I don't know why, but I find this so much easier to write than Come Wander With Me. I love writing them both, but I guess not having to bend over backwards to fit someone else's already written universe is simpler since I can write dynamics however I see fit! Enjoy this next chapter :D
Chell wakes up again but this time to an empty room, and light filtering through the half parted curtains. Swinging her legs out of bed and navigating to the door, she hears the clatter of a pot dropping to the ground just downstairs, and she lightly chuckles on her way down the creaking staircase to the living room. Rounding the corner, she catches Wheatley not in the kitchen but in the living room on a plush couch, legs strewn over the matching plush ottoman, thick glasses down the very tip of his nose, and an upside down novel in his hands. "Oh, love, good morning! Yep, I've just been sitting here the whole time, reading uh-", he checks the cover over the top of his hands, "Macchiavelli. Truly a good book. Absolutely riveting, it is. I was definitely not in the kitchen just before, I think it was the wind or something that broke the handle off of the big grey pot."
Chell sighs audibly in exasperation, and just before she could leave the room, his voice jumps up an octave as he blurts out, "also, don't open the top cupboard above the fridge, I may or may not have caused a ceramic mug avalanche!"
She can't be bothered yet to deal with Schrodinger's mug, both unbroken and smashed to bits at the same time, so she just picks up the pieces of the old pot, places them back on the counter, and gets ready to microwave some fried rice for her breakfast. After all, she didn't find the time to go grocery shopping just yet to stock her fridge up for the time being. While she's waiting for the rice to heat up, her bumbling housemate brings his cyclone energy back into the kitchen again, and this time she needs to set the boundary. She holds her arm out at him and he freezes like a deer in headlights, worried he's just done something wrong, then remembering he already has broken a shelf of bowls and one of her only pots already.
He deflates as she walks over to where he stands just behind the border between the hallway and the kitchen, where tile meets floorboard. She pokes her finger out at him, makes an 'X' with her forearms, and points behind her in the kitchen again, and he wishes he didn't understand what she meant. "What? Oh, love, I know I broke your pot just then, but I'm not always that clumsy! Even if you're worried, it's fine, I won't touch anything, you can count on me. Just remember, this was my house before it was ever yours so please don't just ban me from a whole entire room- I mean what if She decides to waltz on in here? She'd probably destroy all your mugs and pots and cutlery for good measure!"
Chell wasn't buying the heartfelt and theatrical plea from him, just because they may be on good terms currently, she doesn't know too much about whoever this man was or even how ghosts actually work in this world. She's no expert on paranormal investigation shows or anything but aren't some ghosts known to take on forms of real life people, loved ones, or just generally attractive people as a way to lure in their prey. Who's to say he isn't capable of exactly that? She casts her mind back to her childhood in Brazil and all the folklore she remembers being told; He could very easily be a shapeshifter like a Boto or a Lobisomem, seemingly innocent creatures until night arrives. She needs to keep her boundaries with Wheatley, no matter how sympathetic she feels for him
He seems to get the message and backs off, making his way back to the living room with his head tilted downwards. "Fair enough, don't want a moron like me wreaking havoc in there after all". Chell gets a rare moment of peace as she finishes her small bowl of rice on the kitchen counter, and she's still wondering how to properly approach interacting with Wheatley. She keeps cycling between keeping him literally at an arm's length or treating him as innocent until proven guilty. Perhaps gathering more information about the guy will help her settle on one of the two options.
She snatches up the pen and paper she's getting into the habit of carrying around with her around her house, and follows behind where Wheatley sheepishly retreated, back to his couch in the living room. Chell scans the bookshelf for a title or author she recognises, and what a quick decision. She picks up a fairly small book, and situates herself on the couch across from Wheatley with her book. They sit in complete silence for a few minutes, taking Chell by surprise that's for sure. No words or noise comes from the spirit opposite her, with his book now right-way-up, but in irregular intervals he peeks over his book cover back at the girl.
