Just realising now that the formatting gets kinda messed up here on ffn which sucks, theres a lot of emphasis I put on thoughts and certain words using italics and underlining that I can't be bothered manually adding for this website, so if you are interested in not struggling to read it feel free to go to AO3 for a better reading experience.

Ruh roh this one's a bit heartbreaking, and I had to break it up into two chapters since it was getting long. This is all trying to tie together a lot of loose ends in Wheatley's storyline so you're all caught up. Get hyped for some backstory in the next chapter woop woop!

From the couple of days that have passed since their first attempt at safe possession, they've ironed out the kinks fairly well, learning important things on both sides like how to tap into and move through the astral plane like an extra dimension, to things like not leaning too hard on Chell's injured leg. As they finish up their latest possession experiment, both are slowly getting more comfortable in each other's shoes, although their temporary housemates aren't always too amused or pleased with the swapping. Chell is still glad to get back to her own body, don't get her wrong, but she can see just how much it brightens Wheatley's day.

He tries his hardest, which isn't an impressive amount of strength, to conceal how much he looks forward to their little experiment every night, however Chell cottoned on fairly quickly. She tells herself and him that she extends it for a few extra minutes for further exploration, but realistically his awed expression at experiencing things for the first time again is something she can prioritise over her longing for stimuli.

As she slightly limps towards one of the guest bedrooms, Wheatley sticks by her side. Even though she has no need for the crutches anymore, she's mostly healed up at this point, he still wants to feel helpful to her so he gingerly rests a hand on her shoulder. She's tried shaking him off a few times, and it's not that he's more persistent than her or anything, but once again she's finding herself letting him off the hook more than usual. He's saved her quite a few times after all, so maybe that's her reasoning?

He sits on the floor beside her bed, back to the nightstand and head slowly chasing her hand down for some contact. He seems to be really craving that recently. "Wow, I've gotta say, love, I kinda like being a bit short like that, you know? It's just, everything feels so much more grand from your perspective, especially without needing glasses, that's one of the best parts–"

"Yeah, alright I get it you don't have to rub it in. Anyway– look, switching topic, with all this nightmare stuff… we're really running out of options aren't we?"

They exchange a look, knowing both of them are really scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas to quell the nightly disturbances. Wheatley's ecstatic smile from before melts away at the serious change in topic, his whole train of thought glazed in the desperation and hopelessness neither of them are willing to acknowledge yet. The nightmares have been getting quite a lot worse from even an outsider's perspective, it's getting so intense that she's waking up with unusual bruises and scratches– even though he was there the whole time watching her!

They keep to their usual plan, although she writes her notes digitally on the notes app on her phone, so in a way he's sort of out of the loop this time around. Although he has asked for her to share even just the notes she wrote down, she always assures him with a sweet smile on her face that it's just the usual. He really does wish he could believe her that easily.

After getting quite comfortable in her body, he knows something a little deeper about her, and it certainly doesn't help him meet her fixated gaze that's sweeping over his crumpled form on the carpeted floor beside her. She's always calculating, wishing she could read his mind like he now can to her own as he bows his head and mouths gibberish to himself. He's clearly hyping himself up for something, so she awaits his response patiently as she lets her head sink into the pillow.

He gathers himself eventually, and his voice is meek, a little waver behind his soft cadence. "Are you… afraid of me, by any chance? Just asking for a friend, that is," and he grimaces at the rushed and blatant lie, and she furrows her brow in return. The long pause she takes to collect her thoughts on the question doesn't dampen his troubles. "I don't remember– well apart from immediately after that day– ever being scared of you. Where is this coming from?"

He suspected she'd get suspicious of why he'd know such a thing, and once again the guilt hits him in full swing. Obviously she won't be willingly offering up such information so readily, she's not the kind to admit a weakness like that. The problem is that he doesn't need her to admit, he's already felt it. "Love, I know you do, and it's not just a hunch! It wasn't exactly obvious at first, but just– the way your heart skips instinctively at the thought or sight of me. Your body keeps the subconscious reactions you have, I swear I'm not trying to be creepy, I just know it."

