Prompt 019: "I was wondering what would happen if Wheatley encounters Machiavelli as a human."
Chell has a black plastic bookshelf tucked into the corner of the den and it's full to bursting. It looks like she's long since gave up trying to organize the mess; there is no method, no sorting, only titles mixed about and books piled on top of one another, shoved in haphazardly as a second row along the shelf.
Wheatley assumes she's collected them from the thrift store or perhaps some sort of discount shop. He knows Chell is very practical, and if she can spend less on something and get away with it, he's sure she's all for it.
One particularly dreary day while she's at work, Wheatley has decided that daytime telly is far too boring to merit sitting on the couch for three hours, and so he finds himself kneeling by the shelf, legs bowed out in plaid pajamas, thumbing curiously through the spines.
"Let's see here, what've we got, what have we got… Ah, Lord of the Rings. Heard that was a good one. Solid read. The Belgariad. Mm, not sure what that is. Looks interesting, though. American Gods… odd name. The Princess Bride? Might have to see what that's about."
He mumbles to himself and pushes paperbacks and hardbacks aside until he pulls out a black, leather-bound book. The words "The Prince: Machiavelli" are embossed upon the spine in what looks to be golf leaf. It's a very impressive copy.
"Machiavelli? Ha, what are the bloody odds?" He chuckles at himself and pops it into the crook of his arm as he places a hand on his knee and rises to his feet. "I don't believe it. I mean, really. Sort of like the world's having a laugh. Wonder where she picked this up."
Wheatley plods to the sofa, plops down, and settles in. After examining the cover for a moment, he then opens the book, the smooth leather beneath the pads of his willowy fingers, and turns to the first page.
In large, bold print, centered of the yellowed page, reads the word "Introduction." He skims the paragraphs below, eyes darting. From what he can gather, it seems like someone's put a bit of a biography about Machiavelli before the rest of his book. He certainly didn't know that the bloke's full name was long and crazy. Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. What a mouthful. And born centuries ago in Florence, wherever that is. Oh—Italy. Probably shouldn't have skipped that part. Sort of important.
When Chell comes home, he's still buried between the pages, soaking in and parsing the words to the best of his ability. He notices her when she peers over the top of the book with an inquisitive stare, long hair falling across the words.
"Hello," he says with a sheepish smile. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing it. I'll give it back. Just saw that it's—well, Machiavelli. Don't know if you got it as a joke or something—hilarious, by the way; side-splitting—but I was bored and you weren't here and so thought I'd give it a go. Hope that's all right."
Chell shrugs in reply, but her mouth tugged in this subtle smirk that makes his heart somersault.
"But you know," says Wheatley, reaching out to ghost his thumb across her lips, "really, I still don't see what all the fuss is about."