Wheatley is spellbound.

Chell's voice is faint, wavering in strength as she draws out the single note, but it's still there, existing, pouring out of her mouth, and it's the most wonderful thing he's ever heard.

In all of their time in Aperture Laboratories—and even in the short time thereafter—he's never heard a vocal sound from her. Not a single one. Not a scream, not a cry, not even a groan of pain. Everything she could have said, she kept silent, trapped within the confines of her throat, always fronted with a stoic façade. He can't fathom how she's managed to lock her voice inside herself so tightly for so long. It's a foreign concept; it feels unnatural to him to never talk.

That's why he knows that this is something secret, something private and extraordinary, barred by muscle and iron resolve. It's something that's very much a part of her and the inner thoughts she keeps, something she's never shown anyone, and he knows that in this instant, he's been privileged. No one else will ever see this moment. No one else besides him. She trusts him and him alone, even if it's just enough to let him see this happen, and that knowledge plunges a hot, visceral spear of tingling euphoria into the hollow of his chest.

Wheatley grips her shoulder, offering his silent support, his body a bundle of trembling limbs. He wants so badly to say something, to break her out of her trance and bring her sprawling back to reality so he can tell her how happy he is for her and how amazing she sounds and how incredible she looks with her arms folded over the soft white of her shirt and her head lolled back toward the ceiling and her hair draping down the nape of her neck, ghosting the tops of her shoulder blades—but he bites his tongue and swallows the urge.

He knows he can't interfere. He knows it's something that can't be hindered or interrupted; it has to run its course and unfurl on its own if she's going to grow. Only she can do this. Only she can rise up and grasp her voice and bend it to her will, and he refuses to ruin this for her by acting on his own stupid fleshy human impulses. He's ruined too many things already. Far too many things. Moron.

Wheatley stays quiet, his teeth sinking further into the flesh of his tongue. He watches her as the hum pulls out of her throat and into the warm air, mixed with the sounds of his short breaths and the ever-present beat of the metronome. No matter how much he wants to speak, no matter how much the tumult of his inner emotions struggle against his better judgment, he keeps his mouth shut tight, and it's so hard because his thoughts are a rolling thunderstorm and he feels caught under an onslaught of everything, of disbelief and awe and admiration and satisfaction and—and fear.

It grips him at the base of his spine and sends its tendrils up the curvature of his back. He doesn't know why, he really doesn't; this is so incredible, how could anyone ever be afraid, not with her; but he can only associate this irrational surge of thought with fear.

What if she won't need him anymore?

Not now, but when she masters everything?

Fragments swim before him in an ocean: patients come and go, disorders are treated and addressed, attachments are made and broken, frowns vanish and smiles begin, melodies swell and rhythms fade. He doesn't know where this is from, but it's an opened floodgate in the back of his skull, and images engulf him in eddying waves. Lab coats and stark white and cold floors and people—

And then a small hand is placed between his pectorals, pressing gently. The gate slams shut, and his attention is thrust back to the woman sitting in front of him. She looks breathless and tired, but she's smiling. Her eyes are a cool blue, nearly grey, and they stare up at him with an eagerness that makes his throat tighten.

Wheatley forces a swallow, his hand sliding from her shoulder to rest down the bend of her spine. Everything is warm, and he fights the tremors that wobble down his arms. "You did it," he says, his voice somewhat hoarse. "You did it. You really did it. Can you believe that? You only had to listen, you didn't need to do anything, but you—you're bloody amazing, you did it."

Chell's fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, and she's aglow with thrill. Her muscles contract as she curls forward, seeming overwhelmed, and he feels her forehead connect against his chest. Suddenly alive with shivers, he tentatively moves his fingers from her back and threads them through her hair. He's never done this before, never been this close, not like this, and it feels smooth and soft against his skin and it makes his heart thump a little faster. Is that supposed to happen?

"That was brilliant," he murmurs, stroking shapes along her scalp. "I… I can't even describe it. And your voice, your voice, man alive, you should be talking all the bloody time with a voice like that. Well, not right now, of course, but when we get there. Have to do that first. Small steps. Can't be jumping all over the place."

