Chell remembers the first time he said her name.
It's not back There. It's not when he's trying to break her out and the both of them are scrambling along corroded, rusting catwalks in the backend of the facility. It's not when he's consumed by The Itch and coercing her to test, hunting her through the chambers. It's not when she's looking at the moon when the ceiling's fallen through, portal gun in hand.
No. It's not in the cold horrors of that place.
Stairs are hard for him to climb. She lives on the second floor and there are two small flights to conquer. Wheatley is barefoot, hobbling, skin and bones, an Aperture jumpsuit covering his malnourished body. He's leaning on her for support, thin hand clasped on the knob of her shoulder.
One step at a time. He lifts his legs, shaking. His toes are spread apart as he ascends each stair, dirt pushed under the nails. As he shifts his weight down, he sucks air between his teeth, as if he's in a great deal of pain. It wouldn't surprise her; they've walked five miles. He'll have blisters at the very least.
As he crests the first flight, he stops, pulling her back.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "Just need—need a short rest. Few seconds."
It's not the first time he's stopped her. Walking down the eroding road, he would often squeeze her shoulder and wordlessly ask for a sit down. And they would, kneeling at the edge of the asphalt's gravel shoulder, the cool wind biting their cheeks. Wheatley would soak in the world and recover from the exertion in his atrophied muscles, and the two of them would sit there together in silence.
And that's the strangest thing of all, she thinks. He's barely spoken the whole journey. After they emerged from the wheat field with apologies running down his mouth, he's not said a word. No commentary on their surroundings, no rambling stories, no halfhearted jokes to ease the mood. Nothing. Not a single thing.
Until now.
"All right," he says. "Right, I'm good now. I'm good."
She increases the pressure on his back to help him forward. The weight of his towering body eases onto her shoulders again and they begin to climb the second flight.
Chell hasn't communicated where she's brought him. She hadn't exactly had the forethought to bring a pen and notepad with her when she returned to the shed. Only so much can be said with simple gestures and body language, and it's a bit complicated to get "I'm bringing you home; don't mess anything up and don't make me regret it" across.
He's put his trust in her. Fully. She could have brought him anywhere. She could have turned him in to the police, a homeless shelter, or left him on the outskirts of town. But instead, she's helping him up the stairs to her apartment, her home, the place where she's lived for the past year, the place where she sleeps, where the monsters of her nightmares visit each night. Where he visits each night.
There's a war waging inside of her. It's fierce, fiery, unending, and it's slumbered for months under her skin. With him beside her and under her arm, it's reawakened, revived, vying for attention.
There's What are you doing, he tried to KILL YOU, and then there's That wasn't the real him, he tried to HELP; countless conversations, strings of arguments, fragments of things that happened. Her mind is a mess and there's a tightness inside of her, coiling up, nesting in the hollow of her chest. It's ready to spring. If fight or flight triggers again, by god, she's going to fight, and she'll win.
Chell and Wheatley stop at her door. A bronze 208 hangs on its front, just above the peephole. She digs in her coat pocket for the key, and when her fingers wrap around it, she goes to unlock the deadbolt. Before she does, she feels him squeeze her shoulder again.
"I—I'm assuming y-you live here."
She pauses, looks up, and she's met with brilliant blue eyes. No matter how many times she sees them, she can't help but feel like there's something puncturing her heart.
Slowly, she nods.
Wheatley is biting his lower lip, teeth sinking into chapped skin. His brow is tightly knit with what looks like agony and there's a soft wetness in the corners of his eyes. His grip on her is painful, but she ignores it.
"You… you don't have to," he says. "Bring me here. You know, to where you live. I don't deserve it. And I-I know this is all out of the blue, showing up out of nowhere after… well, I don't know how long. But after all that's happened, I-I don't expect you to—"
Chell gives him a rough pat in the small of his back to quiet him. Honestly, it's a wonder she forgot how incessant he can be. The journey to civilization must have made her too comfortable with his silence.
Ignoring Wheatley's soft whimper, she unlocks the door, turns the knob, and leads him inside with her palm pressing against his spine. The warm air reaches out and envelops her like a mask; it's a wonderful relief from the drafty stairwell and the bitter late-October chill outside.
After she shuffles him inside, she closes the door behind her, and then situates him so he can lean against it. Taking off her coat, she pops it onto the coatrack to the right. She notices that Wheatley's eyes are darting about, processing his new environment: to the left, the kitchen; to the right, the living room. There's a small table by the window with the essential kitchen appliances, and then a coffee table and sofa and a plush rug and a compact space heater. Books are strewn about.
