Prompt 006: "The thing Wheatley misses the most about being a personality core."
Wheatley is curled up on the couch, his head resting in Chell's lap.
Drowsy and falling asleep to the soft murmur of their new telly, he can't help but feel pleased. She's warm and comfortable against the back of his neck, and her fingers are absently threading though his light brown hair, pausing occasionally to rub his scalp. Her other hand is occupied with a book on the arm rest. Every minute or so, he hears her turn the page with a gentle fwip.
Sometimes—just sometimes—he wishes he were smaller. He's not going to lie to himself: he is not a short man. He's slightly over two meters tall with gangling arms and skinny legs. He appreciates the advantages that such a height bestows (cupboards and top shelves are no match for him!), don't get him wrong, but the longer he carries on in his human body, the more he's convinced that height is… well, more of a hindrance than anything else.
Doors, for example. Doors and doorframes. He's lost count of how many times he's had to duck to avoid slamming his face into a doorframe. Most houses are not built for people above two meters—or that's how it seems, anyway. Seriously, who designs these things? Do tall people not exist in the architectural field? It's rubbish.
Oh, and another example: constantly having to bend to reach things. Stuff on the desk? Time for knees to bend. Something on the coffee table? Back bends a bit, too. It hurts sometimes, you know.
Height was not a problem when he was a personality core. Not a problem at all. Convenient, in fact. He was small, compact, portable. Needed to go someplace? Pop onto the management rail. Or, alternatively, have her carry him. He was quite easy to carry.
He sort of… well, misses her carrying him, if he's honest. He's so big and lanky now, she couldn't hope to carry him if she tried. He's thin, sure, but seventy-something kilograms isn't really something to sneeze at. (He's still gaining, mind you. His metabolism is just… stupid.) He's pretty keen on the idea of having her hold him in her arms and carrying him about. She could even be the big spoon for once and cuddle him in bed. Oh, yes, he especially likes that last bit. How amazing would that feel?
Another page fwips and Chell shifts beneath him. Her hand continues to entwine with his hair, her nails gently massaging near the roots.
Although, now that he really thinks about it, being big isn't all that bad.
Wheatley savors the feeling of her fingers and a soft, contented noise rumbles in his chest.
This is nice, too.