Wheatley's gone missing, and Chell is really starting to worry.
It's not that she thinks he can't take care of himself. She knows he can't take care of himself. Despite his very adult body, his knowledge of anything that isn't Aperture is sorely lacking. (Even his knowledge about Aperture could be argued.) He's naïve, clumsy, has the mentality of a child, and his curiosities about everything human seem to be limitless.
She's still adjusting to the situation of living with someone, especially someone as eccentric as Wheatley, but it's been long enough that she has a good grasp on his routines. He's never missed a meal. Ever since she had shown him how to satiate the growling in his stomach and had managed to gesture what it meant, he's made a point to be present for every one, effectively putting some much needed meat on his bones. The concept of "ingesting physical sustenance" seems to fascinate him right along with the countless flavors and tastes and textures available to sample. When she crawls out of bed, she knows exactly what to expect: him waiting for her in the kitchen with his charming habitual chatter, his mop of hair disheveled and uncombed, his astonishing blue eyes bright with life and energy.
Today, that hadn't been the case.
When he hadn't appeared for breakfast, Chell had nudged open his door to check on him. What she found was a Wheatley-sized depression in the sheets with discarded pajamas and other articles of clothing lying about in a pile on the floor. The hat she had given him was missing from its normal spot on the bed post as well, and that had told her all that she needed to know. He had gone outside.
Chell knows that sometimes he'll meander out and about. It's not uncommon and it doesn't worry her because she always knows where he is. He does a perfect job of letting her know that he's leaving and he always gives an estimate of when he'll return. Oh, about twenty minutes usually tends to be an hour, but she's come to expect that, too.
But this time, he hadn't said anything. Nothing at all. Just… up and gone. And it's been three hours and thirty two minutes since she woke to find him missing. Not that she's been keeping track or anything.
Chell rubs at her eyes and stretches out on the couch, feeling tired from staring too long at the door. Whether she likes it or not, he's her responsibility. The moment she had decided to forgive him and take him in, he became her responsibility. She knows it's going to be that way until he can fully take care of himself.
Still, it doesn't stop her from brooding. This is not how she had wanted to spend her day off. She could have gone out grocery shopping or walking in the park or… or something. Anything would be far more productive than listlessly waiting here for him to show up again. She's manage to count the visible floor panels four times—four times, four hundred and thirty-six panels, five hundred twelve if you lift the tasseled throw rugs—and she's starting to run out of ideas of things to occupy herself other than scowling at the door or at the ceiling. It feels like Aperture all over again.
It's then that the door swings open, hitting the back wall with a loud slam. Wheatley bursts in, a box held tightly in his hands. His face is flushed from the cold, as are the tips of his ears, and he seems to unravel in shivers as he embraces the warmth of the house.
"Oh, god, does that ever feel incredible," he groans, hooking his shoe around the edge of the door to swing it closed. "It's bloody freezing out there. I really should have worn a few extra shirts. And trousers. And probably socks, too. I think my toes are frozen. I'm not even going to begin with the rest of me because wow is it ever cold outside. I'm so, so very glad heat exists right now." Wheatley succumbs to another shiver.
Recovered from the shock, Chell quickly leaps up from her place on the couch and storms across the den. Her muscles are tense, and just as she begins to gesticulate exactly how much trouble he's in, he leans down and grins at her, his cheeks rosy and his glasses all a-fog.
"Oh, what luck, I'm glad you're home—you're not going to believe this! Well, actually, you might believe it, I'm not really sure, I had a real hard time believing it myself so I guess you might, too, but anyway, here, have a look!" He eagerly presses the box into her stomach, one of his cold hands guiding her to hold onto it. God, freezing is right.
She does as she's told, turning it about so she can inspect the writing and pictures on the sides. It's rather heavy, and from the snippets written on its surface, it seems to be a rhythm device of some kind. Something to keep beats? How strange. Feeling rather lost as to why this is so exciting (and how it managed to warrant skipping breakfast for god only knows what reason for three hours), she shrugs her shoulders and gives him a thoroughly confused look.