"Cozy," he remarks. "You know, I… I don't think I've ever been so glad to be inside."
Chell curls her arm around his back once more and helps him hobble to the kitchen. His forearm feels so cold around the back of her neck.
She pulls out a chair for him at the table. He has some trouble bending, but she steels herself and bears the brunt of his weight as he hooks his arms around her and lowers himself down.
Once he's safely put, she whisks away to the cupboards and drawers. Gesturing isn't going to help her have an in depth conversation with this—this man? God, that's so bizarre to think about—and neither is body language, so she's going to need something to write on. She opens several drawers and looks through a few cupboards, and eventually, she finds a pen and a small, white-papered notepad.
Chell approaches him with both in hand. As she pulls out the second chair across from him and settles in, she can't help but notice just how ungodly thin he is. Gaunt cheekbones, gentle hollows in his face, long arms with soft, sand-colored hairs, jutting wrist bones… She's not sure how he came to be this way or what might've happened, but she's positive that this body, his or not, must have been in stasis for a very, very long time. Perhaps even longer than she first imagined.
"So," he says. "What now?"
Chell finds herself agreeing. That's a great question. What now? What happens now?
Honestly, she has no idea. Five miles traveled, four hours spent, and here she is without a plan or course of action. And that's terrifying. The utter shock from the wheat field has worn off and now there's so much that's rushing through her head it scarcely feels like her skull can contain it. If she wrote all of it down at once, her hand would hurt. She would be writing for days. Weeks. Months. Maybe years. She doesn't know. All she knows is that her thoughts are a storm, emotion webbing like lightning, anger cracking like thunder.
The pen presses to paper.
"I don't know how you're here. We need to talk. I have questions."
She appraises what she's written. It doesn't feel like it's enough. There should be more, pages upon pages of thoughts, feelings, wishes, fears, pangs of regret, but there are only three sentences, only three, and the pen is trembling in the grip of her hand.
It's good enough. It has to be. For now.
Turning the notepad around, she slides it across the table.
Wheatley swallows, adam's apple bobbing down his neck. His breathing is erratic. He glances to her, to the notepad, and then pulls it closer with shaky fingers.
"All right," he says after a moment. "All right. Questions. Right. Okay. What sort of questions? I mean, I'll—well, I'll answer. I'll answer what I can. It just feels like… like there's a lot missing. If that makes any sense. I hope you understand. It's weird. Difficult to explain. But no, go ahead. Ask. I'll… I'll answer."
Bringing the notepad across again, she picks up the pen and writes.
"What happened?"
There's so much she could—should—put down on that sheet of paper, but that's all she can think to write. Her mind is so full, full to bursting, full with He tried to kill you and He tried to help and How is this even possible?
What happened. Just… what happened. Her hand is failing her. She's lost count of how many times she's practiced what to say when she's been too focused on the past, but all of that has been wiped away, erased, as if someone has taken a cloth to her brain and scoured it blank. Frustrated with herself, she shoves the notepad back at him.
Wheatley flinches as it slides to a stop by his hand. Tentatively, he reaches out and takes it, flipping it around. His eyes flick across the page and center in on her only question.
"I… I'm not sure I understand. Everything? From start to finish? Or just… what happened with Her body. The Lair. The moon. Or why I'm—well. Why I'm not a core anymore."
She only nods. She wants to know it all. Everything. She wants to soak it up, absorb it, use it as ammunition against the creatures that haunt her in darkness.
Wheatley's eyes scrunch shut and his brow knits. "Right. Guess the beginning then. Okay. I'll give it a go."
There's a gap in his memory. From what he can remember, he simply… came into being. It's when the facility was still alive, still breathing. It was when scientists and employees still walked the halls. Assigned a job, he did his duty and tended to the thousands of test subjects in stasis. Mostly a checking of vitals. If anything seemed off, he was to report it to management.
And then She was switched on. He's not sure entirely when it happened, but She drowned the place in neurotoxin and people perished. He remembers searching through the catwalks and employee labs along his management rail: the toxin flowed through the ventilation systems, pumping into every room, every nook, every cranny. Every employee died.
Of course, there was a short period of time where the facility was fully functioning without people. She ran everything. Didn't need humans to manage Her work. He's not sure what sorts of things happened as he had retreated to the Relaxation Center as per his directive. Testing, he supposes. But then a human—her—managed to kill Her.
After the explosion that marked Her death, the facility began to deteriorate. Power sources failed. Plants invaded. Windows cracked, rubbish built up, and with no one to maintain it, it became a shadow of its former self.