"So, uh, what'cha reading there, love?"
She glances up from the book she has flat against her legs and lifts up the cover for him to read. "Oh! I love that book, bought and read some of it just as it came out, actually. It's quite an interesting book, although I don't know why it would be in the imperial system, celsius is clearly superior, but 'Fahrenheit 451' I guess sounds a little more cryptic or something than Celsius 232 and Seven-Ninths'. I almost finished it too, I never got to the ending, it was just before I- uh…"
He suddenly looked very pensive following a flash of pain washing over his face, almost as if he were reliving a moment in a brief fraction of a second. Chell tapped her pen to her notepad to catch his attention, and he read her note.
"Huh? Yeah no I'm alright, I think. Sorry, just thinking, that's all, a bit dangerous when I start thinking, ey? A moron like me doesn't do that too often. heh." He chuckles rather uncomfortably, and reads further as she updates her notepad.
"What? Why do I call myself that?". He squirms a bit in his seat from discomfort at the question. "Well, as you know She's taken a liking to calling me that, and typically I don't listen to folks of Her kind, with her demonic tendencies, they're not the most trustworthy of all of us ghosts. They're known to lie to get a reaction out of their victims, and are slimy little shapeshifters, and their real voices, oh golly- anyway sorry I'm getting a bit off track here. Point being, I wasn't going to fall for that trick again, fool me once and all that, now I'm an all powerful spirit in this house and can counter Her shenanigans, only problem being the more I interacted with the new homeowners, the more I start to realise Her disdain for me kind of rubs off on these fellas a bit."
He averts his gaze from her again, fiddling with his hands, and runs a hand through his slightly unkempt hair. "Which is fair enough, sure, I do talk a lot and it definitely seemed to annoy quite a few of them, same with the odd mistakes and breaks here and there, and it just kinda became a part of my lexicon too now, I guess whenever I'd apologise for some mess I'd cause. I say it without even thinking anymore."
Now suddenly swamped with guilt for practically banning him from the kitchen, Chell now understands that, if these two ghosts are actually different, he's most certainly still a victim of Her just as much as she will be. She desperately wants to push further to get a better idea of the relationship between the two and a bit more on what he's even capable of as well as Her, so she starts off as slow and nice as she can.
She shoots him a soft smile and turns the pad back to him. 'I don't think you're a moron. I quite like your company, even if it ushers in one of the ten plagues of Egypt occasionally.' He brightens up and chuckles at her endearing comment and compliment meshed into one, resting his head on his interlocked hands as he leans forward in his chair. "You really think that? That's probably one of the nicest things anyones ever said to me."
Her face slightly contorts into one of pity and compassion at what he may very well consider a simple truth to his after life. Like many constants of the universe, he's always going to have this one value to the world around him. To be the dirt under anyone else's shoes, living or dead. He's probably the only kind of spirit who so easily accepts being kicked around by others, and yet he doesn't ever lash out? She tilts her head in thought, and presents this question to him as well.
"Well, I mean I guess I've thought about it sometimes- not that I'd ever actually hurt anyone, love! I just, it's not exactly why I'm still here."
Chell has a pretty good idea as to why he might still stick around after his passing comment the night prior, but she still asks him point blank what his intentions are for staying at a location that very clearly would distress him.
"Isn't it obvious? I mean not to call you daft or anything you do seem quite smart, but I'm clearly here to help others avoid my mistakes, that being staying in this house beyond Her welcome. For the time they're here I make sure I can at the very least protect them, and then I guess wait around to help the next potential victim."
She taps eagerly at her last sentence, and those three words throw him for a loop. 'And then what?'
He ruffles his thick hair one final time and sits up straight. "And then what? Sorry, I'm not sure I quite understand what you're asking here, as in what do I do after I save someone? Or… what will I do after my job here is done? Come to think of it, that wasn't really on my radar quite yet, after all it's been decades of plan A in motion, never even considered a plan B following…"
She writes a final note and turns it for him to read. "Why don't I get rid of…?"
