Wheatley wakes at half past dawn.
Lying in bed, suspended in the space between dreams and consciousness as muted sunrays creep through the curtains, he vaguely remembers the night before. It returns in pieces: the metronome, the encompassing dark, frustration in the highlights of her face, the warmth of her body against his chest, and the gentle touch of her hands. He remembers curling an arm under the bends of her knees, her back cradled in the crook of his elbow, and the gradual rise and fall of her ribcage as he carries her back to the comfort of her own bed. In the hollows of his eyelids, he can see the way her dark hair splays across her pillow as he sets her down, the moonbeams crossing her lashes, the serene smile that claims her in sleep.
In the back of his mind, he knows that he's the cause of that smile, even if only a part. He's the one that consoled her when she had needed it the most; him, him alone, and no one else. Faint sensations of warmth and pride press into him, making his chest swell, and satisfaction and contentment begin to take root behind his breastbone. They spread toward the pads of his fingers and into the soles of his feet, tingling at the base of his spine. Curling his toes in pleasure at the thought of her, a drowsy groan hums in the depth of his throat and he arches his back, stretching out his muscles in the tangle of covers.
Perhaps he's not as poor a human as he had thought. If he can comfort her, perhaps there's still some hope for him after all. He just has to sort out all the strange things he's been feeling lately. Bloody human body.
Wheatley eventually manages to roll out of bed and grab his glasses. He dresses himself with a greater attentiveness than before, taking care to smooth out the wrinkles in his pale blue button-down shirt and his black slacks. After brushing his teeth, he tries to take a comb to his hair as well, but no matter how much he runs the ends through the unruly stands, they refuse to adhere to a single direction. In the end, he decides that it's a useless endeavor. His hair is just going to become a shock of static the moment he steps outside, anyway.
When he sees Chell in the kitchen, he feels that familiar somersaulting sensation in his stomach. Still wearing her lilac-colored bedclothes with her hair let loose, she glances over at him from the oven with a sleepy look. Her expression instantly shifts to surprise, and she blinks a few times with widened eyes, as though disarmed.
He offers a bashful grin and scratches the back of his head. "Uh, do you like it? I thought I'd dress up a bit. First day and all, you know. The bloke there wears things like this, so I thought I might give it a go. Might help me fit in. So, do I look all right? I know my hair's an awful mess, but it just does whatever it wants, so I gave up. Pointless trying, really. Not worried about it too much, though." He runs a hand nervously down the front of his shirt. "I don't look too ridiculous, do I?"
Chell presses her lips together and she approaches him in a few short strides. With her arms folded, she appraises him with an up-and-down sweep of her eyes, halting briefly along his shoulders and hips. (He absently wonders if it's intentional. Why would those places be so interesting?) After a moment, she cranes her neck to meet his gaze and she gives him a thumbs-up with an approving smile.
"Ah, that's a relief. You have no idea. Really." He meanders to the table by the window and peers outside, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, trying to keep his mind off the twisting he feels inside the cavity of his chest. "I'll be honest though, I'm a bit excited. Never really done this before. I haven't had much practice working anywhere else besides the facility. It'll be different, but I'll get to be around instruments all the time, and he said he'd even teach me how to read music. Isn't that brilliant? It'll do wonders for our little lessons here! Well, when we get to the music part, anyway. That should be rather soon, actually, come to think of it… Oh, but the facility—a job at the facility's nothing now. I'll bet not even manufacturing can compare to this. Making turrets? Pff, child's work. Cubes? Nope, already beyond it. In your face, nepotistic bastard foreman, not hiring Wheatley for your bloody creation work, that'll show you—"
And then Chell suddenly pats his shoulder blade, stringing shivers up his body and shocking his back into a rigid line. He looks down in an instant, stopped mid-sentence, and upon seeing her What the hell are you doing expression, complete with single arched eyebrow and judging stare, heat flushes along his face and he finds himself grinning anxiously.
"Oh," he manages, perhaps an octave too high, shrinking away. "Uh… yeah. Got a bit carried away there, didn't I? Sorry. I'm not bitter, though. I mean it. Honestly. Old rivalry, water under the bridge. Everything's fine." His thumb pushes his glasses up the bridge of his long nose, and he punctuates it with an awkward, trilling laugh.