It began to fall apart. To self-destruct.
It was then that his self-preservation kicked in. Some sort of latent subroutines that surfaced, he thinks. There was no way he could hope to salvage the facility; he was only one little robot, just one in a place that stretched for miles and miles without end. He needed help.
And so he found her, alone, sleeping amongst the dead. She was between the hundreds, the thousands; one cryo-unit box patched into the reserve power grid.
A miracle.
"I just… I knew I had to get out. I don't know why." Wheatley is examining his hands as he speaks. He seems so fascinated, so confused, flexing fingers and watching the knuckles protrude and depress. "I saw the whole place falling apart. People dying. Things shutting down, going on the blink. Years went by. Years. Years of watching it all rot. I had to leave. Had to. It was a feeling. Well, not really a feeling, being a robot and all. A simulated one. Or whatever it was in my programming that allowed feelings. I don't know. You understand."
Wheatley draws a breath, and there is tense, palpable silence as she processes what he's said. Vivid orange peers out at her through the dirt and filth of his jumpsuit. It pulls her mind into darker places, pulling her into the final chamber, The Lair, supine and trembling, the moon a glowing quarter in the fresh night's sky.
She closes her eyes and the image of the portal gun on her arm, poised upward, burns under her eyelids.
Chell breathes and writes, "Her body."
There is a visible shudder that climbs through him when he reads her prompt. His mouth twists into a grimace, his eyes focus on the paper, and his fingers curl inward into blanching fists. Regret is there. Shame is there. He's remembering what happened and she can see it sink its claws into his flesh and pull.
"I'm being honest," he says. "I don't know."
There is a pause, silence, waiting, and she's not sure what to do with herself.
The notepad makes another trip about the table.
"What do you mean?"
Wheatley's jaw is set. He still won't look at her.
"She was popped out, I was swapped in. I had control. I called the lift for you. I wanted us to leave, it's what I meant, and then just—something. Something happened. I don't know what it was. It was like it was talking, talking away in the back of my mind. Whispering. I could hear it and it told me about all of the things I could do if I stayed. If I stayed in that body. The things I could accomplish. It felt amazing to not be so… so small and insignificant. After so long, always being the little guy, always the moron, the bloke no one ever wanted to talk to, I just… I listened."
Chell remembers being smashed into the elevator, being thrust down deep into the belly of Aperture. She remembers having to traverse the sealed off chambers, the oldest tests, having to chase time to get back to the surface. She remembers the tremors, the quakes, the disintegration, the fire. It's all very clear, etched into the undersides of her eyelids.
"And then The Itch."
Wheatley squirms in his chair and she feels his legs shift and twist below the table. He brings his shoulders up and he hunches forward as though he's become ill. Jumpsuit bunched up in the bends of his arms, his hands are clasped over his stomach, just beneath the ends of his ribs.
"I've never felt anything like it before," he murmurs. "I couldn't control it. It was constantly there, you've got to test, make her test, and I—I had to. Didn't have a choice. It was like it was eating me. Eating. Eating from the inside out. And to make it stop, someone had to test."
He grits his teeth and his fingers are locked in with one another, pushing, pressing, anxiety eating away at the bone.
"But I did have a choice. I did. I know that. I just wasn't… I wasn't meant for it. Being in Her body. I didn't have it in me to resist. I couldn't fight or… ignore the whispers. Couldn't get us out. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't bloody strong enough. God, I don't know how She did it. Or maybe She didn't. Maybe that's what made Her the maniac She is. Maybe that's why She went mental and killed everyone."
Chell stares at him, unable to move, think, write. There is anger roiling inside of her, burning through veins, arteries, capillaries. She presses the tip of the pen into the paper and finally writes, " 'This is the part where I kill you.' "
Wheatley reaches out for the notepad with a bony hand and slides it back toward him. As he reads, blue eyes wide, the redness from the cold in his cheeks drains into a pallid white. He leans forward again, trying to curl in on himself; he's holding his face in his hands, shivering—crying?
"I was mad. Completely and absolutely mad. I can't—god, I can't explain what it was like. It was just… talking. Talking through me. It used what I wanted, the not being a moron, and it just… it smothered the good. All I meant to do. Escaping, freeing you, everything. Snuffed it out like it never existed. All those horrible things I said, the monstrous things I did, I… I never would have done it. I never wanted to hurt you. I wanted to leave."
He pulls down the slope of his gaunt face, thumbs along sharp cheekbones. The violent blue of his eyes locks onto her, chilling, spearing, pervading through her inner darkness.