As he waffles on for a while it suddenly hits her just what he's unearthed, it's something she didn't really want to admit to herself. She also, however, is reluctant to debunk his interpretation for fear that he'll reach it on his own. He obviously hasn't felt human urges and bodily reactions since the day he passed, so of course this shouldn't be news to Chell, but even so it still stumps her. I thought he knew? Lets see, would I rather he assume I'm terrified of him or… infatuated with him? That's a loss whichever way I slice it.

She tunes back into his ramble some time later. "–mistake, forever indebted by your pardon, I'm so sorry, love," and he keels over the mattress, grabbing at her hand.

"What?"

He lifts his head back up but his eyes fix at their jumbled, entwined hands. "F-for whatever I must have done to make you this way. I'm not even sure what of the many stupid things I've done, or the things I said where silence would have been kinder–hmmff!"

She muffles his baffling monologue, so out of character and almost perfectly rehearsed in nature. Chell shakes her head in confusion. "What in the world are you talking about, man? Are you alright? That sounds like the response to a ransom note." Her hand gently migrates away from his cold mouth to mindlessly detangle his honey blond hair. Admittedly, his apologies have always been fairly self degrading, stamping on his self confidence and intelligence left and right, but this is severely out of left field, as if he's the one who could be possessed without permission.

"For your peace of mind, I'm not afraid of you. At all. And for the record, you've done nothing wrong recently. So just… none of that, okay?"

She's not a big fan of his sulking side. At first it seemed like a big act to appear innocent, to lure her in like he was a distressed damsel, although the better she knows him the more it seems to be another one of his follies. His pleading eyes look up at her as he loosens his grip on her right hand, and she's starting to think it's a guilt-trip with how well he can replicate the same face every time. She narrows her eyes again, trying to solve this whole interaction as best she can. What exactly is he apologising for? "Sorry, clearly I'm getting on your nerves, I won't do that again, promise you that. But then, if it's not fear…?"

She groans as he's obviously used this pleading to pry further, and if she wants this conversation so desperately over then she better deliver. "I like you, alright are you happy now? Thought it was obvious after I lost my filter and sobriety simultaneously from the pinot noir, but I guess not."

They sit there in silence for a little, neither really wanting to break it. Before he can find his tongue again to press further, she cuts through the awkwardness. "Look, back to the first question because I'm exhausted, Wheatley. Only new idea I have is you just sit closer to me or something, I don't know. Just try a few things while I sleep and see if I stop thrashing about. Understood?"

He's stupefied as to how he could possibly get closer than he did last night as he stroked her hair once again, but he nods to hopefully not anger her any more than he already must have. Wheatley waits patiently for her to slowly succumb to her now deeply disturbed circadian rhythm, and lifts himself from the floor beside her. The only other way he can think of getting closer to her is the just-about-enough-space-for-a-regular-sized-person place on the far side of the guest bed, so he assumes position of the (very is an understatement still) big spoon behind her, hoping that this isn't a step too far, although knowing his track record it probably is and could make her nightmares worse. He's nothing but obedient to her word however, so he sticks it out, kind of wishing now that he could have found his footing quicker and confessed back before she cut him off. He also equally wishes he had his sense of smell again, so now he can only try to recall her pleasant perfume's sandalwood and bergamot fragrance in the crook of her neck.

When did she get back to the house? It was only yesterday since she got rid of her crutches, surely Aiza didn't kick her out so quickly?

And yet, there she lay. Pinned to her own bed physically by none other than Wheatley himself. It had to be Him this time, He had the right glasses, eye colour, everything she had (shamefully) committed to memory was just as she remembered it. The worst part about it was that, sandwiched in between His incoherent taunting and scratching, the periods of respite have her oddly enough– admiring Him. It's disgusting to Chell, where her subconscious can let Him claw her skin until blood is drawn, then force her to pine for the manipulative twat.

He seems to revel at the pleading look in her eyes at times, and loves taking advantage of that. He flashes her a bright and hungry grin, crooning down at her about how much she must love this. He then dives down to her neck, gentle pecks morphing into crazed bites, intended to mark. Chell writhes under His strong grip on her arms and neck, breath stuttering in her tense throat, and He releases it, continuing the cycle once again. He does not fully pull back however, and a pressure to the side of her neck is applied, followed by a soft murmur of some kind. Chell can only make out parts of sentences He repeats in her right ear, half complete thoughts like "words in abundance" and "moronic being" and something following, but she can never pick up a fully coherent sentence from His breathy tone. She only briefly recognises one part of the chant, something to do with a debt he owes?