With a smirk, Chell rolls her eyes and drifts back to the oven to keep watch on whatever is inside.
Wheatley watches her lean against the counter, her body relaxed and pleasantly contrapposto. (You should now feel mentally reinvigorated. If you suspect staring at art has not provided the required intellectual sustenance—) Feeling frazzled, he edges away, and when he's sure she's out of earshot, he presses a hand over his mouth and releases a shaky exhale into his palm. What the hell is his problem? He can feel the rapping of that knotted muscle inside his chest, cadenced quicker and coupled with that odd sensation of flight somewhere else in his stomach. Wheatley forces a swallow and gingerly rubs his fingers right above the hammering beat in hopes of soothing it. He's never been this jumpy before. Whatever's going on inside of him, it's definitely getting worse. And, he's going to be very honest: it's really starting to worry him.
"Uh, not to interrupt or anything," he says, dropping his gaze to the floor, "but I've got a question. Well, a lot of questions, actually, but this one's particularly important. It's been bothering me an awful lot, and I'm really starting to think there's something wrong because… well, no one else seems to get the same way. At least, not that I can tell. If they do, they're bloody good at hiding it." He glances up and sees that she's got her hand on her hip as she looks at him from the oven. He laces his fingers together, noting the gentle slopes of her body beneath the folds of her clothes (why has he never noticed that before?), and he focuses intently on the window again because this is definitely not helping. "So, I was wondering if … maybe you knew? You're such a clever girl, you know almost everything. It'd be hard to imagine you not knowing. But if you don't know, that's fine, completely fine, but it would be very much appreciated if you did. Very much. Stressing that. A lot."
Chell nods and holds out her palm, signaling him to continue.
"Oh. Right." He nods to himself and draws a breath. "Right. Well, it's about these new things about being human. I told you how it's all new, right? Well, that's really the half truth: I could feel some things with my previous body. Not everything of course, but it was very real, albeit simulated. You know, like the turrets' pain. Simulated. Don't know why humans bothered putting that in, honestly. Seems pretty useless to a robot, doesn't it? Why go to all the trouble for something like that? Never understood. But anyway, the real point is: only some things are new. And that's what I wanted to talk about."
Wheatley is rubbing his thumbs along his knotted fingers, watching the stretching color shift beneath his skin; reds and whites and spectrums in between. He's not sure why he's suddenly so nervous, but it's not helping him at all.
"It's… it's weird, actually," he continues. "But almost in a… in a good sort of way. But still weird. If that makes any sense. This was never included in my programming, so I'm not really sure what it is. I wouldn't exactly be asking if I was. I mean, I've felt those simulated things as a core, but this? Nothing like it. Not even anything to compare it to. It's crazy and I'm starting to think it's just this body because She's barking mad and you know She'd do almost anything to—well… you know." Wheatley swallows, shuffling the ill thoughts into the back of his brain. "Anyway, it's… it's a feeling. But it's not that sort of feeling, you know? It's not an emotion. At least I don't think it is. I'm pretty sure I've come across all the emotions. Guilt is right awful, by the way. But it is a feeling, and… bloody hell, I can't explain it very well, it's—"
And then a sharp, punctuated series of electronic chirps sound throughout the kitchen, stopping him short. Wheatley glances about in alarm, startled, and then he realizes from Chell's sudden movements that it's the oven. Curious, his problem momentarily forgotten, he collects himself and slips close, watching her with interest as she slides on a pair of mitts and pulls open the door in a pluming wave of heat.
"Oh, those smell good," he remarks, marveling at the tray in her hands. It's not a normal shaped tray, he notes; it's flat on the surface, but with cylindrical spaces that drop an inch or two below the lip. Each space is filled with what looks like some sort of bread, topped like a dome and speckled with dark flecks. "What are they?"
Chell takes long whiff of the hot bread-things, smiling, and she sets the tray on a small metal rack on the counter. She flits through the drawers about the kitchen, and then after a moment, she returns to the tray with a thin wooden stick about less than half the size of one of his fingers. Peering over the tray, she sinks the little apparatus into one of the domed tops. She takes it out and inspects it, and she seems to like what she sees because she places the wooden item beside the rack and goes to find the plates.