"You don't believe me." His voice has succumbed to a trembling timbre. Thin, threadbare; a fragile thing. "Do you?"
Chell stays very still. Hands pressed to the table, she stares at him, stares through him, her gaze fixed on the blank white of the kitchen wall. Blots of black skirt around the edges of her vision; shadows, monsters, nightmares. Her stomach is being twisted, squeezed, wrung out, and she suppresses the urge to crack him in the jaw.
There is no reason why she should believe him. No reason at all. He could be lying. He could be an agent for Her, stuffed into a human body and sent to the surface to somehow convince her to Return. After all, as her instincts keep reminding her so continuously, heart drumming against her ribs, he tried to kill her.
She won't satisfy him with an answer. No. Not yet.
"This body," she writes. The inked tip pierces the paper on the last stretch of the Y.
As Wheatley reads, he looks like he's starting to break down. His fingers are curled in toward his palms, quivering, his shoulders brought in, and his eyes—
God. She wishes she couldn't see his eyes.
"Her," he breathes. It's so quiet, so small, barely whispering out of his throat. "It was Her work. This was. All of this. I never wanted it. To be like this. I—I liked being a robot. I did. It was grand. Automated. Brilliant and simple. But she went and… powered me down. Afterward. After everything. I don't know for how long. It feels like the moon was yesterday. But it wasn't yesterday. Was it?"
Chell tries to focus on breathing. She writes, "One year ago, today."
There must be some sort of humor in this. Maybe She counted on Chell's sentimentality for what happened. Maybe that's why she found Wheatley regurgitated on Aperture's doorstep on their anniversary.
Or, perhaps it's all coincidence. It's possible that She just happened to test on him for a full year until She found the technology, the body, the mind—whatever it took to make him this—and then sent him up to the surface, to the concrete slab with The Door behind him, helpless and confused and entirely too vulnerable to live on his own.
The more she tries to think about it, the more her head hurts.
"I remember," says Wheatley. "I remember a Machine." His expression is contorted agony. The tendons in his neck push against his skin with every swallow. "I don't know what it was. It sort of looked like one of the old ones test subjects were kept in. The ones for suspended animation. Stasis. Had an empty chamber inside it and everything. Lots of wires and buttons everywhere."
He inhales, shaking, and opens his eyes to look at her. She's never seen terror splayed so plainly across another's face. Blue climbs into her and all she can see is the sky, the incredible blue of the sky, the wheat fields and his limp body cradled amongst the stalks. Something buries itself between her lungs.
"I think She used it," he says. "Somehow. On me. I don't know. I remember being hooked up to some kind of port next to The Machine. I think She might have activated my sleep mode or something because everything went black. And then I just… woke up. On the surface. Like this."
Her gaze flicks down to the notepad. She pauses over the paper, pen poised, about to write another question, but she stops when she feels the coldness of his hand encircle hers.
"Please," he says. "Please don't make me go back. I don't want to go back. I don't. That place, I just… I can't. I don't remember if She said anything, it's all blank, but I know She'll kill me if I go back There. You know Her. You know what kinds of things She's capable of. I don't care what happens, if you want to throw me out or leave me somewhere, whatever you want to do, you can do it, just… please don't make me go back."
Chell is frozen. She's not sure what she should do. She looks at his hand, the tendons and veins pressing under the skin, the soft hairs that climb up his arm. His tousled mess of hair, the sallowness of his face, the tears and the dirt smearing his cheeks.
Amongst the anger, the bewilderment, and the tumult encaged within, there is something small and so afraid inside of her, shivering, sutured into the knot of her heart. Her mind is a kaleidoscope of fractured images: The Shed, The Door, The Lair, The Moon.
She's had her opportunity to run. And she did. She ran. She ran so far and so fast; she ran until she couldn't run anymore. Diaphragm heaving, lungs aching, she ran and ran until she met the road, and when the soles of her long fall boots tasted crumbs of cracking asphalt, she continued to run until her legs gave out and the last of the adrenal vapor dissipated from her body.
The fear of Return is all too real.
"No one's going back," she writes.
She doesn't know what she's going to do with him, but she's not a monster.
The tension seems to uncoil out of Wheatley's shoulders. He exhales, quavering. His grip lessens, pressure receding, and then he draws away and collects himself on his side of the table.
"I don't know what to say. Just… thank you." His bare forearm soaks up the filth and wetness from his face. "Really, I mean it. I do. Thank you. I… I don't deserve this. Any of this. Your kindness." Wheatley sniffles, more tears trickling down. The inside of his wrist catches them this time. "I'm so sorry. For everything. God. I really am. I wish I could say something that would sound better than just sorry because sorry sounds so bloody stupid, it really does, but I can't think of anything else. I'm just… I'm sorry."