"Well, what do you think?" Static crackles along the fabric of his hat as he pulls it off, and strands of brown hair stand straight for the ceiling. He huffs and tries to smooth it down, but it doesn't work. "Ugh, bloody cold weather," he mutters sourly. "Anyway, you like it? It's a metronome, and it's supposed to help set rhythms. It's going to be brilliant for when we get started. Oh, and I had the most exhilarating morning, you'll never guess what happened, you're going to love this—"
Chell stops him with a curt punch to his chest. It's not overly rough, but more than enough to get his attention.
"Ouch," he murmurs, lapsing into a frown as he nurses the offended area along his pectorals. "What was that for? I thought you'd be happy. What'd I do?"
She's not sure how to properly articulate her frustration, so she sets the box at her feet, curls her fingers halfway toward her palms, brings them toward her face, and shakes them with her teeth bared.
"Uh, all right, that's definitely angry," Wheatley says, taking a step back and holding up his arms in surrender. "I'm not… really sure why you're angry, but if I had anything to do with it, I'm sorry. And I mean that, not just because I don't want to get hit again. Well, I don't want to get hit again, but I really do mean that, believe me." He attempts an awkward smile, but it fades when she continues glaring at him. "It's… it's not because I left, is it?"
Chell nods slightly, but she wants to say that that's not all of it. Shaking her head, she gestures to him, and then out the window with splayed fingers. When he offers a clueless shrug, she repeats the motion, but then brings her fists against her heart and tries to create her best I was WORRIED about you, moron expression.
That seems to do the trick. "Oh," he says, his shoulders slumping a little. "I suppose I didn't think about that. You worrying. If that's even what you're saying. It's just—well, I thought about it in the middle of the night and I was just so excited to go and find that for you that I could hardly sleep, and… well, I went out. Didn't want to wake you up or anything, I kind of wanted it to be a surprise, you know? Something to give you a good start. For the talking thing. Sorry it didn't really turn out that way. I, uh, more or less got lost trying to find the place. Took a while. Personally, I blame human architecture."
Amused, Chell faintly wonders if he's aware that Aperture had been built by humans. And then as the rest of his words sink in, she feels a twinge of surprise overtake her. Just how long has he been gone? Pointing to the clock beside the door frame, she gestures outside again, this time with a shrug of her shoulders, hoping he would get the picture.
"How long…?" he asks, an eyebrow arched.
Chell replies with a frantic nod.
"Oh. Oh, good. I didn't think I'd got that. Well, see, funny thing. I sort of… don't remember. Oh, don't look at me like that—you've got to understand, I was really excited about this. It was dark when I left, though, I can tell you that much. It must have been a long time. I mean, I did miss breakfast." As if to punctuate his point, his stomach begins to make strange gurgling noises under the fabric of his shirt. He laughs awkwardly, cheeks reddening, and not from the lingering cold.
She gives a light sigh and rubs her forehead. Wheatley, same as always. Gently, she reaches for one of his large hands, chilled and slightly shaking, and a static shock pops between them as she touches his fingers and squeezes them with her own; a touch of reassurance, acceptance, apology. She feels him tremble, and she gazes up at him and the thinness of his face, his pink-tipped ears and the slight stubble on his chin, the vibrant blue of his eyes seeming familiar and warm.
Wheatley licks his lips and tries again to smooth down the shocks of hair that insist on standing upright with his other hand. It doesn't work. "So, uh, is everything all right now?" he asks. "Because I'd really, really, really like to tell you what happened. And I think I might spark you again if I don't say something soon. Not that that was unpleasant or anything."
Chell laughs silently. Picking up the metronome box, she nods and leads him toward the kitchen. Wheatley takes his usual seat at their tiny two-seat table by the window and watches her as she sets the box on the white countertop and starts to poke around through the cabinets for a frying pan.