Wheatley is puzzled when she hands him a dish with one of the bread-things on it. The top is fluffy and most likely edible, but the bottom is encased in what looks like a colored paper of some sort. He gathers he's not supposed to eat that, though; she's smacked him for trying to consume similar things before.
Chell peels the paper off and takes a bite. Licking her lips to take care of the crumbs, she gestures for him to do the same.
Arching an eyebrow, Wheatley does so, and although the bread is incredibly hot, the taste is like nothing he's eaten before. "Oh, this is brilliant," he says, chewing on the spongy softness. "It's… it's sweet. I don't even know what the bluish dots are, but they're great. Tremendous! Where did you learn how to make these?"
She jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the thick red recipe book tucked away in the corner on the countertop with a proud grin.
He takes another thoughtful bite. "Ah, yes, books. Wonderful things, books. Not nearly as effective as databases, but still quite wonderful nonetheless." He gulps down the mouthful, sets the bread-thing down on the dish, and pauses for a moment. After taking stock and assessing his shortness of breath and the agitated flopping of his stomach, he finally bites the bullet and reaches out for her free arm, following the tug in his chest. "I… I think your hands are a bit better, though," he mutters, rolling his thumb along the knobs of her knuckles. The rest of his fingers hook under hers, and he feels the warmth that seeps through them and into his skin. "Books and databases can't make much on their own, you know. Lacking hands and all. Lacking… any kind of appendage, actually. They don't normally have those. But—well, you understand. It was a compliment. Take it at that."
Chell makes a slight nod of acknowledgement, her smile turning coy. He's not sure how to interpret that, but it looks incredible, and his already rapid heart rate rises a few ticks higher.
"So, would you want to try another lesson?" he asks tentatively, applying a slight pressure to her hand. "We still have some time before we have to leave. A lot of time, come to think of it. Should be more than enough. Oh, but don't think I'm forcing you or anything, because I'm not. That's the last thing I want to do. Forcing is not ideal, not at all, so if you don't want to, that's fine. You have no obligation whatsoever. Zero obligation. Not a drop. I was just throwing it out there, you know, in case you wanted to practice or something. But it's entirely voluntary. Entirely. Just wanted to make that clear."
Chell rolls her eyes, but she squeezes his hand and gives an affirmative nod.
Wheatley can't resist a grin. "Oh, brilliant! I'll go get the metronome. Wait here, all right? Back in a tick."
He sets down his plate on the counter and turns to go into the den, but he's suddenly stopped short by a thin arm curling around his waist. He feels her as she nuzzles her face into the column of his spine just below his shoulder blades, and he feels the curves of her body fit snugly into the arch of his back. Her breath warms the fabric of his shirt; shivers jump through the webbing of his nerves, and he bites sharply into the flesh of his tongue because he knows that feeling is back, the warmth pooling behind his breastbone, centering in the knot of his stomach.
"Wh-what's this for?" Wheatley tries to force his lungs to settle back into their normal breathing patterns, but it doesn't work. His heart is beating too fast, requiring far too much oxygen, and his brain supplies all this unneeded adrenaline. Bloody, defective human body.
He then hears the clinking sound of another plate being set down. Wheatley feels her other hand press above that thumping place in the hollow of his chest, her fingers curled into a tight fist. Unsure of how to react, he stands in a rigid line, swallowing thickly, his mind beginning to cloud over with the slew of reactions that seem so beyond his control. He's scrambling for words, something to say, anything at all, but they all slip away into broken fragments beyond his reach. All he can think of is how good this feels, how the heat from her body pushes its way into his and how she renders him utterly speechless, how she seems to fit against him like this perfect puzzle piece; and all of this is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous; why the bloody hell should he feel the desire to be near her when things like this happen? But he can't help it, it's that feeling, and god help him if he can't figure out what it is soon because he's starting to think he really might be going insane.
She pulls away after a moment or two of silence and strained breaths. Warmth-bereft and feeling some semblance of shock (is this shock? It has to be, what else would it feel like), he whirls around to meet her gaze with wide eyes, hoping his face isn't nearly as flushed as he thinks it is.
"Um… right. Okay. Not to be rude or anything, but this full-body-physical-contact thing is extremely confusing." His voice is a cracking noise dropping off his tongue, wavering between hoarse and breathless. Setting his jaw and threading his fingers into his hair in hopes of assuaging the tumult of thought inside his skull, he tries to focus on talking. He has to focus, has to, or else he's never going to get any words out.
