Prompt 021: "Would you be interested in writing a warm up about Wheatley experiencing a limb falling asleep for the first time?"
Chell makes sounds when she sleeps.
Wheatley has never noticed before. Then again, he's not exactly been in a position to notice. It's when she begins curling up with him in the evenings on the couch that he realizes just how often it happens.
He stretches out upon his back, head on a cushion, and she nestles on top of him, her face buried just so into the place above his collarbone. The telly flickers with prime time sitcoms and the evening sunset peers through the curtains, casting delicate shades of summer wines. Her cheek rests against the column of his neck; he gets shivers from the warmth of her breath kissing his skin.
She must dream. Sometimes she moves, or trembles, or groans. Sometimes she twists and soft noises well up out of her throat. Sometimes she burrows against him, eyes clenched, as if he's become her bastion against the tendrils of darkness that creep under the casing of her skull.
Wheatley folds his arms around her in a cocoon. He brings her close and nuzzles into the dark locks of her hair, pressing a kiss to her head. "It's all right," he says.
It's wishful thinking, he knows, it really is, but he hopes his voice might be something she can grab onto and focus on, something that might help guide her from her nightmares. He likes to think he's her friend (he's not sure what they are, if he's honest), and he's certain that's the sort of thing friends do: friends help one another, no questions asked.
A quiet murmur of anguish comes from the small woman nested above him. Her hands dig into his jumper and squeeze.
"You're all right," he whispers, bringing his fingers up and down the curve of her backbone. "You're okay. Nothing's got you now. You're safe, love. It's a dream."
After a while, the shows and voices on the telly blur together. He tries to stay awake, but the warmth of her body and the rhythm of her breathing lull him into slumber. When he comes to, it's somewhere around eight or nine. He opens his eyes; the den is dark with only the glare of the flickering screen.
It's then that he realizes he can't feel his right arm. It's tucked between Chell's side and the back cushions of the couch. There's no sensation, no body heat, no soft fabric; there's nothing.
Panic pumps through the chambers of his heart.
"Hey, wake up," says Wheatley, nudging her with his other hand. "Wake up. It's kind of important. Very important, actually. Something's wrong."
Chell groans into his neck and snuggles closer, her back pushing his dead arm further into the sofa. It prickles like small pinprick needles sinking into his skin.
"Oi, come on, wake up," he implores. He lifts a leg to disturb her balance. "I do love this, all nice and cozy together, I really do, but this is urgent. Life or death! I mean, what if it spreads to the rest of me? What if I'm dying? Arms aren't supposed to feel like this! Well, at least I don't think so. But it's never done this before! Always been able to feel properly until now."
Chell finally rouses. Scrunching her eyes shut, she grimaces as she lifts herself off his chest to straddle his waist. She takes a moment to collect her bearings: the darkness, the rambling of the telly, the agitated man beneath her.
And then she gives him this withering look through half-lidded eyes, something to the tune of, "This had better be damn important."
"Hey, look, I'm being honest," he says. "I can't feel a thing." He pokes his arm for emphasis. "See? Nothing. Well, there's this needley sort of—oh, that feels weird. What are you doing? I don't—no, no, stop! What if you break it?"
Chell is lifting up his dead arm, her thumbs rubbing along his bicep. She massages out the odd, almost painful tingling in a gentle circular motion. She starts to work down the full length of his arm at a leisurely pace, and as she goes, she makes sure to apply ample amounts of pressure.
His arm is being restored. Somehow?
He's not sure what's happening, but it's really freaking him out.
"Ow, ow, how did—oh, god, that's—that's bloody weird. How are you even doing this? Seriously, I—ow—ahhhh—this is crazy!"
She's on his forearm now, kneading away, and she seems particularly disinterested in his commentary. When she reaches his hand, she rubs the inside of his palm with her thumbs, crissing across his lifelines. The tendons and bones roll beneath her dexterous fingers.
As the prickling fades and sensation begins to register in his nerves once again, he becomes acutely aware of the heat of her body. He's aware of how she's holding his hand, of how she's sitting; he's aware of she how she's smirking at him with half of her illuminated in the white-blue flicker of the television light like he really is a moron but it's not demeaning at all; no, he can tell! He knows that look, he really does, and she smiles at him like this when he's tripped over something or when he's burnt the eggs again or when he's waving at her across the crowd and shouting, "Hey, LADY!" at the top of his lungs.
Wheatley's arm has been revived and his face feels pleasantly warm. Biting his lower lip, he laces his fingers with hers and gazes up at her from the cushion. He can't help but admire her; she's strong and brilliant and… and gorgeous.
The knot behind his breastbone beats faster.
"Thank you," he says.
Chell shakes her head in reply. Her free hand draws close to his mouth and the pads of her fingers trace the contours of his lips.
He kisses one, and the flutter between his lungs could lift him off the sofa when she smiles.