She shakes with a silent laugh and pulls away. His palm slides down her cheek, and the thought to keep it there briefly touches his mind, but he ignores it.

"You know, I honestly wasn't sure if this was going to work," he admits, folding his hands in his lap. "My ideas are… well, not many of them turn out that well, as you might have noticed. But just look at you, humming already! I know you're quick, but wow, that was just—just absolutely tremendous. And we can try as much as you want, all right? Just let me know. We can even try during lunch. I can't promise phenomenal humming on my part, though."

Chell nods, and with an animated smile, she presses a fist to her heart, her other hand reaching out to rest on top of his, squeezing tightly. Her mouth thins a little, and she lets out a light sigh, shutting her eyes letting her expression smooth out in what looks like appreciation.

"Is that a thank you?" he asks, uncertain.

Another nod.

"No, no, none of that." Wheatley shifts one hand and enfolds it around hers, returning the pressure. It's warm and soft and it makes his stomach perform strange flips. "I wanted to do this," he says. "Friends do this sort of thing. They do, right? And believe me, I… I want to be a friend."

Chell licks her lip, but her smile widens, acknowledging.

Moments tick in double cadence with the metronome, and he finds himself inexplicably drawn to her, staring keenly at the slope of her brow, the smallness of nose, the angles of her jaws, the shape of her face, and his chest fills with… with what? What is this? He doesn't understand; he's never felt this before, not even as a core, and the drumming between his ribs flutters erratically with the taste of apprehension on his tongue. Do all humans feel this? Does she?

He opens his mouth and starts to speak. He needs to ask, to know, to understand—but he's stopped short by a tug on his sleeve. It's Chell, and she grins at him expectantly, pointing toward the metronome, gesticulating her unspoken question.

Wheatley shoves his concerns into the back of his skull. Now isn't the place or the time. They can wait.

"Yes, of course," he says, and draws in another breath to settle his nerves. "Let's have another go."

The air is sharpened ice and the wind feels like fangs dragging across his skin.

He slowly plods his way back to the music shop, hands stuffed deep in his pockets to keep them from growing numb. Wheatley's blue coat is buttoned to the collar in hopes of fighting out the cold. While it does a relatively better job than simple flannel shirts, it does little to prevent the eventual chill that creeps and settles into the marrow of his bones. He's even made sure to bring warmer clothes this time, too, and even an extra pair of socks crammed around his feet. Other people wandering the streets give him strange looks as walks past, but he ignores them.

Bloody weather. At least his ears are warm.

Wheatley can see the little metronome ticking in the window as he approaches the shop, and he lets out an exhale of relief, a burst of pallid smoke. He really doesn't like trying to find things in this place. Everything seems like a maze. Not that Aperture wasn't a maze in its own right—but still. At least he knew his way around there.

The bell chimes merrily behind him, and a rush of warm air encompasses him and tugs him inside. Shivering, Wheatley stands there on the welcome mat for a few moments, reveling in the sheer presence of heat. Freezing to death is definitely not on his list of things to do today. Or any day, really.

"Ah, so it's you. Afternoon. Good to see you're here at a respectable hour this time." Thomas Key waves a flippant salutation from his place at the front desk. His hair, thin and wispy grey, is tied into a curly tail at the bottom of his neckline, resting limply over the back of his brown blazer.

Wheatley shakes the numbness from his fingers and adjusts his coat. "I can't get over how bloody cold it is out there."

"Well, it is the tail end of autumn. To be expected, really."

"I don't like it at all." Wheatley shudders, now rubbing his cheeks to ward off the sharp tingling sensation. "Wish it was warm."

"I'm not fond of the cold, either. When you get to be my age, everything feels cold. Weather like this doesn't help." Thomas beckons him over with a jerk of his head. "Going to stand in the door all day, or are you going to come inside?"

Wheatley does as he's told and shuffles forward. "Sorry. Still recovering and all."

Thomas is stooping over a spread of papers across the desk. His small, circular spectacles are pressed close to his hazel eyes, and his thick fingers are flipping through the various stacks. "You know, boy, I never did get your name."

"Oh. Well, it's Wheatley."

"Is it? British, I assume?"