"It feels… well, it feels very nice, actually," he continues, clearing his throat. "But I'll be honest, it's really starting to throw me off. For one, you keep doing it at the weirdest times. I mean, I was under the assumption that it was supposed to be for comfort, or… or whatever else it is that humans prefer to feel. Reassurance? Is that it? You know, like what happened the night before? With the crying thing? Comfort. Something like that. You're clever, you understand. So when you go and do it in situations that don't require that, it's obviously going to be a bit jarring. And two—well, I don't… actually have a two planned. Hadn't got quite got that far. I don't think these things completely through, do I? But while we're at it, while we're at it, just wanted to mention that I don't mind. The uh, the contact part. It might be jarring, but I don't mind."
He wants to say something further, to try and tell her again about all these things that have been driving him up a wall, but he looks at her and his voice gets snagged against the edges of his throat. Her brow is knit, the blue in her eyes placid and cool, her hands hanging casually past the gentle curves of her hips. Wheatley can see the way her teeth pull at her lower lip as she processes every word and the tiredness that dances in rings beneath her eyelids, and he really wishes his stomach would stop lurching around like this because it's making it very difficult to concentrate.
"I'm—I am still learning, though," he manages, nervously smoothing down the front of his shirt. "So… any help with this would be appreciated. Any at all. And that's directed at you, you with all your knowledge about human social cues. If I were you and you were me, I'd tell you if you were doing something wrong. Would you mind doing the same? I mean, if I should be doing something else or performing that comforting ritual more often, or if it's not even for comfort, just let me know, all right? Not asking for much. Just a heads up. Don't really care how you go about it; it's completely up to you, whatever your method of choice happens to be. I'd just very much appreciate it if I wasn't left in the dark."
The next thing he knows, Chell is clutching her ribs and shaking with silent laughter. He watches her as she leans against the counter for support, her eyes shut tight, and he's not sure what he should do because this isn't the reaction he had been expecting.
"What? Why are you laughing?" He inches a bit closer and hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder, peering down at her, half expecting her to collapse onto her knees. "Seriously, though, I'm not joking. Why are you laughing? How is any of this funny? You've got a cruel sense of humor, lady."
Chell composes herself, dabbing at her eyes with the collar of her shirt and shuddering with a heavy sigh. She glances up at him, mouth still curved into a smile, her hair a splayed mess across her face, and she makes a dismissive shooing gesture with her hand. It takes him a moment to realize that she wants him to get the metronome from the other room. Wheatley is thoroughly lost (she never even replied to anything! … not that she could), but he does as he's instructed anyway. He comes back into the kitchen a minute later with the little instrument in tow, and he finds Chell at the table, their dishes at their respective places coupled with two glasses of milk.
Wheatley places the metronome by the window and sinks into his seat with a huff. Resting his elbows on the edges of the table, he steeples his fingers and looks at her with a thin frown. "All right. Well, I can't help but notice you haven't responded, so I'm just going to assume that means you'll tell me. You will, right? Hopefully? Go on, just a nod'll do. Even a hand gesture. I'll accept any form of yes. And perhaps a few forms of maybe."
She's got her hands close to her face, cupping the bread-thing between them as she's biting into the spongy blue-flecked side, but he can still see her give an affirmative nod in reply.
The tightness in his chest loosens a little, and he feels significantly better. "Oh, good. Good. Brilliant. A relief. That'll make things much easier." Grinning anxiously, he succumbs to the growling in his belly and reaches out for the unfinished bread-thing on his own plate. "So, with that mess out of the way, topic change. I still have no idea what these things are, but I'll tell you what: they're absolutely lovely." He bites into it, entertaining a mouthful of the soft textures. "Probably the best thing I ever ate. And I know I say that a lot about the things you make, but seriously, you've got a lot of talent. This is splendid. Top marks. And I do mean that."
Chell's face brightens at the compliment. A smile works its way there as she thumbs off a crumb or two from the corners of her mouth.
