Prompt 031: "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" from a writing meme.
Chell hates everything.
"Really? Ha, well, not to brag or anything, but I am getting to be rather good at the whole cooking thing."
Wheatley is conversing with young woman ahead of them in the queue for groceries. She's slim and blond, lips pinked with a glittery gloss and wrapped up in a slick black peacoat, and from the looks of things, she seems a little too interested in his inane ramblings.
"Can do all sorts of stuff, you know," he boasts, spine straight and hands fastened proudly to the lapels of his coat. His brown hair is a handsome mess, but his eyes have that excited spark and his smile is far too smug for comfort. "Breakfasts are my best, though. I make some bloody good pancakes, if I'm honest. Though you'd have to probably stay the night if you wanted to try them. Either that or come over before sometime before noon. You know, either or."
She can't stand it.
Scowling, Chell grabs their cart by its handles and pulls it out of the line. With the murmuring of the Sunday crowd in her ears, she storms off into the center of the store, not even bothering to look over her shoulder to see if he's noticed.
It's a few minutes later than she'd like before he manages to find her, puffing and out of breath.
"Where were you?" he says, tugging off his glasses to dab at his cheeks and forehead with his sleeve. "It was our turn, you know! I mean, god, I've been looking all over for you—you just up and left! What happened? Did we forget something? What was it?"
Chell works her jaws, something foreign and uncomfortable coiling behind her breastbone. She folds her arms and stares intently at the cart, as if its contents of frozen vegetables and various fruits and meats are of greater concern than his frantic run about the grocery store.
"No," he says, incredulous. "No, you're not…"
Wheatley draws up close, leaning down so he can scrutinize her rapidly crumbling countenance. The sides of his mouth pinch into an insufferable grin.
"Oh my god. You are. Ha! Oh, you're a jealous little lady, aren't you? Oh, I can't believe it! This is amazing, you're actually bloody jealous! Usually you're the one accusing me of that, with all the nicely dressed blokes at work and the company lunches and whatever else, oh, but not this time, no. Ha, oh, how the tables have turned! Ha ha, he—hey wait! No no, come on now, please don't, we really ought to pay, you know, we've got to—"
Chell spins around, stops the cart, and grabs him down to eye level by a fistful of collar. She doesn't say a word, but she knows that her face says shut up very clearly.
Wheatley's throat dips in a visible swallow. He doesn't avert his gaze under the pressure of her stare; instead, she finds the length of his willowy fingers lining up the sides of her jaws, firm and gentle. His thumbs brush at her cheeks, and although she's forcing herself to remain stoic, it's not working.
"Sorry," he says, mouth in a lopsided smile. "I didn't mean all that. I didn't. Honest. Just not often I get to tease you 'bout things. You know, poke and prod. Probably took it a bit far. Sorry. Again. You—you do know you're the only little lady for Wheatley, right?"
Chell's face is burning and she's stuck staring at him because of the warmth of his hands cupping her face and the blue of his eyes is a heart-fluttering sort of intense and she absolutely hates it why is she with him oh god.
"I really mean that." He presses his lips to her nose. "I really do."
Without a second thought, she yanks him forward and kisses him with a fierceness she didn't know she had. He's hot against her mouth and she can feel his hands start to tremble against her jaws when she nips at his lower lip and begins to suck. Her heartbeat is in her neck and she knows there are probably others watching, but she pulls in a deep breath and tries to ignore the soft noises he's making under his.
When he makes to tug her closer, Chell twists away. A fire under her ribs, she welds the cracks in her composure and resumes her trek to the front of the store once again. The sound of his hurried footsteps behind her satisfies her need to repay him for everything. She knows she's made him a flustered mess; she doesn't have to peer over her shoulder to know he's flushed and breathless.
Besides—from how he reacted, she imagines he'll have to button his coat.