Direct sequel to Dreamer.
Inspiration
Paintings. Paintings and drawings and art littered her room, a jumble of beautifully rendered images from various events in her life and dreams. Someone had once recommended she sell them, but always she refused. Another had taken a portrait of her main subjects, Him in his Management chair, Her in her Chassis, and asked who they were. Chell's eyes had locked on a space somewhere between liquid gold and stormy blue, and murmured, "My muses."
She thought she'd come to terms with the fact she'd never see them again, that no matter how much she missed His waterfall of a voice, no matter how curious she was about how She was doing down there, they were both beyond her reach. She'd frankly been so busy building up her resistance to the illogical pain of their loss to prepare herself for what she would do if one of them ever did stumble back into her life.
And now here she was, surrounded by incriminating pictures that showed just how badly she'd reacted to being expelled from everything she'd ever known, with no idea how to hide them before He got worried (or just bored) and came to check on her. She didn't want to risk damaging them, these things she'd worked so hard on, these reminders of her past life, so just ripping them down was out of the question…not that she had a container to properly store them.
At least most of them are on the same wall as the door, Chell told herself, prying out the pins, carefully tugging on the tape, and rolling up the sticky putty that held up the rest. She shuffled them into a rough pile and dropped them on her desk to take care of later; with a manila folder on top, they looked vaguely official, not something to be messed with.
She raced back down the stairs, grabbing a sheet to toss on the couch for Him, and to tell him to stay out of her room under all circumstances. The quick, over-alert way he agreed told her he was just as shaken by this as she was.
She felt mildly guilty as she went to tell her neighbors that she had a guest for the next few days.
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Words. Words, poems, and carefully recorded quotes flooded his head. He'd always been talkative, and with nothing else to do, in space, he'd put the metaphorical pen to the equally metaphorical page. No one to talk to, forced to look at his own work, day after day, month after month, he'd tweaked and critiqued until there was nothing left to fix.
He'd stuttered and stammered his way through his apology, jumped whenever she startled him, tried to help, only to be pushed back…he wished he hadn't made such a fool of himself, and had no idea why he'd expected her reception of him to be better than lukewarm at best. He hadn't even known he had been expecting better, but he must've, because otherwise it wouldn't hurt nearly so much to be brushed off like this.
He'd missed her. He'd missed those stern grey eyes, and how much emotion they could convey, missed her simple, straight-forward way of going about things…but mostly he'd missed the way she used to look at him, missed the companionship they'd used to have, that simple, human warmth and appreciation that she used to show him. That's what's missing, he realized, something in his chest grinding painfully.
She brushed past him, quickly laying down the house rules, leaving no room for argument (not that he wanted to) and told him she needed to get back to work.
The door slammed behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts all over again. Words played across his mind, teasing him with the promise of something to come.
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She asked him if he had enough to occupy himself when he was alone. He had beamed at her, and showed her a collection of lost coins he'd been building. More than a week in, and they were only marginally more comfortable around eachother. She showed him where the local shops were and made sure he had a rudimentary idea of how to get around the area without getting lost. She even got him a spare key to her apartment, making him promise to keep track of it.
He was so careful about keeping his word these days…
It wasn't until she was going to bed that night that she realized the capital had dropped from her mind, at least when it came to him.
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Night of the twenty-ninth day found him with his head in his hands on the couch, while she hid behind the door of her room.
The break had been simple and painful, a horrible jab for both of them. She'd come home to find him at her desk, surrounded by a flurry of papers, face-to-face with her favorite picture of them laughing. His face was a mask of shock, and she vaguely wondered how long he'd been there.
Their eyes had met. Very slowly, very calmly, she'd told him to leave. Now.He'd gulped and…just…gave up, walked past her, shoulders slumped, eyes on the floor. No excuses, no explanations, no attempts to shift the blame. He knew he'd messed up, knew he'd broken her trust, and something in her broke at the sight of it.
The moment he was out of the room, she'd crumpled onto her bed, and fought against both murderous anger and heart crushing sadness.
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Wheatley paced. He didn't know what to do, what to say, and he dug his teeth into his lip to keep from babbling. He'd done it again, invaded her privacy, broken her trust, and he just knew that no simple apology would make it up to her. No explanation would do, no words would suffice; what he'd seen in that room was her soul bared to paper, not for him to see…
He froze, an idea blossoming in his mind.
He grabbed the jar of coins and ran out the door.
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Chell stumbled out in the morning, not knowing how to face him but needing to eat. In the middle of the table, she was surprised to find a USB drive, gently placed on a folded sheet of paper. Curious, she opened it.
One word wobbled its way across the page. "Please." Intrigued, she grabbed a granola bar and made her way to the computer, perched in the corner of the kitchen. She plopped down in the chair, sliding it in and turning the machine on. Patiently, she waited for it to load, before opening the USB folder and clicking on the first file.
Words spilled out across the spreadsheet.
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He sat outside of the door to the apartment, not knowing how far she'd wanted him to go when she'd told him to leave. His nerves were such a scattered mess, his thoughts fixated on the memory drive, full of all the words he'd picked over so carefully in space, every speech, every apology, every poem and hiku…
The door swung open, her frazzled silhouette appearing. He lept to his feet, fully ready to run if she'd come to tell him to get lost.
Warm arms folded around his neck, soft shudders rocking her frame. His own libs wrapped themselves around her, recognizing the gesture long before his mind did. After a long, wonderful moment, she pulled back, her tear-streaked face gentle as she raised one hand to cup his cheek.
He sighed.
"I'm sorry, luv."
"Me too," she whispered, and for a split second her eyes warmed in a way he thought he'd never see again.
Please R&R