Wheatley stretches his long legs across to the other chair, settling in. "All right, now, to make things perfectly clear, I am not crazy and this actually did happen. No dreaming, no simulations, this happened, the end. Well, not the end—I haven't started yet, but you know what I mean."
Chell pauses and looks over her shoulder to see him as he sinks into what she likes to call his "rambling stance." His hands are folded in his lap with his thumbs steepled together, his glasses resting a little farther down the bridge of his nose. His broad shoulders are relaxed and the rest of him slumps comfortably into the chair, his feet crossed and resting on the seat of the other. She rolls her eyes, continuing her search for the frying pan. He's so ridiculous.
"Right, so there I was," he continues, "looking and looking for somewhere to get a metronome, taking ages because humans can't build anything right. I'm thinking oh this is bloody awful I'm never going to find it, but then, suddenly, like some sort of miracle, there's one right across the way! I go in the shop, and when I get in there, it's amazing, instruments and pipes and everything, never seen anything like it before in my life. I ask the bloke there about the metronome, and he shows me that there's tons of them, absolutely tons, so I've got to go and look for the best one you know, can't have a bad one of those, but then he goes and says that I've got to give him thousands of pennies for it. I'm thinking he's mad—no one could possibly carry that many pennies, not even me—but then I see this thing in the back, another instrument of some kind, different from all the others, and I feel this… this tug. I can't really explain it, you know? It's a tug, and I just had to go see what it was, and—and you… do you want help with that? Looks like you're having a bit of trouble there."
She realizes that Wheatley is craning his neck to look at her as she struggles to reach for the frying pan from the top shelf of one of the overhead cabinets. She can't quite touch the handle; her hand is inches away, even when she's on the tips of her toes. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Chell lowers her feet flat to the floor and assumes a sulking frown. Who had put the damn thing up there, anyway? Certainly not her.
Wheatley chuckles as he rises from his chair. Drawing up to her side, he grabs a hold of the pan and brings it down with ease, holding out for her to take. "Here you go, mate," he says, offering a smile. "All you had to do was say something. Well, figuratively speaking, of course. A wave'll do."
Chell accepts the frying pan with a silent nod of thanks and sets it on the stove top. She slips over to the fridge and roots through the shelves, withdrawing a couple of eggs, jam, and butter. After depositing them on the counter next to the oven, she plucks a sharp knife from the dish drainer and curls an arm around the loaf of bread that she had bought the other day. As she starts to cut off even slices to warm for breakfast, she notices that Wheatley isn't talking. Curious, she peers over her shoulder and notices that he's watching her.
What? she wants to say, but all she can manage is a shake of her head and a confused shrug.
"Hm? Oh, sorry. I, uh… lost my train of thought. But don't you worry, though, old Wheatley'll find it in a minute." The tips of his ears are pink again and he absently glances out the window, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "So do you think—would be it all right if I watch while I finish my story? I won't get in your way, I promise. I'll just kind of stand over to the side there… you know, not being in the way."
She's not really sure what to make of that, but she nods, unable to find a reason to tell him no.
"Brilliant," he says, taking a spot against the counter. He leans against the edge and looks down at her work eagerly. "The things you make always smell so good. They taste good, too. But the smells are the best, I think. Or—well, I can't choose. They're just all really, really good." He makes a pleased, low-purring hum in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as a dreamy expression smoothes across his face, as if he's remembering each sensation.
Chell feels a little flushed. Quickly, she bring her attention back to the tasks before her, focusing on cutting another two slices from the loaf. When she's finished, she tips some oil into the pan and turns on the burner beneath. As she's waiting for the oil to heat, she hears Wheatley snap his fingers together.
"Ah, now I remember," he says. "He called it a piano. That thing I was talking about, the instrument. I've never heard of a piano before, but it was… oh, it was marvelous. You haven't heard of one, have you?"
