Prompt 013: "Wheatley's reaction to nature as he walks through a forest with Chell."
He's seen the surface of the Earth in dreams. Fragments, shards, pieces, glimpses of when she held him out over the moon. Glowing across the horizon, blanketed with pinprick stars in his mindscape, he sees oceans and landmasses so impossibly large and gorgeous and breathtaking, and in that sailing blackness, he's able to absorb just how incredible the world is.
That tight, rocketing feeling of pure wonderment is with him now, buried right between his lungs.
Birdsong encompasses the clearing. Great trees with thick, leg-width roots tower far into the sky, autumn leaves collapsing into a thinning canopy. Reds and golds and oranges that aren't Aperture mesh into a mosaic of vibrant, astonishing color. The air is crisp, fresh, alive; breezes sweep under branches and through piles of leaves, scattering scores of shapes into swirling kaleidoscopes and into Wheatley's face.
He's enraptured. He's only been far enough outside town to see the endless wheat fields. This place is far on the other side, tucked past the lake. He's not sure how far they've walked to get here, but he will gladly do it again if it means he gets to see this.
Chell touches his hand. He feels the gentle coolness of her fingers circle his own. Thrill winding close, Wheatley glances down at her by his side.
"This is amazing," he says. "Absolutely amazing! How did you find this place? Seriously. Never would've thought to come all the way out here. I mean, it is a bit out of the way, isn't it? But wow, all the trees, colors, everything. It's beautiful. We should come here more often. Well, if you want. Don't have to. But I think it would be brilliant. Just look at all of this."
She leans into his arm, head resting against the fabric of his jumper, and he feels her fingers lace through his. Savoring the contact, he grins and brushes a rogue lock of hair out of her eyes.
"And that's not to say you're not beautiful, because you are. Prettiest lady here. Well, not that there are any others. Sort of… deserted. Except for us. But that's not what I meant."
She smirks, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"I'm not very good at this," he groans, palming his forehead. "But you do know what I was trying to say, though. Right? I know it sounded like some sort of backhanded compliment or something, but it really wasn't meant like that. Really, it wasn't. I'm sorry."
The breeze kicks up, flowing through her thick hair and disheveling his. Leaves sweep across the grassy earth and tumble against his jeans, crackling amongst themselves.
Chell stands on her tip toes. She cups his jaw with her hand, soft and cool, bringing him down, and she rubs her nose against his.
He's learned that this is comfort, calm; this is, "I'm okay. Are you?"
"I'm not okay," Wheatley replies, and envelops her hand with his. "I'm far better."