She's dragged out of her nightmare to a pleasant and quiet nothingness, a peace that lasts for the rest of the night. Whilst the rest of the deceptive dream has all but faded away now, the cool presence pressing into the back of her neck still remains.

It even remains as she slowly emerges from her thankfully undisrupted sleep. Then her heart skips again when she processes the experience, where he is very much not in front of her anymore. Wheatley's nose is buried deep in her hair, his arm flush against her back and the other folded over her chest, placed right over her quickening heart, which he now notices. "Another bad nightmare? This was all I had that crossed my head when you said 'closer', and I thought it was working when you did start moving–"

"Cut to the chase, what did you do?"

The incredible restraint she needed to hold back the urge to grab his wrist before it retracted was torturous, but as he sits back up and her skin begins to warm again, he tentatively brushes the hair off her neck. A still tender bruise splotches the skin beneath his stable hands, and he grimaces from the thought of just what She must have done. "It's complicated; I'm only spilling if you let me read some of your dream journal, love. That's the deal."

To Chell, that was not the deal. Mostly because she already had an inkling of just what he did, she really only needs his verbal confirmation. "I don't need to know that badly," she mutters, then she stretches and pulls herself upright. She looks back over her shoulder to him, and he is visibly disappointed to once again be shut out, but she's still convinced it's for the best. There's definitely something deeper about himself than what he's letting on, and they need to hash it out before their time away from Her is up. "Oh, and one last thing… before we're not alone anymore. I heard what you were saying, and we will be talking about it later, that's not negotiable."

He emerges first from the guest bedroom, allowing her the privacy to change into her day clothes, but he waits diligently by her door until she ambles out. There's a little less of a struggle to walk today than yesterday, she notices– and is equally thankful that the nightmares don't have her accidentally retearing the ligament in her ankle every night.

They follow their typical routine, with Fynn and Chell preparing breakfast while Aiza gets started on the laundry for Wheatley to dry and fold later. For the time being, he's trying his hand at gently dusting the furniture and objects too tall for any normal human to reach without a ladder. He's thankful they haven't just left him out of the daily activities, as he would feel like right trash if he was just sitting around and doing nothing all day. It seems, however, that Chell's friends have been warming up to his company too despite their shaky introduction.

Chell makes her way to the recycling bin, forcing her to pass by Aiza and their slowly growing heap of clothes. She makes an effort to leave the monstrosity untouched as she crosses the room, and Aiza throws a light-hearted and snide comment her way. "Wheatley with you again last night? Does he even need to sleep or is he there to hold your hand or something?"

Chell simply scoffs, bats them over the head with the empty box in her hand, then gives a valiant effort at tossing it to the laundry sink where they store recyclables. She overshoots by a fair margin, but it's clear it belongs in the trash anyway– and frankly she can't be bothered to take another shaky step around the minefield of clothes now littering the floor.

They all reunite from their separate tasks to the dining room table, and so too does their discussion from a few days back, the reason they were going to meet up last week is finally to be addressed. "So, uh, before you guys leave again, what's the plan this time?" Pretty forced by Fynn, but it does the job in pivoting the silence following the meal to something productive. Aiza chips in. "Well, you were mentioning that guy you met up with, I think that's a pretty good shot if he is who he says he is. Never heard of a 'demonologist' before, sounds so fake, but if he's got experience with Her and a degree to back it up, that's worth checking out, girl."

Chell was already on the same page with that, just a few days earlier she updated Doug on the current situation, letting him know the mix up as much as she hates to admit it. He was right from the start, so she hopes any more insight from his end is equally as accurate. She does have her doubts that he's one-hundred percent there, especially with his current medical situation thanks to Wheatley, but it's better than a shot-in-the-dark kind of guess.

Fynn rests his head contemplatively in his hand, cutting off the ramble Wheatley was quickly cooking up in his head. "We are woefully unprepared for this, aren't we? Like, all of us."