Chell places her hands on the table and tries to fully assess what's happening. There is a man here—a very tall, skinny, and malnourished man—who is currently being inhabited by a confused, guilt-ridden piece of artificial intelligence. Somehow. And not only did said confused, guilt-ridden artificial intelligence try to kill her, but it also apologized, cried in her lap, walked five miles with her in new human legs, and is now sobbing again at her kitchen table.
Today has been an interesting day, to say the least.
"I don't know what to do now," sniffs Wheatley. He's feeling along the contours of his tear-soaked face, slowly, gradually, as if puzzled. "Always had a task before. Something in the queue. Something flagged up. Now there's just… nothing." He stares at the ink-scribbled notepad in front of her, thumb and forefinger tracing his jaw. "What sorts of things do you do? I mean… there's no tests. Which is good. But there's not anything to be done. No escaping, no turrets, no nothing. Which is also good, mind. Nice to not have that. Everything's just so different. Not exactly used to this. Used to… what, free will? I mean, that is what it is, isn't it? I don't have to do anything. No reason to. No one to tell me otherwise. I could just… sit here for as long as I wanted, right? And no one can do anything about it!"
As he blathers on, Chell's mind is churning. Whether she likes it or not, Wheatley is her responsibility now. He became her responsibility from the moment she helped him stand. Even more so now that she's brought him into her home.
She supposes she has a guest—for now—and that means things have to change. There is another living, breathing human being here, and although she's not sure how much about humans he truly knows, she'll have to provide for him. Clothes, nourishment, a sleeping space. She does have that spare room that she hasn't used, and she does have some money saved up. There's a thrift shop only a few blocks away; she could take him there and get him out of that awful jumpsuit. She has enough food for now, but she'll have to pick up some extra groceries for the week if he's going to stay.
"You know, I don't actually know your name."
Wheatley's voice jars the gears in her head. She glances up at him, and he's sitting there, fingers half tucked into the neck of his jumpsuit, feeling pale skin and hard collarbone. His mouth is curved into this soft, nervous grin, and it plucks one of her stress-taut heartstrings.
"It's a bit funny, isn't it? If you think about it. All that time, all we went through, and not once did I think to ask. Well, not that you could have told me. The whole not talking and all. But I had all the files at one point, access to all of them. Could have just done a search and found yours. Your name, your history, everything. Would have only taken a few seconds, ten at the most. Still didn't cross my mind. Well, was a bit, um, preoccupied at the time. But that's beside the point. So, anyway, how about we do a proper introduction? Since, you know, everything was so rushed before."
His eyes are bright, gorgeous, incredibly blue, still glistening with lingering tears, and she feels a foreign sort of excitement gather up as she watches him break into a smile.
"My name is Wheatley," he says, leaning forward. "What's yours?"
Chell could refuse. There's really no point in revealing her name to the man—the once-AI?—that once desired her death. He's not going to be here for that long. Why should she bother with something so irrelevant?
She picks up the pen. Along the paper, toward the bottom of the page, smooth and light, she writes her name in her fluid script.
Why is she even doing this?
She turns the notepad around and offers it to him with an outstretched arm. Wheatley stares at her, stares at the notepad, and then accepts it with both hands.
There is a moment of soft quiet as he inspects what she's written. His thumb traces over the imprinted ink on the white page, back and forth, slow and gentle across the five letters. She notes his wonder at the marks she's made, as if she's created some sort of delicate treasure that only he's been allowed to see. And really, she supposes that's quite correct—in a sense.
"Chell," he murmurs, looking unsure as he works his mouth around the consonants. "So that's your name. Interesting. I think it fits. It's lovely. Unique, but lovely. Not that unique is a bad thing, mind. My name is unique. I mean, really, not lots of people named Wheatley out there now, are there? At least I don't think so. Or maybe there are? I don't know. Guess I should've thought that one through."
The rest of his waffling doesn't register. Instead, she's stuck on her name.
The way he's said it is so… strange. It somehow presses closely against the underside of her skin, making its home in the circle of her ribs. Perhaps it's because no one aside from work has said her name in recent memory. Maybe it's the lilt of his accent or the tender tenor of his voice. Either way, she's now given him access to a deeper part of herself—something beyond the surface, beyond the stoic exterior she's kept together for so long—all through the power of a single word.
Chell.
The word that's kept her grounded in reality. The word that's given her strength. The word that belongs to her, and her alone.