Wheatley's not really sure. He supposes it might be. He can't remember where his name comes from. All he knows is that he's been called Wheatley, just Wheatley, and nothing else. He's not really good with the etymologies of names, anyhow. His primary purpose (that he can recall) had been caring for test subjects. He can memorize names without a problem, but he hasn't got a clue about their roots and meanings. He simply shrugs in reply.

"What part of Britain are you from?"

He hadn't been expecting that. "Uh, well… you know. Around. You've probably never heard of the place." Wheatley clears his throat and tries not to look so nervous, fumbling through his thoughts for a sturdier answer. He knows he can't tell the truth. That would surely spell disaster, risking both him and Chell being slammed back into Aperture's labyrinthine chambers. A shudder climbs through his bones; he can't imagine facing GLaDOS again.

Thomas looks up, his bushy eyebrows arching skeptically. "I've been around Britain. Traveled the area for a year or two, in fact. I probably have heard of the place. Your accent is English. Isn't it?"

Wheatley sighs. He wishes he were better at lying. Possibly the one thing he'd been better at as a personality core. "All right, all right, I don't… really know." He knots his fingers together as he leans against the side of the desk, deciding that staring at his scuffed shoes is a much better plan of action than facing the strange old man and his prying eyes. "I'm from around here, though. The general area, I mean. I think I might have been somewhere else before, but I can't remember."

"Can't remember? Well, that might explain a few things." Thomas pauses in his paperwork and lifts a wrinkled hand to scratch behind his ear. "I always run into the smart ones."

"I'm going to assume that wasn't a compliment." Wheatley lifts his knit cap to run his fingers through his static-struck hair, and then pulls it further down over his pinked ears. "You're a mean one, aren't you?"

"If I were… mean, as you put it, I wouldn't have given you that metronome." Thomas licks his thumb and turns another few pages. "Speaking of which, we still have an arrangement to discuss, dear boy."

Wheatley's stomach sinks a little. "Yes, about that—what exactly are you talking about? Because I haven't the slightest idea."

Thomas pulls a few of the sheets out of the pile, examines them for a moment, and then creates another stack. "You owe me. You owe me seventy-five dollars and ninety-five cents, to be precise, not including tax. Tell me, Wheatley, are you currently employed?"

"No, I'm not. I used to be, though." And then he wants to hit himself because he can't mention anything about Aperture. What is his bloody problem.

"What profession, if I may ask?"

Wheatley's thoughts are scrambling and he struggles to come up with a plausible answer. "I was… I took care hu—people. I took care of people. Other people. You know, making sure they're all right, that they have food and water, and turning them about every once in a while so they don't get sore while in sta—while sleeping. Sleeping. Right, that's what I meant to say, sorry."

Thomas chuckles. "You must be a serious case."

Wheatley glares at him, feeling slightly flustered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you live with someone else?" The clerk brushes a piece of lint off his blazer and plucks out a few more pages, his voice cool and noncommittal, promptly ignoring the question.

Wheatley raises an eyebrow, unsure what that has to do with anything. "I live with a lady," he says. "She's back at our flat. Or she might be out right now, actually. Why?"

"Ah, yes, that would explain it then." Thomas nods quietly himself and walks away from the desk, bunches of papers in his hands. He approaches the shelf that stretches along the wall just behind the counter, and runs a hand along the folders and books and binders filled to the brim with pages and pages of white. "You should have come here with her. It would have been much easier. Amnesiacs aren't always aware of their condition. It all depends on the amount of damage to the brain."

"Wait, wait, wait, hang on. You—you seriously think I have brain damage?"

Thomas shrugs. "Seems like retrograde," he remarks, pulling down a particular binder. "Much too cognizant for anterograde. You wouldn't have remembered me if it were that."

Wheatley can't resist the rattling in his chest any longer and succumbs to a fit of raucous laughter. The muscles in his stomach spasm and he leans his head against the desk, clutching at his sides. "I—I can't believe you th—oh, god, I can't breathe—s-she would—this is just—ridiculous—" And his words trail off into incoherent jumbles of syllables and sharp inhales, his lungs too bereft of oxygen for proper speech.