His facial expression drops, eyes dart up to the now slowly flickering lights overhead, the paper in Chell's hand swiftly tearing into pieces. Drawing a short inhale at the provocation, he lunges towards her and Chell prepares for the inevitable. Isn't this it? The part where he kills her. She was trying to test the waters for his response to a bit of prodding, but now she's getting cold feet and a little too late to back down now too, so she scrunches her eyes shut and prays. Whichever deity or higher being listening better cough up some luck for her right now.
When the flurry of movement and flashing lights all die down, she's still sitting there, awake and stiff. That's when it dawns on her as she opens her eyes and he's nowhere to be seen, but she does feel him. His cold hands are tightly gripping her shoulders as she now quivers in the chair, and he brings them around to her front, crossing over her chest and locking his hands on his ghostly forearms.
There's loud rustling she can pick up on over the sound of her blood churning in her ears. He's evidently now leaning over her shoulder, doing what? She's not so sure, really. What she does know is that she doesn't like this iron grip he has on her upper body. His arms, cold and stiff, keep her locked against her will in the chair, and he prepares to break the silence, slicing through it with grave words. His pivot from friendly to sinister shifts again however, as she now realises she almost imagined the worst of it. He's more so gripping protectively of her, and now she notices the rustling was more him softly hyperventilating into her hair. His words are breathless, weak in their attack, and dare she think a little timid after all that.
"Now, I know you said you don't think I'm a moron, but did you really think I'd never tried that?"
They settle themselves under the willow tree outside the manor, Chell trying to summon as much distance between the man and herself as possible after he completely invaded her privacy just minutes prior. He gazes forlornly at the unkempt garden and patchy grass before him, taking in the way the years have weathered his pretty home beyond his own recognition. "Like I said, I'm really really sorry about that, but you can't just go around in there talking about that unless you have a death wish. Luckily, out here She can't get or hear us. She's a little less mobile as a spirit than I am, and I guess now you're owed an explanation for all that just happened, huh?"
Her slate grey eyes bore into his own electric blue eyes, and he sheepishly breaks eye contact first. Still so easily pushed around it seems.
"If the electricity wavers like that, she's on the prowl. She hasn't done it many times to others who've lived here, but I remember it from when I was a human. She can, much like some other spirits although a bit stronger than I can, let out an electromagnetic pulse, but a lot of the time in Her case it's unintentional. An outlet of an emotional outburst, and oftentimes means she's ready to hunt you down. I took the hit for you, you know? You are welcome."
If he's still lying to her at this point and both dimmed the lights and pretended to save her at the same time, she's honestly at a loss for words. This whole time she's treated him like a manipulating, cunning, all knowing beast, but to Chell she's finally made up her mind for her dilemma. He really has been nothing but gentle and friendly towards her for the two whole days they've been in each other's presence. If he really was going to snap on her and become a monster, he just had the perfect opportunity to do so. Reaching into her pocket, she no longer has her notes or a pen anymore, probably sitting abandoned and torn at the front of that couch.
"Thank you," she muttered almost inaudibly.
Wheatley stumbles out his next train wreck of a sentence. "S-sorry, pardon me? I've been so patient with you and your writing, have you always been able to talk and just been… been lying to me?"
"Not lying, I am mute typically. I really only speak to people I'm comfortable around. I still don't talk much anyway though, so don't get too used to it."
At that statement, he softens up immediately. "Wait, does that mean you're…? If so, that's wonderful, I'm really glad that's actually a good thing. Now, going back to what you said earlier on your notepad. I'm sorry, love, but I really can't have you doing or saying anything like that. It may or may not be the reason I'm like this."
He gestures to himself in a sweeping motion, then fidgets again with his hands, pulling at the dry summer grass and brings his knees to his chin. "I really don't want to have to go into it, again it's not my favourite thing to talk about, but you're going to have to trust me on this one."