"Well, we've been practicing getting her comfortable with possession– she's getting the hang of it already too, so if She does do that we're definitely prepared–"
"–For what? What if She decides to harm Chell's body while She's there?" His fingers drum on the wooden table, punctuating the end of his sentence and the silence ensuing. "Thanks to Wheatley's demonstrations, we already know a ghost retains their strength and capabilities even when possessing a weaker human, so… what then?"

Chell steadily meets Fynn's gaze, and additionally, his expectations. "And then I have access to Her body; you may not be able to harm a ghost from the outside, but we have the chance to find a way around it from the driver's seat."

The quiet nodding that follows denotes the end of the discussion for now, something to pick up another day when a new person has doubts. Before Chell's two friends prepare for their respective bartender and data entry work shifts for the day, Aiza slots one last question in before the end of the conversation, a bit of an earnest look in their eyes. "Hey, Wheatley?"

He perks up and stutters out a short "uh–um, yes?"

"What happens when you do actually get rid of Her? As in, what happens to you?"

He's silent for a moment, his stare drops back to the table in front of him and wavers back and forth as if there's an invisible script there for him to read. "Erm, well… hadn't really thought about it before, to be honest. But… I'd imagine that is, uh– that's it then, huh? Got nothing else to be here for, I'd assume. Game over."

Aiza's attention shifts towards Chell and her slowly cracking poker-face. They know her better than even she does.

"Hey, love? Can we uh–do it now, maybe?"

He's been straight up begging her for a little over thirty minutes by this point, since just about after dinner. It definitely started out a bit infuriating but it lost its edge and gained a bit of charm as he slowly became more and more passionate. She can't help but cave into his endearing antics, especially after now knowing the very real time limit they have with one another. She smiles at his anticipatory expression, clearly he's waiting for her response before hitting her with the same question again for the millionth time. Chell rolls her eyes, "Sure, man, I'll get more familiar with the astral plane for a bit and… you can engorge yourself with hot sauce and lemons again."

That very familiar numbness rolls over her skin once more, quickly losing sensation in her extremities, and sweeping right the way through to her brain. Her puppetted body now smiles up at her in glee, a far cry from the first controlled test they ran, although that doesn't mean they haven't had their missteps along the way. On more than one occasion, Wheatley has forgotten about Chell's current predicament, making his way to stand and subsequently toppling to the floor with a heavy thud. Whilst the first time she may have cackled at his slight overreaction to the pain, she wasn't even close to amused the second time around, not when it meant she had to go the rest of the day with an ice pack plastered to the back of her head, plus an apologetic Wheatley sulking not too far behind.

They did, however, find that he ends up enjoying quite a few different tactile feelings and senses, things he specifically remembers never taking a liking to when he was alive as well. He's a sucker for hugs and jumping– the weight of gravity in her limbs and 'well-endowed appendages' as he called them had him giddy for hopping on one leg. At first, she was slightly confused at the comment, it sounded like he was scolding her for being flabby or out of shape, but (now red from embarrassment) he inarticulately specified it was no jab at her physical appearance. Don't insult the woman who lets you possess her, and she shrugs it off.

He is additionally fascinated by food, specifically anything with capsaicin or a pH comparable to battery acid. It's unusual to her, how quickly his aversion and intolerance for pain turns into unfiltered masochism (would it be delayed sadism? She's going to deal with the consequences later), but she doesn't have the heart to tell him to pace himself.

The now short and crazed ghost hops over to the kitchen, eagerly swinging the fridge open and scanning its contents. Chell is obligated to supervise before she goes to sleep tonight with three less fingers in total, so she leans on the island opposite him. He's turning the kitchen upside down looking for something in particular, and whenever the other two walk in to check on the pot-and-pan concert with an audience of one, they quickly turn heel. "No, Wheatley, it's not magically appeared in the cutlery drawer since you last checked a second ago. It's actually not even here anymore, you ate it all yesterday, remember?"

He visibly deflates at the knowledge that there are no more fruits in the flat, and especially not any kumquats anymore after he decimated the fruit bowl in one sitting. He then pauses, then stares up at her with hopeful gray eyes, clearly he's had an idea she's going to have to entertain for at least a moment. "Can you reach that top shelf for me, love?"

