Chell remembers the last two times she was truly happy. It had been the first two times she'd ever seen the daylight sky.
The first is torment. There's an explosion, a burst of neurotoxin and fire and metal and unstoppable velocity and choking pain, and her body flies. The portal gun rips away from her fingers and she's thrust into the world outside, falling, falling, the blue above so clear and vibrant and alive. The sun is shining, radiant and bright, so incredibly bright, and she's nearly blinded, and shocks of white bloom beneath her eyelids. The ground rushes up to meet her, rising, rising, vertigo splitting her stomach, and as the collision cracks its way in, she slips into a womb of darkness and shock. The last she hears is a deep, mechanical drone before her brain shuts her body down.
The second is freedom. The hum of machinery rumbles in her bones as the lift rockets to the surface, passing layers upon layers of subterranean labyrinths, beyond the turrets and the pipes and the graffiti and the fear, beyond all the portals and the tests and the chambers, and then everything shudders to a halt. There's a door, a metal door, old and rusted from disuse, and it swings open and she can suddenly see light, real light, and she stumbles out into a sweeping field of azure and gold, breathing fresh air, not recycled air, the real thing, and she collapses to her knees and digs her fingers into the ground and she begins to cry.
The sky is all around her, dizzying, cool and real and dotted with white wisps of cirrus and thick hides of cumulus clouds, and it feels like she can just reach out and touch it all with her tongue. Everything blurs as the crescents of her eyes dampen with tears; she can't believe it, she has soil in her fingernails and she's outside with the wind on her arms and all of it is so beautiful, so very beautiful, and she won't give this up, not ever, not for anything. A charred weighted companion cube crashes onto the slab of concrete behind her, and she clenches her fists in the dirt, tiny rocks puncturing her palms, smiling like she never has before. She's alive, still alive, breathing and crying and so very much alive, with the sky above her and the sun in her hair, and she knows, she knows, she's finally won.
Chell is bundled in a long, thick grey coat that brushes her calves with every step, her office paperwork resting safely a small handbag draped over her shoulder. She's paused on the concrete sidewalk, her breath a sputtering column of smoke from her lips, and her eyes are raised reverently to the sky. It's no less beautiful than it was those two days. It's no less wonderful or awe-inspiring, no less vivid or blue; no less perfect. But this time, it's not the sky that's made her happy.
It's him.
She thinks it's because she's never had another person treat her this way. No one's ever wanted to help her without wanting something in return. No one's ever devoted this much thought and time and effort into trying to solve one of her problems without ulterior motives. No one's ever looked to her as an equal without patronizing or condescending undertones. And yet he's seen into her somehow, though all the silence and the gestures and the mental walls and the defense mechanisms, and he's tried to reach in and pull her out.
Friends help each other. That's what friends do. Isn't it? She's not entirely sure; she's never had a friend before, not that she can remember. The companion cube is a sort of friend, she supposes, but despite GLaDOS implying its sentience, it can't speak or move or interact. It can't offer all the tangible and emotional comforts of companionship that another human being can.
And another human being wants to be her friend. Wheatley wants to be her friend. And the more she thinks about it, the more content she feels, and she doesn't know why because he didn't use to be a human; he used to be an AI of Aperture Laboratories, a personality core, a personality core that had spiraled into corruption and madness upon assuming GLaDOS's chassis, a personality core that had tried to kill her.
She knows she shouldn't trust him. Her self-preservation instincts have told her that time and time again. Befriending someone who's tried to end your life is not a good choice to make. Events have a tendency to repeat themselves, and she's learned this many times over through GLaDOS's murderous, exemplary behavior.
But in spite of everything, she finds herself ignoring the rational parts of her brain. He's the same rambling Wheatley before the chassis, but he seems… different. Vulnerable. Free. He's no longer held back by the constraints of his internal programming, no longer dictated by the billions of lines of code and the constructs that had once framed his consciousness, finally able deviate from his intended purpose without worry of repercussion; liberated completely from Aperture's constricting influence.
Can being mapped to a human body have changed him so greatly? Chell doesn't know. She wants to think so. She likes the idea of a friend. Having someone to trust is a warm, welcome feeling, and she's had so few of those in her life that she doesn't want to let this one go. She doesn't want to think of betrayal or death or the consequences of putting her trust into someone else other than herself. She wants to feel safe. She wants to feel happy. Is that so bad?
Chell finally manages to tear her eyes away from the sky. She tugs on her small black gloves, adjusting them so they fit a touch snugger, and then she cups her hands against her face, breathing hot air between them to warm her numbed cheeks. Ashen smoke curls from the gaps between her fingers, quickly dissipating into nothing as she pulls away. Gathering her thoughts, she crosses the street at the flicker of a red light with a small crowd of people and does her best to push all of the negatives aside for later. She'll be home soon, and she doesn't want to be bogged down or distracted. She'd promised Wheatley the other day that she would show him how to cook, and after this morning's events, she's decided that now is as good a time as ever. Besides, she wants to show him how much she appreciates what he's done with a lesson or two of her own.