Chell.
Just Chell.
And now Wheatley knows.
"Hey! You around? Sorry I'm late, got a bit caught up, long story, but I'm home!"
Chell opens her eyes and lifts her head from the couch cushion. Footfalls scuffle against the carpet and the flat's door slams shut. She thinks she can spot the ends of Wheatley's coat out of the corner of her eye.
Home. Him. What a thought. Weeks ago, it was only temporary. Wasn't it?
She slides off the sofa to meet him at the coatrack. Wheatley is bent over, untying his shoes, and as he slides them off his feet and nudges them onto the mat, she can't help but contrast him with the wreck he was when he first staggered through that door.
"So," he says, shimmying off his thick winter coat, "what do you say about some practice before dinner? Sounds good, yeah? We tried nursery rhymes last time and that seemed to work, so I thought, you know, why not stick with it a while and see how it goes? If you want. If you don't, that's fine. No forcing. Just thought I'd throw it out there."
After last night, after being alone with the wisp of her breath in the silence of her room with nightmares scratching at the casing of her skull, she's decided that she welcomes the opportunity to feel in control again.
And then she remembers being held against him in the darkness. Her hand clasped with his, his arm curved around the shape of her waist, his face so incredibly close and warm. Dreams sloughed from her mind and pooled beneath her feet in the gentle moonlight. The thought of her cheek pressing against his skin pumps heat through her veins.
Seriously, what is going on here?
"Have a good day?" Wheatley stares down at her as he takes off his knit cap, cheeks flushed with delicate pink. His hair is a charming mess and she keeps forgetting about his towering height and how very small she feels beside him.
Feeling somewhat dazed, Chell nods in reply.
"Good, good. That's good to hear. Mine was good as well. Bit of a development happened, actually. Something at the shop. I'll tell you about it later. Think you'll be interested." He claps his hands together and grins. "But, first things first. So, practice—what do you say? Want to give it a go? Ready for another round?"
Chell glances to her right. The metronome sits at the kitchen table by the window sill, patient and still. The image of the other day surfaces in her head: the rhythmic ticking, Wheatley across from her, mouth gaped in awe, his hands enveloping hers. It's soothing and it's comfort and it really shouldn't be, but it is, and it's surreal.
When she claimed her freedom, she couldn't imagine him as anything other than that mechanical beast in Her chassis. He crept into her dreams, him and Her alike, and they reduced her to a fragile girl with no will, no determination, no control. They pulled out the tenacity that kept her so carefully sewn together, wrenching thread by excruciating thread.
She remembers her nightmares. She remembers the cracking chamber and the crashing panels and the pallid face of the moon. She remembers him lying in the wheat fields, thin and trembling and smudged with dirt. She remembers bringing him home, she remembers the pain and the apologies and the tears collecting at the tip of his chin, and she remembers the first and only time he's ever said her name: the inflection, the excitement, the awe, the wonder anchoring so deep.
Chell meets his curious gaze. Everything is different. So incredibly different. The fragile creature she brought home that day carried repentance upon the vertebrae of his spine. He's sought to make things right, to make amends, and past be damned, he's definitely tried.
Even if his sincerity might not have been clear that day, it's quite crystal now.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Wheatley leans in toward her to get a closer look, and the vivid blue of his eyes through the lenses of his glasses kickstarts something behind her breastbone.
"You're looking very serious all of a sudden. Very intense. Did I say something wrong? It's all right if you don't want to practice tonight, if that's the problem. There's no pressure. I did say that before, right? Well, in case I didn't, no pressure. None involved. Don't feel like you've got to do this, because you don't. It's all at your pace. All right? Your pace. And if you want to go slower, that's fine. Completely normal. Don't want to go backwards, though. I mean, not that we are. Going backwards, that is. We've made excellent progress so far. At least I think we have. So I don't think we're in any danger of that."
Chell feels the corners of her mouth tug into a grin. She's not sure if it's him or his words or his voice or something else entirely, she doesn't know, she doesn't understand, but there is something that makes it happen. And it happens so easily now. Before, she fought so hard to smile, caught up in the cogs of her own inner cacophony of voices and chimeric dreams.
"Is that a yes?" asks Wheatley. "Because I'm still not sure. You haven't actually given me an answer. Or… gesture. Mostly gesture. Not quite up to the answering yet."
Yes, she wants to say; instead, she nods for his benefit and she tries not to focus too much on how good he smells for her own.