She doesn't move a ghostly muscle. They both know what's stored in that cupboard. "I can, and I won't."

"Either you can help me or watch as I try, and then I'll inevitably find some novel way to bang up your leg even more–"

She rushes to pick him up and halt his immediate course of action, that being creating steps out of open kitchen drawers. Obviously it's the kind of thing he could easily resist, but his current intention isn't to be the biggest pain-in-the-ass just yet, that'll be the next on the agenda after he's piss-faced drunk. Wheatley with his smug 'I've won this time' grin is placed gingerly back on the ground while she retrieves the cheapest bottle she can find up there. Unfortunately for Chell, it seems Aiza has a massive soft spot for vodka, so she grabs it, but tentatively holds it out of his reach. "If I give you some, promise you'll let me pace you?"

His animated face shifts from an enthusiastic grin to a look of utter betrayal. "What? That's–why do you think you can tell me what to do? I mean, granted it is your body, I get that that's understood… but… and I have a really good, well thought out, very strategic comeback for you… it–it's vodka!"

Gathered that much myself, not a very convincing argument for me to fondly think back on when I'm hungover tomorrow. Then it snaps in place, and her face contorts into a pensive scowl, then a cunning smirk. Of course, it's vodka, a pretty strong emotional lubricant if she was forced to list only one. "Now that– that face… I know that face too well, and it's even more unsettling with it being technically my face. You've got one of those– one of your ideas again, this is one I'm not going to like all that much, isn't it?"

She shoves the vodka bottle into his small hands, then grabs a few shot glasses and lines them up on the kitchen bench. "Knock yourself out, man," and he could hear the smile in her tone.

He takes a seat on the tall bar stool opposite her, giddy at the idea that he finally gets to taste alcohol for what feels like the first time. She pours him a shot to start off with. "You know, I was never a big drinker when I was alive, well except at one point, but I mainly didn't like the mouth feel and smell and all that from alcohol. But I can never know unless I try, hey love?"
With that lead in, he places the shot glass to his lips and throws his head back– then coughs and splutters the clear liquid back up. "Eughh, certainly nothing's changed on that front, the smell is atrocious, the burn though…?" He passes the glass back to her, and she cues a few extra shots for him to down at his own pace.

And luckily she did that, because his pace would have left her pouring skills in the dust. She knows her own limits in that body, she may get drunk a little easier than the average person as she doesn't drink often, but she's also someone who can hold her dignity when drunk. Wheatley though, and especially in her body, can barely keep his dignity when sober. She goes just hard enough on the vodka to know he's loosening up whilst also avoiding having him leaning over the sink all night– or to have her head pounding tomorrow.

She has a great gauge as to how he's progressing, as his speech slurs slightly, she knows he's bordering on tipsy. She pushes him a little further. "You know, love, has anyone ever told you how pr–pretty you are? W–uh well, I mean I am l–l–looking at myself righ'now, you know, because of the whole possession thing, so let me phrase it another way! Give me a moment, I've got this. You–you're really pretty to be, you know? Like I love that I can play with your hair at all times, not just at night, a–and even just feeling your face– oh? Oh another shot, alright I'll pop it down the hatch then, love."

It's been around twenty more minutes. A couple more shots down has her worried she's pushed him just a little too far, he's pivoted from boisterous and kind of loud to more soft spoken, a bit like his usual sheepish self. It's as if his drunkenness peaked a couple of drinks back and that he's cycling right back to sobriety. She would have thought just that if it wasn't for how quiet and almost anxious he started to seem, very similar to their first attempt again. This time though, his hand was trembling, twitching minutely at irregular intervals. He stares solemnly down at his glass on the countertop, and Chell wearily places a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, are you feeling okay? Didn't go too overboard, did I?"

He smiles down at his fiddling hands. "No, sorry I– just bad memories, really."

"From… drinking, right?"

"Well, just– from getting past a certain threshold, yeah. I'm not fully gone yet, hick– but ol' Wheatley's a strange drunk as you can tell."

She gently pats his shoulder to comfort the guy, he always seems to react positively to affection, so maybe he'll relax a bit at the touch. He doesn't really, so she nods at him, an affirmative gesture to tell him she's listening if he wants to go on. Unbeknownst to Chell, he always knows when she's just letting him blabber on as background noise, he can basically see it go in one ear and out the other even when sober.