She's moving smoothly down the rows of shops toward the direction of their flat, teeth chewing at her lower lip, when she hears a familiar voice shout over the low hum of traffic.
"Oi! Oi, slow down, wait for—no, no, not you, wasn't talking to you, meant the girl—hey, wait a minute!"
Chell smiles inwardly and slows her pace, eventually stopping by the window of a bakery to allow the rest of the crowd to pass her by. She can hear Wheatley's scrambling footsteps as he sprints down the street behind her, and as she turns around, she sees him in his thick coat and knit hat above the heads of other people, scruffy cheeks flushed, his breath bursting into clouds. His running is rather awkward with his lanky limbs, and he comes to an ungraceful halt beside her (almost toppling over, but she's sure he won't admit it), his chest heaving with sharp, jagged inhales.
"You, you are bloody hard to catch, lady," says Wheatley, pulling off his hat to dab at the sweat along his temples. Static forces his hair into odd angles, and he runs a quick hand through it before taking another deep breath and pulling the cap back on. "Glad I caught you, though, and I've got some fantastic news. You'll love this! Or, well, at least I hope you will. There's actually a very real possibility you might not, but let's just say you will because I think it's a brilliant idea and I really, really don't want to go back and tell him no. Between you and me, he's a bit weird. So, anyway, just pretend you love it, even if you don't, and everything'll be fine." Wheatley roots around his coat pockets, pulls out a folded, slightly wrinkled piece of paper, and then promptly shoves it under her nose.
Chell raises an eyebrow, but she takes it and gingerly unfolds the body. She starts to read over the typed paragraphs when she realizes that this is an application. A job application, to be precise. Looking up at him, she points to the page and shrugs her shoulders with widened eyes, expressing bewilderment.
Wheatley palms his forehead. "Right, right, I suppose I ought to explain. Well, remember when I told you about the piano and the metronome the other day? I, uh, more or less made a bit of a deal to get the metronome, and, turns out, I need to fulfill my end of the bargain at some point. Shocking, I know, that's what I thought. Oh, don't look at me like that, it wasn't anything awful, I promise. I'm just going to work there at the store to pay it all off, and he said once that's all done and if I like it there, I can stay and I'll actually get paid. With the both of us working, that means we'll have more than enough pennies for everything we could ever want." He breaks into a wide grin, seeming very proud of himself. "Isn't that brilliant? I can help now! No more sitting at home all day for little Wheatley. Nope, not anymore. I've got a job, and I get to go out and make pennies like everyone else, starting at nine tomorrow morning. Well, actually, I suppose I'd start making them sometime next week, since he said the first would be for paying off the metronome, but… Oh, whatever, you get the bloody idea."
Chell is sorely tempted to somehow let him know that a better term would be money, but she can only refold the application and return his contagious smile. She gazes at him approvingly, a swell of pride fluttering behind her breastbone, and she notes the thickened stubble along his jaws and the slope of his nose, the lively blue of his eyes behind his glasses, the way bits of his unruly hair that stick out at all directions from under his hat, and the endearing way that his excitement seems to have him all aglow. Biting her lip, she glances at the paper in her hands, then up at him, back to her hands, and she can't help but feel a strange tug. (That's how he had described it, right? A tug? Something you just had to see, how to get closer to—) And she starts to wonder if it's the cold, since the cold is known to do funny things when you're out in it for too long. But it can't be; she's been outside for only ten minutes. What is it, then?
"You all right?" he asks, curiously tilting his head to the side. "You're just… standing there. And not smiling anymore. Look, I know I told you to pretend you loved it even if you didn't, but just ignore that, you really can tell me if you didn't, I won't mind. I'll just, you know, go back and tell him I'll have to find another way to pay him back or something, shouldn't be too hard. He's weird, but I'm sure after I apologize a few times he'll understand. Maybe. If I'm lucky."
She tucks the application into a fold of her coat, anxiety tingling along her nerves. The beating in her chest drums a little faster as she hesitantly steps forward, and she soon finds herself with her face buried into the soft material of his coat, her arms curled securely about his waist, squeezing tight.
"I—oh. Well, then. You've… yes, you've got quite a nice grip there. Just like old times, right? But you can—ah, you can tone it down a bit, if you don't mind, since neither one of us is in any direct danger of falling into a deadly pit." One of his hands tentatively touches the small of her back, as if he's unsure how to react. "Are you sure you're okay? I mean, the last time this happened, I was a bloody awful mess, and that was… well, that was when I first got put in this body. Not a good memory at all. For either of us, really."