Thomas stares blankly. "I don't want to know what caused that."

Sucking in deep breaths to quell the ache in his lungs, Wheatley pulls off his glasses and dabs the wetness from his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. He doesn't think he's ever laughed this hard. It's oddly refreshing. "Oh, that was brilliant," he says, drawing another breath. "I can't wait to see her face. She's not going to believe this. Amnesia… oh, man alive."

And it's then, as he continues to rub the tears away, that a sobering thought hits him full force. He remembers caring for test subjects back in Aperture. A select group had developed cases of amnesia after brain damage during testing. Some couldn't remember their identities, others remembered everything in the past and forgot everything new, and others couldn't recall specific occurrences.

Wheatley begins to consider the weight of Thomas's assumption about his mental condition as he collects himself and settles his glasses back onto his nose. Amnesia isn't such a bad excuse for his lack of human knowledge, is it? It seems plausible enough. A mute girl and an amnesiac living in the same house… well, it's as good of an excuse as any. There are worse to go with. How interesting.

"Finished, have you?" Thomas leafs through the pages of the binder in his wrinkled hands, searching intently for something.

Curiosity bubbles up within him, and Wheatley finds himself slinking toward him and peering down over the little man's hunched shoulders. "Uh, what're you doing?" he asks.

Thomas purses his lips, snapping open the rings and placing the papers inside one at a time. "Putting away new copies of sheet music. Just got them this morning."

"So that's what it looks like. I thought I was just mad, seeing it my head like I did before." Wheatley furrows his brow, squinting at the lines and dots of black ink through his lenses. "Some of it looks a bit familiar. Could you teach me to read that? I feel like I know it, but it feels… off. I'm not sure how to explain it."

Thomas purses his lips, shuts the binder with a thop, and shoves it back into its space on the shelf. "It's possible. That sheet music was for a trumpet, however."

"Oh. Well, could you show me the set for the piano then? Maybe? If you wanted. I mean, you don't have to. You did give me that metronome after all, and it's not that I'm not grateful or anything, because I am, I really am, it's brilliant, but I feel… I feel like I should know this. Somehow."

The clerk takes a step backward, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down Wheatley's lanky frame as if appraising his worth. "How good are you at lifting things?"

Wheatley twists his mouth into a frown. "I know you're better at avoiding questions."

"Answer mine," says Thomas, tapping a shiny black dress shoe, "and we'll see about answering yours. I hold the cards here, boy."

"Well… I'm all right at lifting, I suppose." Humans are good at lifting things, right? He takes a look at his arms through the coat and flannel, gauging his strength. "I mean, I've never really lifted much. Small things here and there. I moved the sofa around the den once. Wasn't too hard."

"I'll tell you what, Wheatley. I'm an old man. And as much as I don't want to admit it, I'm not getting any younger. This shop is my pride and joy, but it's getting hard to run by myself." Thomas cracks his knuckles and then stuffs his hands into the pockets of his blazer, releasing a weary sigh. "I need a strong back to take care of the instruments, carry in new shipments, and move things around. I'm willing to offer you a job here. It'll help the both of us out. It'll pay off your metronome in the first week, and you'll have plenty of time to learn the ropes of music, if that's what you want. In turn, I get an employee to make sure this place stays in good condition. You're welcome to make any decision you like, but keep in mind that you'll still have to obtain the money for the metronome if you decline."

Wheatley considers it. A job? Well, it's not at Aperture, so that's a definite plus. And he'll get paid! He's never made money before. When he had been a core, his only form of pay had been regular maintenance to ensure he was working as intended. And better yet, he'll get to keep the metronome, and even get some experience with responsibilities and music. Chell will be pleased!

"What'll I have to do?" he asks, not bothering to hide his interest.

"Simple things," says Thomas, offering a shrug. "Organizing music on the shelves here, oiling instruments, carrying and lifting things I'm too old to carry. Manual labor for the most part. I'll be overseeing you and dealing with customers, so I'll have plenty for you to do."

Wheatley feels anticipation tighten in his chest. "And if I agree to this, you'll show me how to read music?"

Thomas smirks. "Considering you can remember it."