Prompt 029: "Maybe a rainy evening spent dancing in the flat?"

Soft acoustic plays over the old radio's speakers, and the delicate chords of Silent Night strum throughout the flat.

Wheatley is nursing a cup of lukewarm tea on the sofa. He would have finished drinking it about fifteen minutes ago, but he's been too interested in watching Chell wrap presents to care. She unrolls the paper out onto the carpet and places each knickknack in its center only to shear through the colorful wrapping with a pair of gleaming scissors. Small strips of tape are stuck to her fingers; when she needs a piece, she peels one off and applies it to the proper folds and creases. It's a strict and methodical process from the way she makes it seem, and as she licks the pad of her thumb to take another nametag from the neatly stacked pile by her hip, he can't help but grin.

A lot has happened since the events Back There. It's been a year or two, which has given him the time he's needed—not only to do everything he can possibly can to make it up to her, but also to come to terms with what he's done. It's strange, but watching her tuck in the folds of various gifts, her holiday knit jumper bunching up in the crooks of her arms in the most delightful way, and with Christmas right around the corner…

Wheatley breathes a contented sigh. He feels very much at peace.

With one final sip, he sets his mug down on the coffee table and joins her. Instead of lowering himself to the floor, he bends down and scoops her up in his arms. The warm weight of her presses against his chest and he kisses the place where her hair starts to part, the muted scent of her shampoo against his nose. He notices a stray ribbon tucked behind her ear and curled by her neck, and so he tugs it out with a willowy finger. It swirls to the carpet below in lazy pirouettes.

"Think you ought to take a little break, love," he says, sliding his hands down the length of her arms. The heat there seeps into the lifelines of his palms with gentle shocks. "You've been at it for a while now, haven't you? Aren't you getting sore from all that cutting and wrapping?"

Chell doesn't reply, but her shoulder blades snuggle into the flat plane of his middle, rumpling the blue flannel of his shirt.

"Well," says Wheatley, "I'm going to assume that's a no, but I do think you ought to have a rest anyway. Christmas isn't for another week, you know. That's a whole seven days. Seven. You've got plenty of time. I mean, mass wrapping a metric ton of gifts in one night can't be good for you. Or me. Mostly me. Because, well, in all honesty, once you get something in your head, you don't really pay attention to anything else."

A soft elbow nudges his belly, but he knows her well enough to know it's in jest.

As Silent Night continues its comforting strum, Wheatley feels her start to sway back and forth, her head lolling against his sternum. Without thinking, he follows her lead, soaking in her body heat and cinching his arms around her waist. The bookshelf lamp casts a yellow glow across the den, saturating the white windowsills in a gentle amber, and Wheatley can discern the wispy shapes of heavy snowflakes fluttering just beyond the smooth black glass. The world outside tomorrow will be blanketed in glistening sheets of white, he thinks, and it might be a viable excuse to keep her nestled in bed.

"This is a lovely tune," he remarks, bringing his mouth to press against her forehead. His glasses sidle down his nose, but he doesn't bother to adjust them. "Always been fond of carols. Cheery stuff. Although I've not heard too many instrumental versions. Usually there's just a lot of people singing. Well, not that there's anything wrong with singing. It's fine. I like it, actually. It's just different, that's all."

A few minutes of swaying pass before he feels Chell shift and turn in his arms. Curious, Wheatley stills as she takes the opportunity to lace her slim fingers through his. With a sigh, she rests her ear somewhere beneath his heart, and she then begins to lead him in a slow and measured waltz across the carpet.

Wheatley has never truly danced before, especially not with how tall and ungainly he is. Following her is difficult, but he does as best he can and tries not to step on her toes. The gifts are clustered about the floor, glittering in green and crimson and gold and fastened with silken ribbons, and he makes a note to be extra careful when traversing the den. Her forearm is crooked into the small of his back while her other hand leads their direction, and the warmth of her cheek is heavy against his ribs.

The chords of Silent Night come to a close, but another song takes its place over the soft crackle of the radio—The First Noel, if he recalls correctly, again in a leisurely acoustic strum. Wheatley grins as she directs him around a cluster of glossy presents and into the corner where the Christmas tree shimmers with its spirals of winking white-gold lights. Snow continues to flurry outside the windows of the flat, the decorations glint in the warm lamplight, and there is a tight feeling of elation that flickers up under his breastbone.

He wants to tell her he loves her. He wants to tell her that she's incredible. He wants to tell her that she's gorgeous and she's absolutely everything to him. He wants to tell her that even though the circumstances of their meeting were awful and the events that followed were even worse, he's so grateful that she's still here, still with him, and even though by all rights she should have ignored him and left him behind, she's helped him become something he can feel proud of, and he's grateful for that as well.

Wheatley squeezes her hand. She looks up at him, a moonlit snowscape in the cool slate of her eyes. Something pinches in his throat; his diaphragm expands as he tries to make himself say something, anything, but it's not working and all he can do is smile at her in the splendid gleam of the tree. Chell's fingers press into his knuckles in reply, her palm flush with his. With a grin, she settles back into the fabric of his flannel and continues to guide the waltz.

He loves her. He really does. Maybe he'll tell her soon.

It's almost Christmas, after all.