"If you don't want to help me do it, then that's fine. I can do it myself, you know?"
"No! Please don't…," he bites his knuckle until it's even paler than his own complexion, and he pauses to think. "Alright, if you really are sure you want to go ahead with this, I don't want you to have to do this alone. It would make all my efforts so far completely futile- not to mention you are going to need my… assistance with any seance or whatever you plan to do. I know you'll just say you don't need my assistance, but I was the last person to try to do this and look how that turned out."
They sat there in the dappled light in complete silence for a few moments, Chell glaring in challenge at the man, and him pleading back, willing her to be reasonable. She figures that he definitely knows more than herself or any other human on anything to do with ghosts, so she reluctantly nods her head, her gaze cast downwards to the space between them.
"I know you probably hate having to relinquish any kind of control in your life, you certainly strike me as one of those kinds of women, and whilst it's quite admirable and something I really respect about you, I'm going to have to lay down some ground rules around here, to ensure yours and my own safety with this."
He awaits her response very eagerly, and winces anyway despite her affirmative nod in his direction. "Oh? Oh wonderful that means a lot, love. I know you probably don't entirely trust me yet, and that's fine, more than fine, but I promise you I won't break what little trust we have right here okay? So firstly, you're going to have to keep a dream journal, log each and every nightmare, dream, room hallucination- I don't care, it's important for remembering what happened and understanding Her further. Second, don't keep salt in the house. I mean it, the only thing it hinders is my movement, not Hers. It's a bit of a myth that demons can be stopped by something as measly as a trail of salt, although I guess a measly trail is enough for me- but you get the idea, She's greater than that. " He pauses, clearly thinking up more, and she rolls her eyes.
"Thirdly, allow me to add to these ground rules as we see fit, I'll discuss it with you of course but we might need to update it at some point, you get me? Now… What am I up to, fifthly? I can't remember, anyway- next, you're going to have to let me do that again at any necessary point; we have no idea what might set her off, so if I have your permission I can reason with her or block her at times. I hope that's alright."
Before she can get a word in on the previous rule that makes her a tad uncomfortable, he leans back over to her and firmly grasps her shoulders again. "Finally, just one last, I promise. We do not speak of this or do anything until we both agree it's time. I'd say not a word of this scheming should leave this room but it should actually just never enter a single room. Can you do that for me?"
She returns his intense stare with one of her own, a set jaw and determined face. He grins goofily at her wordless answer, muttering "atta-girl", before scooping her up into a hug unexpectedly. "Oh sorry! I said only when necessary didn't I? I'll stick to that, you have my word."
Chell doesn't care for the specifics of that rule too much at the moment, and she pulls him back in to finish the hug. If she's going to go ahead with this plan and hopefully free both her house and him of this taunting demon, then they're in it together, and she better start acting like it. "We're going to do this. Together."
He beams back at her, and hugs her with almost excruciating strength before loosening up at her small squeal. "Right! Sorry, I forgot you lot are a bit sensitive like that. But yes, together, partners ey? Like Bonnie and Clyde, although only one of us is dead- and it'll stay that way I promise you that!"
Chell returns after a fairly uneventful shopping trip to stock her house full of groceries sans salt. As she's rummaging for her keys outside the house, she hears a click and woosh of the door opening, with Wheatley readily helping her carry the bags inside and to the kitchen. He halts at the doorway to the kitchen, staring in at her expectantly with his head and back slightly bowed. She reaches for the bags he holds, if he has his rules then she can keep hers. He fills the silence he now knows she's more than capable of filling herself as she sorts and stores the products she bought, but he doesn't mind too much anyway. With his chin in his hands, he leans over the marble and mahogany island which divides the kitchen and living room, discussing everything on his mind to her to keep her company, and she listens diligently, smiling and nodding at periods he falters. He chats of his family and childhood in Britain, of the culture shock coming to America, of his strong dislike of birds and spicy peppers, and his loyal dog Tess who was taken by animal control after he died. She stops and pays full attention to Tess' story in particular though, as it has Wheatley in an emotional chokehold for a moment. "She was just wonderful, really. The best girl. When I, uh, kicked the bucket she sorta just stayed almost 24/7 outside that basement door. Not many people really came looking for me, obviously I didn't have the best or closest friends, but when they did search my house a couple days after I passed they found her there, malnourished and whining at the locked door."
