Prompt 011: "#6 made me want Wheatley to get a cuddle story, soo... Chelley cuddles? Vague prompt is vague."
Wheatley wishes he could make her nightmares vanish.
When thirst spurs him from his slumber and he traverses the dark in a midnight trip to the fridge, he'll notice her presence on the sofa. She's a silent statue, stoic and unmoving under the shroud of shadows. Her stare is empty, hollow; perhaps she steeps in horrors far beyond this realm in a world he can't see.
Chell never reaches out to him, and he knows why: she must dream of more than just Her.
In a way, it aches. It spears through his chest, his lungs, his heart, and it makes a sharp twist that lingers long into the night. His guilt could fill rivers, lakes, oceans; he could drown in it; he could spend hundreds of lives trying to push from the bottom to break the surface, gasping, hoarse, oxygen deprived, and still there would be a mountain to climb.
He tries his best to make her happy, but he can only do so much. He'll help her with dinner, leave her encouraging notes, make her tea. He'll take her out on scenic walks outside the city limits, out with a picnic and the wheat fields and the lake. He'll talk to her and reassure her and tell her she's brilliant, she's wonderful, she's perfect.
But no matter how much he does, he can't protect her from her mind.
Wheatley wanders out of his room, drowsy and parched. As he crosses the dark living room and turns into the kitchen, he can sense her in her usual place, just on the end of the couch, staring absently at the wall. After being blinded by the refrigerator, he collects a cup of water and ambles to the sofa, one arm out, reaching, and sinks down next to her.
"You okay?" he asks, taking a sip. The liquid is cold relief.
She doesn't reply. Not even a gesture.
Wheatley places the cup down on the coffee table. He situates himself so he's facing her on the couch, one leg on the floor, the other tucked in flat against the cushion. Her long hair is disheveled, pooling down her back and collarbone.
"Nightmares, isn't it." It's not a question; he doesn't need to ask.
In the muted moonlight, she nods. Her hand rises up, fingers against her head, and then jolts out, honing back in as if she's going to strike herself.
Nightmares.
"I feel helpless here," he says. "Don't know what I should do, you know? Seeing you like this, night after night. Just wish I could help."
Her fingers find his hand and curl tight. He revels in the warmth, the pressure, and takes the opportunity to move closer. One arm brought around her, the other holding her hand, he brings her against him, burying his face in her hair. The gentle scent of her soap causes his thumping heart to pump faster.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against her scalp. "I know I keep saying it and you're probably getting sick of it by now or something, but it's the truth. It really is. I'm sorry."
Chell breathes deeply, shoulders trembling, and leans into him. Wheatley strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, fingers completely enveloping hers. He knows he's big, but she's so small, and it's staggering to think that such a tremendous will resides in such a diminutive vessel. It's a hard concept to wrap his mind around. Then again, her tenacity reminds him of what happened back There, and even though he wishes he could make her nightmares vanish, he wishes he could erase all he's done so much more.
"Everything's all right," he says, holding her close. "Okay? Things will get better. They will. I promise."
She doesn't reply, but she burrows her face into the space by his collarbone. Her nose is cold and it touches pale skin where the neck of his shirt dips down. She grips his hand tighter.
Smiling into the softness of her hair, Wheatley squeezes back.