The two of them enter the kitchen. She starts for the metronome and the table by the windowsill, but Wheatley passes her by and instead heads toward the stove. Her gaze follows him as he fetches the black teakettle by the silver handle and takes it to the sink in a few short strides. Tucking it beneath the tap, he turns the handle with his thumb and starts to fill the kettle with water.
He pauses when he seems to notice her looking at him.
"Sorry," says Wheatley. "It's right cold outside and I figured some tea would warm me up. Thought you might want some as well. Long day and all. Wouldn't hurt. Go on, have a seat. I'll join you in a second."
This is new, she thinks. New, but not unwanted. Chell does as she's told and she slumps into one of the chairs at the small table, her bare feet smoothing across the cool linoleum. She can hear him moving about behind her, floor creaking, and she finds herself peeking over her shoulder to watch—just to make sure he's doing it right. After all, he burned himself last time, didn't he?
Wheatley has rolled the sleeves of his powder-blue button-up a quarter of the way. She's able to see the light hairs that cover the skin of his thin forearms as he flips one of the dials on the stove on high. The kettle is placed over the respective burner, and when he's satisfied that everything is set, he walks across the small kitchen toward the table.
She can't help but notice the soft shades of red on the tips of his ears and in the flush of his cheeks as he sits in the chair across from her. She's sure it's from the cold, no reason it wouldn't be, but what bothers her is that it's somehow spurring that enigmatic tug, and she can feel it pulling gently at the knotted rhythm in her chest.
"That'll take a minute," says Wheatley. "So, while we wait, we can turn this on and try a short note or two to warm up, yeah?"
He flicks the tiny switch on the side of the metronome. It begins its steady tock-tock-tock in the silence of the room, and Chell settles in the bend of the chair, closing her eyes to focus on the sound.
"All right. Let's start with a couple of deep breaths now. Nice and easy."
She hears him draw in a long inhale, gentle and smooth, and she follows his lead. Lungs expanding, diaphragm holding open, she feels herself start to relax as the air flows through her nose. The metronome's cadence pulses inside of her as her heart thumps in the film of her eardrums. Although she can't see him, his face emerges quite clearly in her mind's eye: the starkness of his skin, the brilliance of his eyes, the sharpness of his nose, the angles of his jaws.
After several outbreaths, she then hears him shift into a hum. It's a solid, mid-range note, and he holds it for a few beats. The next is lower, a bit longer, and Chell works the muscles in her throat in hopes of joining. She continues to breathe, intent on bending her body to her will. When he changes to yet another note, higher on the scale this time, there is a quiet stream of air that wells up her throat. Another note, lower, still steady; she lets the exhale uncoil from her lungs and out of her mouth. It ropes through her, muscles straining, and she feels a cinching tightness above her lungs where her vocal cords adduct—and her voice pulls through.
Gentle, quiet, it hums beneath the leisurely rhythm of the metronome and Wheatley's delicate tenor. The thrum in her throat takes her by surprise and there is a split moment where it's crumbling, splitting apart, sliding back down the walls and into her chest. Wheatley holds the lead and shifts again, a higher note, and Chell gathers her strength and welds her voice together. It wavers, bending between the steps of sharps and flats, and when everything feels stable, and she pushes herself into the sound, ribcage full.
She opens her eyes at last. And the first thing that captures her vision is the curve of his proud, adoring smile. Unbidden, she returns it. The vibration within her swells, stronger now, channeling through, and god, if she could only control it. It feels as though she could reach out and use this shivering thing that's been trapped inside for so long, but it's wild and untamed. She doesn't know what to do with it. All she knows is focus, force, and it's suddenly there.
The sharp whistle of the kettle cuts into the metronome's beat. Chell's voice dies out.
"Oh!" Wheatley jumps straight out of his chair. "Sorry, hold that, hold that—you're doing brilliantly!—stay with it, all right? Well, you don't have to, but—just a second!"
He bounds across the kitchen. Snatching an oven mitt (no burning), he grabs the handle and moves the kettle off the burner as he turns the dial down to zero. After he sets it to the side, he begins to dig through cupboards, his back to her. Peering over her shoulder, she can see how his shirt has been tucked in and the creases in the fabric as it slips beneath his waistband.
Have his shoulders always been that broad? She doesn't remember.
Wheatley crows with an accomplished "Ah-ha!" when he comes across the tea cabinet. He plucks several packets from the box within and holds them out for her to see.
"Which kind do you want, love?" he asks. "There's green tea with… anti-ox-i-dants, whatever those are. Weird. There's cinnamon apple spice, chamomile… Oh, there's a gingerbread one. Like the biscuit, I think? That sounds good. And pumpkin as well. What do you think? I'm feeling apple. Don't know about you. Apple sound good? Always been fond of apples."
