Prompt 005: "Wheatley finds a cat sitting outside the apartment and it won't leave him alone."
It's about half past five. The sun is starting to sink its way leisurely below the skyline and Wheatley is strolling home from work, blue coat buttoned up tight and knit cap pulled over his ears. He's fascinated with how his breath looks in the bitter cold; puffs of smoky vapor unfurl out with every exhale.
He's only a block away from the apartment when he hears something very different from the usual thrum of the crowds. It's high-pitched, soft, somewhat melodic. He's not heard anything quite like it before.
Wheatley pauses, intrigued, and tries to search for the source of the sound. He squints through his glasses, eyes darting from across the street to the shops nearby. He finally glances down the length of an alleyway at the end of the block, and he finds it. A small, white cat stares back at him from around the corner.
"Oh, hello there," he says, kneeling down. His jeans hit the concrete sidewalk as he tugs his glove off his hand and reaches out to it. "What are you doing down there, little guy? Aren't you cold? It's nearly winter, after all. But I suppose you've got some fur on you, don't you? So maybe you're really not that cold."
The cat paws close, craning its neck, nose sniffing. Its tail twitches back and forth. After a few moments, it seems to deem Wheatley acceptable, because it hops onto his knees and starts rubbing against the front of his coat, purring loudly.
Wheatley is absolutely delighted. He's stroking its downy coat, index finger scratching behind its ears. Warm fuzziness settles behind his breastbone.
"Ah, you're an affectionate one, aren't you? Cute little bugger. Where's your mum and dad? They leave you out in the cold all by yourself? I hope not. That'd be bloody awful of them." He brushes his thumb along the cat's cheek when he notices something odd. "Oh, wow, look at that—your eyes! They're different colors. All blue and orange. Like… portals. That's a bit weird, if I'm honest. More than a bit. Are all cats like you?"
The cat continues to nuzzle into his hand, his coat, cold nose under his fingers. Its whiskers tickle his palm and it meows as if in response.
"I wonder what that means in English," says Wheatley.
Another meow, ears tilted forward, expectant.
Wheatley gingerly picks the cat up and sets it off his lap. "Sorry, kitty. You're very cute and all, really, you are, but I've got to get home. She'll be cross if I'm late for dinner. Again. And I don't think she'll particularly like me bringing you along."
He gives it one last pat on the head before pushing himself to his feet. He slips his glove back on, adjusts his glasses, and resumes his route home.
Wheatley walks a few meters before he realizes that he's not alone. Peeking over his shoulder, he sees the white ball of fur with portal eyes trailing along just behind him, paws trying to bat at his shoes.
"Don't you have a home?" he asks. "Someplace to go back to?"
The cat slinks up against his leg, back arched, head burrowing into his jeans. There's no collar around its neck; not even a slight depression or the wearing away of fur.
"You don't, do you?"
A short, trilling meow. Bright eyes, swishing tail.
Oh, he's such a sucker.
"Hello!" he calls out, opening the door to their flat.
As Chell emerges from the kitchen to meet him by the coatrack, he holds up the cat.
"Sorry about this, love," he says, "but, well—we've got company."