Prompt 009: "How about you write you write something about the first time Wheatley has to write something with a pencil and paper? How would he hold a pencil and learn to form the letters, especially when he doesn't even know what his dominant hand is?"
Wheatley is not unfamiliar with words. Once being a construct of technology, endless words fed through his compilers. They designated his tasks, created his thoughts, and computed his reactions. Of course, words only stood as placeholders for more complex groups of numbers. Peeled apart and stripped down into their simplest form, one would find millions upon millions of lines of raw machine code. Words are much easier to program with, though, and so words were what he saw.
However, no matter how familiar he is with words, he will admit that writing is a problem. He can read quite well, but his human hands are… well, not the most dexterous of things. He's always dropping cups, pans, silverware, bottles of soap; if it exists, he's dropped it. And most likely damaged it. Somehow.
And it's unfortunate, because Chell's two main forms of communication are body language and writing. When she can't get something across with gestures or touching, she turns to pen and paper. Sometimes whole conversations, other times just short questions. Every now and then, a drawing or two. She'll even leave him notes around the house in her gentle, curving script. Something taped to the fridge: "Dinner at 6 this week." A page taped to the door: "Bread on your way home, please."
Wheatley wishes he could leave her notes. The idea of writing something meant for her stirs fluttering warmth under his breastbone. If others can learn how to write, why can't he?
The process, unfortunately, is not as easy as he's hoped. He's determined to do it on his own without her help, and the more he tries, the more frustrated he becomes.
"Why does this have to be so bloody hard?" Wheatley groans and leans back into his nest of pillows. He should have been asleep hours ago, but instead, he's there with the lamp by his bed, notepad and pen in hand, one of her books sitting by his lap.
The paper has ink marks all over it. Scratched out letters, words, bits of sentences. There's only one letter he's proud of, the letter C, the first part of an attempt at her name, and it's in the center of the page.
Wheatley rolls the pen between his spindly fingers, staring at the opened book. He's using it as a frame of reference as the serif font is proper, clear, and easy to mimic, but it doesn't seem to help. Anything he tries to write turns out a squiggly mess. He's tried both hands, too. Neither of them seems to feel right.
"Maybe I'm not trying hard enough," he says, swapping the pen to his left. "She always solved things when she tried hard enough."
He situates his fingers like he's seen her do, gripping with thumb and forefinger, and brings the point down to the page. There's a pause, stillness, black ink seeping into smooth white, and then he drags it unevenly downward. Not a straight line, but not a total wreck. He brings the pen in a curve, starting up, across, and then back down.
It's a lowercase H. The second letter of her name.
Wheatley double checks with his reference. When he sees that it's quite close with the printed letter in the book, he feels his chest swell with pride.
At this rate, soon he'll be leaving her notes all over the house.