Wheatley pauses mid-bite and stares at her, suddenly struck with a realization. Back at the facility, she'd never smiled. Not even once. Even when he'd first arrived a few weeks ago, they were a true rarity, barred away behind walls of suspicion and distrust. But now, alone with her here and between all of these close moments, she seems to smile so often. They seem brought on by the smallest things: paying her compliments, asking about her work, and even saying good morning. He doesn't know why he's never really realized it before (has he just now started paying attention?), but her smiles are… appealing. Especially the ones aimed at him. And god, are those ever wonderful; enough to make him feel like he's the luckiest man alive. (He really is the luckiest man alive, now that he thinks about it. Luckiest AI-turned-man, anyway.)
And for the strangest reason, he feels an abrupt, gripping compulsion: he wants to tell her. He wants to tell her that she's amazing and unbelievably strong and that her smiles are better than anything he's ever seen. He wants her to know that this oddness he feels happens around her, and even though he's not sure what it is, he thinks it has something to do with her and the way she is. He hasn't a clue why, either. Humans get such strange impulses. Or is it only him?
The tock-tock-tock of the metronome suddenly cracks into the silence of the room, and Wheatley jolts upright in his chair.
"Oh. I, uh, I suppose that means you're ready now," he says, running a hand awkwardly through his mop of hair.
Chell's shoulders shake with a silent laugh as she nods, and her fingers stretch across the table to brush a stray lock out from the lenses of his glasses. The pad of her thumb crosses his forehead, sketching a line of warmth, and Wheatley can't help but grin. Perhaps his problem can wait a bit longer. He doesn't want to ruin this. It's not that big a deal, is it? Just silly physical reactions. Nothing to alarm her about or concern her with. Nothing he can't handle. He'll get it all under control. Somehow. Hopefully. Right?
"So," he says brightly, shoving the thought aside, "fancy a hummed nursery rhyme? One note is fine, but let's see if we can't get you into other pitches. I know the other song was a bit hard, being… complex and with its octaves and all, but we'll go easier now. All right? And remember, all you really have to do is follow along."
After a he slows down the metronome to what he thinks is an appropriate tempo, he closes his eyes, gathers his courage, and begins to hum. It's a child's rhyme from somewhere in the back of his brain, simple and sweet, a girl and a lamb, and he focuses on the different notes that flash under his eyes. The muscles in his throat stretch and contract to accommodate the drops in pitch, and he tries his best to make each sound separate from the other. Wheatley repeats the song a few times to accentuate the patterns inside the notes, and on the fourth run-through, he hears the soft, wavering thrum of her voice.
His eyes snap open, but this time, he forces himself to continue. No matter how much he wants to stop and listen, he knows that if she's going to do this, she needs something to which she can compare herself, and he's the only one. If she can listen and manage to change her pitch, or better yet, match him note for note, it'll be progress.
And she does. God, she really does. It's nearly enough to make him choke in surprise and quit humming altogether, but he struggles to keep his voice steady and strong; a management rail for her to follow, something to help her along. She's slower at first, a few moments behind in rhythm, but before long, she manipulates the noises from her throat into smoother sounds, and she fights to copy the height and depth of each one.
It's a fascinating sight. Her eyes are closed, her hair framing the shape of her jaws, and her knuckles white as she clasps her fingers around the cup of milk before her. He can even see the gentle furrow along her brow as she channels her concentration and the slender line her lips make as they press together. It's captivating. Wheatley can't look away, and he's not really sure why.
But the feeling—oh, the feeling is remarkable. She's really humming with him, truly humming with the strength of her voice, her voice, the thing she's kept hidden away for so long, the piece of her that only he's been able to witness, and she's falling into line with the rumble of his own and it's the most incredible thing he's ever felt. (Well, besides the strange full-body-physical-contact rituals.) And if this is any inclination to how the future might turn out when she finally finds the will inside her to talk… well, he can't bloody wait for that.
"That was… god, that was beautiful." Wheatley inwardly chuckles at his choice of word, but after skimming through his entire comprehensive range of vocabulary, he just can't think of anything better. "I do mean that, you know. Not just saying it. Your voice really is beautiful, and you, you're absolutely brilliant. You really are. And you're a bloody fast learner! I mean, I always knew you were, popping portals and completing tests all efficient and quick-like, but this just proves it. Love, you're amazing." He flexes his fingers experimentally and then reaches out to place them around one of her hands, still curled around her cup. "And I mean that as well. I know it probably seems like a ridiculous thing to say, but I am telling the truth. Wheatley's… well, he's not a good liar. A right awful one, to be honest."