Something's strange about this to him, after quite a few shots of alcohol, he feels more like himself– his regular self, before he passed. Before this whole mess happened, and his life was snatched away from him. He used to be a pretty reserved chap, quite a lot like her, still very eager to please and a bit naïve though, but he was grounded, that's the word. It's almost as if without all the alcohol he'd just consumed in a ridiculously compact time frame, he had reverted in some way– because he was never that foolish. "I was never much of a loud drunk or anything, used to seek it out a lot though after buying that fucking house."

She furrows her brows at the sudden vulgar language from the ghost who would almost whisper the word 'bloody' when he did seldom use it. "Pardon my French, of course I don't usually use that kind of language, especially not around a lady like you. Obviously it's pretty common for your time period but my apologies regardless," and Chell checks the back of the vodka bottle in complete confusion.

"You're… far too articulate right now," she murmurs, and he winces. "Yeowch. Thanks, I guess."

She stares back at his dim gray eyes, they remind her so much of herself, as if she were now somehow looking into a mirror. All she can think to ask is: "What happened? What is this–what are you…now?"

And he smiles, or at least tries as his eyes begin to water again. "I guess I'm what's left when you break a man."

This wasn't going the way she had expected, although in some twisted way it was essentially what she hoped for. The alcohol was bringing him back to some long lost or repressed version of himself, and he seems to be coping with it fairly poorly. She makes her way around the countertop to stand beside him, throwing her long pale arm across his narrower shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?" He nods fervently.

"She was… a lot to manage, I'm sure you know that, but especially for someone as flighty as little Wheatley over here."

"So, all the alcohol in the cellar was yours, right?

He looks a bit embarrassed at the question, but he responds just as truthfully as usual. "I… well yes. Don't get me wrong, I did pace myself I wasn't that bad of a drinker–"

"No, it wasn't a judgemental question, just out of curiosity."

They're laying together on the carpet on the floor of the guest bedroom, and he's anxiously drumming his fingers on the ground next to his hip. He's certainly a lot less scatterbrained than his usual self, and whilst it's quite uncanny and feels almost like some sick prank, as if someone roofied the whole bottle of vodka just for him, it's also quite welcome to Chell. If she can get more of a straight answer and less embellishing, or lying, or beating around the bush then it's less time spent interrogating when they should both be transparent to each other.

"Yeahhhh, She was nasty, that's for sure. Certainly had found a way to wear me down to the bone. And god that fucking speech– She made me practically memorise it I–"

His breath catches in his throat, and from the hand he has clutched at his mouth and his screwed up eyes, it looks as though he's spiralling into distressing memories once again. She nudges his shoulder abruptly to snap him out of it. "You alright over there, man? And uh… what's this 'speech', while you're still answering that?"

He shakes his head softly from side to side, and exhales a breath between his teeth. "Every time that you push me, I relive it, you know that, right?"

"I swear I don't mean to, but how else am I to know what happened to you? If you don't tell me, I won't know!"

"Why do you need to know? Listen, I know you said you like me, didn't really know how to take that at first, but it's great and very sweet of you even though I do think it's a mistake. The point is, love, why does not knowing my story bother you if it's not even essential to.. all this? If–when we get it done, I won't be here anymore, so it won't matter."

"What if you're wrong? I want to help you, Wheats. If there's even a chance then it's worth a shot."

He pauses, staring up at the bland ceiling, then twists his head towards her icy blue eyes. His voice softens to a whisper."What makes you think I want to stay anyway? And yes I often am wrong, but I'm not normally optimistic to a fault, at least in the past."

She has a thought cross her mind, and she fiddles with her numb digits. "Do you prefer this version of yourself, Wheatley?"

He closes his eyes, pondering the question, mulling it over in his head. "I don't know." Another pause. "I don't…think so. It's funny that being drunk has made me the most sober I've ever actually felt in my afterlife, heh. But then again, it's all too much for me, it's a lot to remember like this."

She reaches to grab his right hand, lying just above his diaphragm. "You over it now?"

"Yeah, let's go back."