Chell nods in reply. As he sets two packets aside and begins to search for cups, she notes the movement of his hands. Absently, she wonders how they would look striking piano keys across a keyboard. That's what it was, right? The piano? He did say he wanted to play for her once he learned more. And honestly, the thought makes her face grow uncomfortably hot.
"All right, here we go. Here's yours." Wheatley sides her mug across the length of the table. "Careful, now. Did pretty well with the whole not burning part. I'd hate for you to get burned right at the end."
He sits down once more, his hands cupped around his own. A quiet noise of pleasure purrs in his throat as he lets the warmth seep into his hands. His fingers begin to drum up and down the ceramic sides in the metronome's gentle tempo.
Chell finds herself averting her gaze when his eyes settle on her.
"You're brilliant, you know," says Wheatley. He brings the cup to his lips and takes a tentative sip, but his eyes are very much focused on her face. "Seriously, I'm not exaggerating. It's astounding. As long as we keep this up, we'll be knocking words out in no time at all. At least, well, that's what it feels like. But I believe it. I really do. You can do anything you put your mind to. Or whatever that saying is. Because, I mean, really, look at all of this—this little flat, this life you've built…" Wheatley's thumbs trace the rim of the mug and his face softens, mouth tugging into this adoring grin. "All of this here is proof of that. Proof that you can. I'm positive."
Chell's stare flickers down into the liquid in her mug, smiling, and she feels that pulling force that roots deeply under her breastbone. She takes the string of the tea bag and swirls it about the water and listens to the tock-tock-tock and to the steady rhythm of Wheatley's breathing.
It's never occurred to her why she can only seem to find her voice when he's near.
There is a warmth that brushes the backs of her fingers. Chell looks up, and Wheatley's hand has crossed the frame of the table. The rich color from the cold has flushed his face again, though she doesn't know how. His thumb lightly touches her skin as his teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip.
It's such a strange thought. Finding her voice through him.
She's not even sure how long it's been lost.
Thomas Key pumps on the breaks and the dusty Ford pickup's wheels crunch dirt and gravel as it grinds to a halt.
Outside the driver's side window stands a decrepit shack. Its wooden exterior is slathered with red paint that's chipped and peeled over the years. Sheets of decaying plywood have been nailed over the windows, and a slanted tin roof fends off the weather with growing rust. It might have once been part of a barn, he thinks, but he can't be sure. Grass has encroached upon all sides except for the dirt pathway that curves up to meet the metal door.
Thomas sheds his plaid blazer and leaves it folded in the passenger seat. It's cold outside—it is the end of November, after all—but he would rather not risk ruining it. Dry cleaning is not cheap.
He clambers out of the truck. Keys in his trouser pocket, he shuts the door behind him with a heavy hand. He pulls up his left suspender strap, draws a breath, and shuffles toward the front. The path is dry, scattered with pebbles and larger rocks, and it parts the grass. He's been here before, but somehow the image of the rotting red shack amidst the sea of overgrown greens and browns always seems to give him a sense of unease.
Thomas stops before the metal door. It's thick, some sort of iron, he thinks, with a small covered slot about eye level. He curls his fingers into a fist and knocks. Once, twice, thrice. A pause. Once, twice. Another pause. Three in quick succession. He takes one step back, his black dress shoes firmly planted in the dirt, and he folds his arms to wait.
He's timed this before. It takes forty seconds before he hears movement on the other side. Fifty-five seconds before someone approaches. One minute before there's a voice.
"Who's there?"
"It's me. Tom."
One minute ten before the slot opens.
A pair of gray eyes stares out. Pupils dilated and wide, the eyes blink and dart to him, to the sides, to the blue truck beyond, inspecting and surveying and making sure he's not been followed.
One minute twenty before the slot shuts. There's always mumbling, but Thomas can never make out what's being said.
It's one minute twenty-seven before the voice speaks again.
"What was the first word I told you when we met?"
Thomas fights off a shiver. The wind is starting to pick up and he's second guessing his decision to keep his blazer in the truck.
"Chell," he replies.
One minute forty before the door finally opens.
It swings outward, and a pale, scraggly man in ripped jeans and a stained lab coat emerges from the shack. His movement is hindered; he favors his right leg in a jolting sort of limp. Thick black hair and wiry beard sway in the gusting breeze, and he holds a pen in one calloused hand.
Thomas unfolds his arms and steps forward.
"Hello, Doug. It's been a while."