Chell's grin is infectious, and he feels a sharp twist of thrill when she overlaps his hand with hers.
"Yeah, you'll be talking in no time at all," he says, somewhat softer, and he finds himself leaning closer across the table. "No doubt about it. Just have to keep practicing, and everything'll be great. Oh, but can you imagine? Conversations and songs? Especially the songs. Ha, I'm getting all shivery just thinking about it."
Her shoulders quiver with a laugh, and her hands leave the body of the cup and lace between his own. He's marveling at how warm and good her skin feels, her dexterous fingers tangling among his, pressing into the flesh of his palm; an assembling cradle of heat and bone. Moments of silence slither by, and he soon finds that he's on the edge of his seat, staring at her, hunched nearly halfway over the table.
Wheatley finds it increasingly hard to swallow. "Can I… can I ask a favor?"
Chell offers a slight nod in answer, her expression rippling with a drop of curiosity.
"I'd like to show you something. Not now, obviously, but maybe another day, when you're off." He's watching the movements of his thumb as he strokes along the slender path of her index finger. "I'd like to take you to the shop. If you'd let me. The bloke there said he'd teach me all these things about music if I wanted, and I know I'm going to learn a lot working there. I'd like you to see it. And I was thinking, maybe when I get a bit better at the piano, maybe you'd… I'd… I'd really like to play for you." He threads his free hand nervously through his hair and he manages a weak chuckle. "Do you—do you think that'd be all right? I'll make sure it's the best thing you ever heard, I promise. You won't regret it for a second."
When she smiles, squeezing his hand, elation swells beneath the undersides of his ribs. He reciprocates the pressure and focuses on the feeling of her skin, the heat and the tension coiling inside of his chest, and he feels like he should be doing something but it's all a mass of fog and he can't for the life of him figure out what it is—
"Oh, wait, wait, what time is it?" Wheatley twists around in alarm, the memory of previous engagement at the music shop scrambling to the forefront of his brain, and he glances at the light green digital numbers glowing on the microwave. Eight-thirty is displayed in boxed numbers, the two dots in the center blinking to mark each passing second. He turns to face her again, biting at the inside of his cheek, and he loosens his grip on her hand as he rises to his feet. "Well… almost nine. Suppose I ought to leave then. Get there early. Head start and all. Wouldn't look too good if I was late, would it?"
He offers a sheepish smile and heads out of the kitchen, approaching the coat rack by the front door. As he shrugs into his coat's thick sleeves and fumbles with the buttons (he's never been that fond of buttons, awful things), he notices a piece of paper being shoved under his nose.
Wheatley gives it a curious look at first, but after he realizes what it is, he nods and pushes the last button through. "Ah, right. Probably wouldn't have been too good if I'd forgotten this, either, huh? Thank you." He accepts the folded application from her outstretched hand and tucks it into one of his pockets. After he shuffles into his shoes and tugs his knit cap over his head, he takes a deep breath and stares at the door. "Well, here we go. Feeling a bit jittery, if I'm honest. Wish me luck, yeah? Well, not literally speaking, of course. Or… speaking at all, actually. Or—no, you know what? Never mind. Just general good luck thoughts in my direction would be very much appreciated."
Wheatley then feels her bring her arms around his waist again and the faint pressure as she leans her cheek against his chest, just along his pectorals. He can feel a tremble of delight ignite in his backbone, thrumming through the vertebrae, and he hesitantly circles the bend of his arm around her shoulders and succumbs to a smile. He glances down at her, at the sleek sheen of her dark hair and the lilac color of her bedclothes and the smallness of her body and the comely features of her face half-pressed into the thick fabric his coat, and he feels that familiar fluttering thrill knotting somewhere under his ribs. He's not sure why this particular ritual makes him feel so light-headed and giddy, but if it means he can be close to her like this, even in spite of the things his defective body does, he thinks he might be able get used to it.
Chell shifts under his arm and looks up at him, and he can see the striking slate-blue of her eyes; raindrops on concrete and tile. Grinning, her expression bright, she pulls one slender hand away to form an encouraging thumbs-up, as if to say, Good luck!
Wheatley laughs and mimics her pose, savoring the enchanting curve of her smile.
Yes, he thinks. Yes, he can definitely get used to this.