Prompt 012: "Wheatley experiences a thunderstorm for the first time."
Wheatley is not fond of the rain.
As a core, water was something he avoided at all costs. Not exactly good for the circuitry, you know. One of the most harmful things for a robot. Except perhaps physical dismantlement.
But as a human, water is something he must consume to keep his body functioning properly. Baths are also required; humans can be very smelly if they don't exercise proper hygiene, and he absolutely refuses to be one of those who doesn't.
He's retrained himself (with her help) to not hate water (as much). Small glasses of water don't stir up that apprehension anymore, but baths sometimes do.
However, both instances of water are in controlled environments. Wheatley manipulates how much water is present via a faucet or the pitcher in the fridge. It gives him more power over a fear that is no longer applicable and lets him ease into the idea of interacting with it.
But rain? Oh. Rain is awful.
It pours out of the sky for no reason. Absolutely no reason. And sometimes without warning. It's wet and gets his clothes all damp and mats his hair; it's ruined perfectly good days and lovely walks with Chell, and quite honestly, if it were up to him, rain wouldn't ever happen again.
Of course, the world isn't up to him, and so a storm rolls in about midafternoon.
There's a crockpot atop the stove, simmering away, and the kitchen is thick and heady with the scent of stewing meat and vegetables. Wheatley sits slumped at the table, bare feet flat on linoleum tile. With his chin in his palm, he glares out the window at the gathering thunderheads. Faint booms can be heard far in the distance; he can just barely catch webs of lightning as they crack through the rolling clouds.
He's only seen small rain showers in the short time he's been on the surface. The sky washes out until it's a muted gray, coupled with a layer of rain-laden clouds. Drops fall at a steady pace and patter on the concrete.
This is monstrous and dark; a whole different beast.
Anxiety tight in his throat, Wheatley glances to Chell. She's handling a ladle, leaning against the countertop, waiting for the timer to go off.
"Looking bad out there, isn't it?" he remarks. "Not liking this. A bit nervous, if I'm honest."
Chell cocks her head to the side, craning her neck to peer out the window. She doesn't seem fazed.
Another boom. Much closer this time. In a sudden onslaught, rain unleashes outside in a furious rhythm of drums. Lightning illuminates the murky sky in a jagged flash.
Wheatley swallows as the drops splash against the glass. "You know, come to think of it," he says, rising to his feet, "I think I'll just join you. Over there. Away from here. Where it's, um, safe. Safer. Windows can break under intense pressure. A very real danger, broken windows. In case you didn't know."
Heart thumping, he slinks into the corner with her by the stove. When the storm is roaring overhead and the thunder vibrates through the walls and the rain is an endless wall of water, he flinches and tucks himself closer to the curve of her back.
Chell only reaches up, pats him on the cheek, and offers him a sip of stew.