Prompt 007: "Wheatley has a violent allergic reaction to something."
Wheatley comes to in a hospital bed.
His eyesight is bleary and his glasses are strangely absent. Blinking, squinting, he realizes there's something attached to the bend of his arm. It hurts. Actually, everything hurts. His head, his throat, his arm. His tongue feels thick and fat, like someone's puffed it full of air.
God. It's like he's been hit by a truck.
Everything takes a few moments to come into focus. There's a pale blue curtain pulled to the side, a small black telly bolted to the ceiling, and a whole lot of white. White blankets, white walls, white blinds on the windows, bright white fluorescent lights. It's blinding.
Wheatley registers a tight pressure on his hand and he can't seem to figure out what's happening. Lolling his head to the right, trying to focus through half-lidded eyes, he sees a vaguely human shape. Dark hair, peach skin.
"Oh, god," he murmurs, eyes scrunching shut. Talking feels weird. Slow and too much effort. "Is—is that you? Please say it is."
Fingers lace with his and squeeze. That's a yes.
"Thank god," he says. His thumb rubs along Chell's knuckles. "What am—what am I doing here? My head just… hurts."
"You lost consciousness," says a voice. It's deeper, scratchier, male; definitely not hers. "Anaphylaxis."
Wheatley can't wrap his tongue around that word. Thinking feels like wading through molasses. "Anapha-what?"
"Allergies, in other words. Your throat was beginning to swell shut. Pretty nasty hives, too."
Wheatley tries to lean forward, but he feels the flat of her palm press against his chest to push him back. He can almost hear her thoughts: No, not getting up. You're not well. He complies and sinks back onto the gurney.
"She said it was coconut cake. Have you eaten coconut before, Wheatley?"
He tries to probe around his mind for the answer, but it's not particularly effective. Everything is enshrouded in fog.
"No," he replies. "No, can't say I have. But I can't exactly… well, remember. It's all fuzzy." Her fingers squeeze harder and things start to resurface in pieces. "I think I remember… not breathing."
Choking, panicking, adrenaline surging through his veins. He remembers the kitchen floor as it rushes up to meet his face. He remembers nausea clamping down on his stomach and he remembers his skin starting to burn. Somewhere in the midst, his vision went out, and blackness sewed in.
"You'll be staying overnight. It's just to make sure everything's fine."
Wheatley notices a figure in blue scrubs by the curtain. No matter how much he tries, he can't quite make out the face.
"You're a lucky guy," says the doctor. "She's been here the whole time."
He's in pain, but there's a gentle flutter in the circle of his ribs. Wheatley grins, strangely content, and relishes the comforting warmth of her hand. He turns his head to the side again, pillow upon his cheek, and he tries his best to see her through the blur.
"Well. Looks like coconut's off the menu now, isn't it?"