Chell only smiles and hugs a bit tighter, breathing in the musky scent of his clothes. She wants more than anything to assure him that she's okay. In fact, she's certain she's more okay now in this moment than she has been the rest of her life. She has her freedom, the one thing she's coveted for so long; she's happy and proud, emotions that were once so far out of reach; and now, she has a friend, a good friend, someone she feels like she can count on, someone that worries about her wellbeing and someone that goes to great lengths to lend a hand, and it happens to be this gangling, bespectacled AI-turned-man with clumsy steps and a warm grin.
"Right, or you could just grip even tighter. That works, too." Wheatley winces, but his hand is now resting comfortably along the bend of her spine. "Losing ability to breathe, very slowly, just thought you should know. Not that it's important to breathe or anything, just giving you a heads up in case I happen to pass out or… or die or something. And let me tell you, you can die from lack of air. I know that might come as a surprise, but believe me, it's very true, and it's not a pretty sight at all, not in the slightest."
She finally gives in and loosens her arms with a silent chuckle, pulling herself back just enough to allow room for respiration. Chell looks up and shows him that she really is smiling, that she really is happy, hoping to assuage his concerns, but she feels herself pause because she realizes just how close she is. She can see the starts of the worry lines along his forehead, the varying shades of brown in the tufts of his hair that poke out from beneath his hat, the flushed color of his cheeks, the scruff lining his angular jaws, and even the places where his lips are starting to become chapped from the chill.
Wheatley seems lost for words. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but then promptly closes it, his adam's apple bobbing in a hard swallow. His hand increases the pressure along her back, pulling her a little closer, and then she feels the other shift somewhere beside him, caught in the corner of her eye, and then there's a thumb on her cheek, sketching a light line from her temple down along her jawbone.
"You look a bit cold," he says at last, his mouth pressed into a perceptive smile. "And I'd be the one to know. I haven't got any gloves on, so I can feel it."
Chell might be cold, but right now, she feels unnaturally warm. Heat seems to climb from the palm of his hand up the curve of her spinal column and into the vertebrae, planting warmth in the space behind her breastbone.
"What do you say we go home?" he asks. "Don't know about you, but I could really go for some hot tea right about now. Or anything hot, really. Hot is very welcome at this point."
Slowly, she manages a nod. What on earth's gotten into her?
Wheatley brushes a lock of dark hair away from her eyes, and after a moment of silence, he chuckles awkwardly and pulls away. Her arms drop to her sides on their own accord, limp and shaking.
He gestures down the sidewalk with a slight motion of his head. "So, shall we press on?"
The walk home is oddly quiet. Wheatley keeps pace beside her as they plod down the streets and past the shops, the drone of chatter and traffic humming in her ears. Every now and then, she'll feel Wheatley's hand accidentally brush against her arm as they weave between the crowds, and she'll feel a shiver dance through her bones. When they wait at the curbs for the lights to turn, she'll notice him grinning or adjusting his glasses or tugging down his cap to ensure his ears are plenty toasty, and she'll feel a prickle of something swell and flop about in her stomach. She's not sure why she's suddenly so susceptible to these little things (although she has a hunch: stupid cold weather!), but she wishes it would stop, and preferably soon.
The flat draws close, and when the door finally closes behind her, she releases a deep, shuddering sigh. Chell's never been so relieved to be out of the cold.
Wheatley seems to share the sentiment. He quickly sheds his coat, shoes, and hat, his disheveled hair a world of static, and he immediately heads for the heater by the sofa, shoving his hands as close as possible to absorb every bit of warm air. He sits on his haunches and makes a soft groaning noise in his throat, his shoulders trembling from the drastic temperature change.
Chell resists a smirk and picks up his discarded items, hanging them at their proper place on the wall rack by the door. She pulls off her gloves, tucks them safely away in her coat's breast pocket, and then shuffles off the extra layers and hangs them there, too, along with her handbag. Rolling up her white cotton sleeves and shaking the numbness from her hands, she makes for the kitchen. She thinks that tea sounds like a great way to begin preparations for the night's dinner. It might chase away the chill that's settled into her, and perhaps even that odd tug.
Chell fetches the black teakettle from the stove and holds it under the pouring tap. After she places it back on the burner and turns up the heat, she flits through the cabinets, searching for the boxes of tea she had bought the other week. She spots them on the second shelf next to the cups, and she stretches on the tips of her toes to bring them down. She lifts the top of one, nudging the various colored packets about as she reads the labels, wondering what kind Wheatley would enjoy. Eventually, she decides on two packages of Earl Grey. He seemed to like it well enough the last time.
