Prompt 004: "Wheatley gets an itch on his back that he can't reach. Needs Chell to scratch it."

There's a lot of stimuli-and-response that happens to a human body. Wheatley has noticed that he tends to do certain things when he's nervous, upset, or happy. Sometimes it's subconscious and he reacts without thinking; other times, it's compulsion that drives him.

In this instance, it's the latter.

Some aspects of being human were programmed into his memory from when he was a core, too. He did take care of humans, after all. He had to know some of the basics. It was more of a glossing over, if he's honest. The nitty gritty of what actually happens wasn't very interesting to him.

Itching, though, is not a foreign concept.

Wheatley is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, trying his very best to touch the center of his back. Unfortunately for him, his lanky arms just aren't long enough. Or flexible enough. Or both. It's right there, tickling between his shoulder blades, and his hand falls short by a fingerlength.

"Oh, god," he groans. "Really, what use are arms if you can't reach anything? I just—can't—oh, this is driving me mad!"

He leans out and looks to his right, attempting to peer into Chell's room. He's met with a closed door.

"Hey," he calls out, "are you busy? Sorry, if you are, but I've got a bit of a problem. Help needed. And appreciated. If you would. Can you hear me? At all? I'm not yelling to the door, am I?"

No response. Nothing. Not even poking her head out to see what's happened.

Wheatley tries once more to reach the middle of his back, arms stretching from both behind and over his shoulder, and he almost shouts in frustration because the constant itching makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

At his wits' end, he gets up and barges into Chell's room.

"Look, I know I'm not supposed to do this but I really need your help and—oh. Um. Wow."

If Wheatley wasn't familiar with stimuli-and-response before, he is now.

"Oh, um, I'm—I'm sorry, really sorry, I just had this, um—I didn't m-mean to—" He's stammering and words are tumbling out of his mouth without end and he feels his face heat up, fire under his skin, and he's sure his ears are slowly blushing pink because there is very half-naked lady standing in front of him and just wow.

And she's angry. Oh god. She's angry and she's coming straight for him and—

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I just—"

Her hands flat, she shoves against his stomach. He flails backward and out of her room, heart squeezing up his throat and air fleeing from his lungs. The door then promptly slams in his face.

Wheatley stands there, stunned, breathless. Warmth pools below his belly and his face feels so uncomfortably hot.

"I just... wanted you to scratch my back," he mumbles.