeled as bad or good.

She saw them as she sat up in the darkness of her room (Chell had become nocturnal as of late. Michael would wake her for meals but neither he nor Sam could argue that sleep wasn't good for her after everything she'd been through— and it kept her from having to face visitors.): she and Wheatley cuddling where she now sat, sleeping without a care in the world. Her on one side of the door, coughing up blood and trying not to break, him on the other, begging her to tell him what was wrong. The two of them fighting, yelling, sobbing, and then stumbling to the living room to sleep again.

Chell moved through these ghosts as she rose from bed, making her way through the hall as silently as possible.

At the sight of Wheatley's door (closed, of course), she bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood. The sight of hers was no better.

How many times had he sat outside her door, begging and pleading for her to come out. What was the matter? Why couldn't she tell him what was wrong? Whatever it was, he could help. He'd do anything to help her if she would just tell him what was wrong.

And that was why she hadn't.

Back in the living room Michael was splayed out on the couch, snoring. Chell's mouth twitched instinctively at the sound, but she kept herself from smiling: she was still mad at him. He had been hovering for days now, both because he was worried about Chell and because Ruth was… annoyed with him. She knew where Michael had gone and what he had done and the danger of it, and though she was relieved that both he and Chell were okay, she wasn't thrilled with Michael.

Chell wasn't thrilled with him either.

She told herself that she didn't want him here, hovering and pestering her, but if (when) he left it would just be her and her empty, silent house (she used to love the silence, she ruefully remembered when it had disappeared, and she'd wished for it to return), and she wasn't ready for that, either.

The ghosts in the living room were more bittersweet than those in her room and the hall: she and Wheatley curled up together on the couch, reading a book or watching a movie, or sleeping in front of fire. Him taking care of her when she was sick; her taking care of him when he was new.

The kitchen was full of mischief: cooking disasters and shenanigans so bizarre that even Chell had been too shocked to do anything but laugh. There were water fights when dish washing had gone array (she was surprised he'd gone along with that), day long baking sessions during their first (and last) Christmas together, countertops covered in flour and sprinkles, frosting and cookie dough. The warm lull of the countertop radio in the background of it all, watching the snow drift to the ground outside the window.

Chell sat at Michael's feet on the couch, and thought about time.

Time travel, if such a thing did or ever would exist, depended as much on space as it did time. Because even if you were in the right time, if you were in the wrong place, it was pointless.

Chell was in the right place now— Wheatley had spent countless afternoons sitting next to her in this exact spot— but she was in the wrong time. It hurt to know that he had been in every place she could see. It hurt that Chell had to keep seeing these places, keep remembering that he had been there and never would be again. It was like he was right in front of her but too far away to reach. All that was left were his ghosts, and she was becoming one, too.

Chell had memories that weren't hers.

She had vivid dreams of a younger version of herself face to face with a younger version Wheatley, the two of them divided by a glass wall. Of seeing the surface for the first time- but not after her escape from there- with him by her side, smiling at her helplessly as he watched her stare open mouthed at the stars. There were gaps in the memories- they were sporadic and dark after that night on the surface- and before Wheatley appeared they were almost nonexistent.

It was surreal.

Chell had never remembered anything before waking up to Her voice all those years ago, to what she had assumed was her first round of testing. But ever since she'd returned home new memories were materializing out of nowhere. The darkness she'd searched through for so long was suddenly coming to light, and in light of recent events it was both painful and pleasant.

She had known Wheatley Before. They had known each other before that place twisted them into what they were now. When they were still young and naive, before they had used each other for their own selfish gains. They had really been friends, once. There was a time when they genuinely cared about one another. When they were the only people who cared about each other.

It made thinking of what came afterward even harder.

Chell stared at the ceiling and remembered that the cake was a lie, the cake was a lie, the cake was a lie.

It was something Chell had ingrained in herself since she first arrived in Horizon, because (in her mind, at least) those words were about so much more than cake.

In That Place, anything pleasant was a lie. Trust was a lie. Friends were a lie. Safety was a lie. A promise was a lie.

And so Chell knew that— even on the surface, even in her freedom— happiness, and safety, and love, wouldn't mean the same thing to her as they would to others. Those things would be a danger to her and anyone she was close to when she finally established her new life, because, like the phrase itself, she was from There.

Even after three years of peace Chell couldn't shake the feeling that, (if ever She wanted to) if She couldn't drag her Back of her own will, She would take someone Chell loved and make them both suffer. No one close to Chell was safe.

When she and Wheatley first... became close, Chell wondered if things might be different with him. He was from There, too. Which meant that her growing closer to him shouldn't endanger him anymore than he already was. But he confessed so soon, when things were still early and complicated, and no matter what she felt Chell couldn't get that image out of her mind, of him suffering at Her hands because of her.

When he said I love you, it said impossible. Irrelevant. No matter what Chell wanted or how badly she wanted it, they were from There, and the cake was a lie.

Chell thought back to the night Wheatley stole her books, and everything he'd said about her was true. Voluntarily or not, she had held onto so many terrible things from that place- her stubbornness being the most prominent. Thinking about that scared Chell, because it was such an important part of her. She didn't give up. It was who she was. And it was only who she was because of Aperture. It made her wonder where That Place ended and she began. The part of her most rooted in That Place, the part that kept her stoic and unfeeling and constantly reminded her that the cake was a lie, knew that there was no reason to even imagine seeing Wheatley again. That doing so would only hurt her. That it was completely illogical.

But still she leafed through the book of poems, still she remembered, still she read:

'Hope is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all…'