The kettle whistles, and Wheatley wanders into the room just as she's pulling down the mugs from the cabinet. Chell gives him a shy smile and holds out a teabag in her cupped palm.
"Oh, thank you," he says, taking it from her hand. "You're great, you know that?"
She sets the mugs on the countertop and plucks the teakettle off the stove with an oven mitt. Carefully, she pours in the steaming water into each one, savoring the rise of hot moisture as it curls up to meet her skin. After she's satisfied that both have even amounts of water, she places the kettle back on the stove and switches off the burner. Nudging one of the mugs toward Wheatley, she drops in her teabag and lets it steep.
Wheatley follows suit, but he keeps his hands clasped tightly around the body of the mug, his thumb absently toying with the bag's string. "Ah, this feels wonderful," he murmurs contentedly, catching her eye. "You know, I really think I'm getting used to this. The whole human thing. There are so many good things you can feel, so many emotions and touches and everything, and it's… it's just tremendous. It really is."
Silence slowly enfolds them both. Wheatley licks his lower lip and flexes his fingers around his mug while Chell stirs her tea with the end of a spoon in hopes of encouraging it to steep a little faster. She tries to ignore the fact that he's standing next to her, but it proves to be rather hard. She can feel the heat from him, radiating outward, prickling gooseflesh along her exposed forearms.
"I don't make a very good one, do I?" he finally asks. Wheatley's brow is furrowed, his eyes downcast, staring blankly into the steam rising from his cup. "I mean, even with all this learning-how-to-human, I'm still Wheatley. Little old Wheatley, that moronic personality core from the facility that went mad and nearly destroyed everything. Wheatley, the now-human who's most like to burn something or… or fall down the stairs, or do something else disastrous and painful." The tendons in his throat stretch in his skin as he swallows. "But if it makes any sense at all, I'm… I'm glad. For this. And for you, and for all you've done for me even though you really didn't have to do any of it. And—and I really hope that getting this job will help. I know I don't make things easier, so… if I can help in any way, any way at all, just… just let me know. All right? All you have to do is ask, and I'll be there. I promise."
Chell glances up at him, puzzled as to why he's saying these things. She sees that he's frowning intently at the mug between his palms, and she worries a little. She's not sure what's bothering him, and although she has no vocal way of asking, she wants to help. Hesitantly, she reaches out and places a small hand on his arm, a touch of silent comfort; one of the few things she can offer.
Wheatley shakes his head as though he's just broken out of a trance. "Oh, sorry. I… I don't know where all that came from. That was a bit weird, wasn't it? Didn't mean to spring it on you like that, out of the blue and all, it just sort of… tumbled out." He looks down at her hand, and then at her, his eyes seeming strangely weary. A thin smile spreads across his lips and he runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm not very familiar with this ritual, to be honest. I know we've done it before, but is it supposed to be an introspective sort of thing? It certainly feels like it."
She shrugs her shoulders in reply, but she gives his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Well, whatever it is, I think it's better this way. With you here. I don't think I'd like it very much alone." He picks up his mug with one hand and sips at the tea, and a soft noise of contentment rumbles somewhere in his chest. "Besides, the last time I tried to do it myself, I sort of burnt my hand on the teakettle. Not fun. Not fun at all. Just in case you were wondering."
Chell inwardly smiles and brings her tea to her lips. She takes a small, hesitant sip, and the liquid runs hot along her tongue, soothing the chill inside of her. She keeps her other hand hooked comfortably around his arm, not wanting to let go just yet.
Wheatley makes a pleased sigh and rolls his shoulders. "So! Did you want to do another lesson tonight with dinner? I have some more ideas for some songs we could hum. Only if you want to, though. Today's been pretty long, so I'd understand if you wanted to wait."
She shakes her head in reply and places her mug back on the counter. With an eager grin, she points toward the stovetop, and then nudges his side.
"Oh. Oh. We're trying that tonight?"
Chell nods, tugging gently on his arm.
Wheatley takes another thoughtful sip. "Well, as long as the burning is kept to a minimum, or as long as there's no burning at all, I suppose everything should be all right. I do like heat, but burning is a bit much. Oh, and I should probably wear those things you wore, shouldn't I? The hand things? Yeah, that's a good idea. The less burning the better."
Chell rolls her eyes at his reluctance and tugs on his arm again, trying to convince him to part with the counter. When he continues nursing his tea, she leans on her toes and snatches the glasses off his nose, taking a few steps backward to put herself out of his reach.
He squints down at her. "Okay, you didn't have to do that. I just wanted to finish this, that's all."
She waves them back and forth, a hand on her hip.
"Oh, all right, all right." Wheatley sets his cup beside hers and heaves a heavy sigh. "But I'm not promising any miracles!"