She furrows her brow in thought. She thinks she can vaguely remember the names of musical instruments, but she can't bring forward any images or sounds. It's all very disjointed and blurry.
"I suppose that's a no. Well, that's all right. Let me tell you, it's tremendous. The sounds, the keys, everything, absolutely wonderful. I don't know what happened, but it's like I could see everything in front of my eyes, just running along there, and I understood all of the little dots and lines. I made music when I didn't think I had it in me. I mean, look at these!" He extends his hands toward her, grinning, and she can see the lifelines crisscross along his palms. "I can use these. I played something, mate. I haven't the faintest idea what it was, but that's not the point, I actually played something, and it sounded perfect. Oh, and the feeling, it was… well, it was scary to be quite honest, but only at first, only at first, and then it was just the most incredible thing, I can't even describe—uh… I think the pan is hissing. Spitting, actually. Might want to take care of that. No rush, though, no rush."
Chell jumps in surprise, realizing that she's been so enthralled in his story that she had forgotten to watch the frying pan. Gritting her teeth, she quickly turns the heat down a couple notches, ignoring the tiny spots of hot oil that spatter onto her face and hands. She bites her lip as she begins to crack the eggs, tentatively knocking the side of each against the cast-iron and then plopping the contents inside. She discards the shells on the countertop in a little pile.
Wheatley watches with interest, and then glances back to his hands. "Wish I could do that," he says solemnly, flexing his long fingers. "You make it look so easy."
At that, Chell is struck with a sudden idea. Suppressing a grin, she takes a spatula out of its drawer and gently prods him in the side with its end. Wheatley looks up, startled, and then quirks an eyebrow when she motions beside her with the utensil.
"A-all right then," he says, and takes a few awkward steps toward the stove.
When he doesn't come near enough, Chell holds out her hand and tugs on his sleeve.
"Closer then?" He inches a bit more toward her. "This all right?"
She nods, satisfied, and Wheatley smiles as she flips the eggs.
She thinks she surprises him when she covers the back of his hand with her own and brings it up toward his chest. She holds it there for a few moments, watching his eyes as they skim from her to her arm and back to her again, and then she holds it out over the stove, circling it around, as if to say, all of this. Wheatley looks hopelessly confused, but she continues, drawing a fist against her heart, up to her open mouth, and then releasing her fingers, symbolizing words. Or so she hopes.
He runs a hand through his hair. "Not to discredit your amazing gesturing or anything—because it really is quite amazing, let me tell you, the best I've ever seen—but I'm not following you at all here."
Chell rubs her forehead in thought. When she spies the forgotten metronome box, she draws a sharp inhale, excited, and then scoops it up into her hands. Eagerly, she takes Wheatley's open palm and gives him the box. She then guides his other hand over the stove again, eventually pulling her fist back against her mouth. Words and food. Chell sees that he's still not getting it, and so she takes the metronome and swaps it with the spatula in her hand.
Wheatley's eyes widen in understanding. "Oh. An exchange? A trade?"
She nods emphatically, grinning.
"You'll teach me if I teach you?"
Chell nods again, feeling strangely elated.
"I'd never thought of that," he says, his thumb scratching his chin in contemplation. "That's a good idea. A wonderful idea, in fact. Oh, this'll be brilliant!" He succumbs to a wide, charming smile, his delight as expressive and plain as can be.
Smiling suits him, she decides. It's fantastic and infectious, and it brings out the blue in his eyes.
"Consider it done, mate. We'll start first thing tomorrow, bright and early, after breakfast of course, and we'll get you right to talking." He extends his right hand. "How's that sound?"
She looks at his outstretched fingers, unsure. She'd never taught him about shaking hands. Where had he learned that?
Wheatley wrinkles his nose. "Hang on. Do you smell that?"
Chell's eyes widen.
She would have shaken his hand if the eggs hadn't been burning.