Chell walks over to Wheatley and places her hand on his shoulder in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. "That's horrible, Wheatley, I'm so sorry. She sounded like she was really devoted to you, huh? And about that friend thing, I totally understand. I could literally drop off the face of the planet and the most I'd get is a text." She chuckles at how they're kind of bonding over being hermits with no friends, and he seems to cotton on too as he lets out a sharp snort.
Chell begins to prepare her dinner for the night, just a steak to avoid having to prepare too much or overthink things, and Wheatley watches intently, a soft smile creeping onto his face. She turns around to him and he averts his gaze in obvious embarrassment at being caught staring. "You get lonely often, Wheatley?"
He perks up at her question. "Hmmm? Oh, as a ghost you mean? Yeah, well honestly I'm just incredibly happy that you said you enjoy my company, you have no idea what that means to me, genuinely. A lot of people used to just find me obnoxious. I spoke too much for their liking, was too obsessed over dogs, I didn't even fit in well with this neighbourhood since I wasn't particularly rich either. Just a silly, 20-something year old eccentric Brit with a run down house and irrational fear of birds. Oh, not to mention the organ in the basement, god the neighbours hated that."
Chell quirked an eyebrow at this as she set her steak down on a plate and made her way over to the dining table. "You play the organ you say? What did you actually do for a living, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Look, I only played because my parents were ultra religious, not that I ever was to be honest, but I used to play at church a lot back in England. There, for some reason, is a small organ just kinda built into the basement that I used to frequent, just if I ever got a bit homesick, you know?"
He pushes his black rimmed glasses up his nose as she continues to devour her rare steak. "Oh, and a jazz pianist by day, bartender by night."
She smirks at his authentic enthusiasm, and decides to tease him a little bit. "Oh, I bet you got all the women I'm sure… or men, I don't judge!"
He chuckles warmly at her banter. "No judgement received, I used to scout both out but you seemed to already predict that, hahaha. I don't think I was particularly suave enough to get anyone, although I had the occasional admirer or two from across the bar, I won't lie to you. Only problem was everytime I opened my mouth, they were torn between adoring the foreign accent and repulsed by the absolute garbage I'd end up spewing!"
They both erupt into laughter at the state of his previous love life as it didn't seem to be a sore spot for the man, and he returns the same question to the sender this time. "And what about you? Beating everyone away with a stick just like your grandmother used to tell you?"
She snorted at his snarky comment, too, he certainly can adapt to her conversation style if necessary. "God, Wheatley, I can barely keep friends around, do you reckon I'm the type to have people crawling all over me like that?"
"I mean, you are pretty enough, that's for certain. Although if you pull the 'I'm mute' on most people that might not work too well I guess unless they're into mysterious women."
"It's never really been my main priority anyway, it's my own life and dreams before anyone else can share it with me."
"Not even a partner, ey?"
"Good god, Wheatley, if I had a partner I wouldn't be here would I! Or at least there'd be an extra person at this table to cackle at your misfortune with. I know you were raised in a different epoch to me but, man, I can have a different order of life goals, I'm no traditional wife type."
He scoffs into his palm and turns almost imperceptibly redder at the jab, slightly embarrassed even though he knew she was only joking based on the shit-eating-smirk on her face. "Right, copy that, never said that you were though! Honestly… you should do whatever you want without needing the approval of friends or family, just do it a bit better than I did of course. Tried following my dreams of becoming an accompanying jazz pianist for a rising soul musician here in America, and ended up suffocating in my own basement and forgotten about for almost a week."
At this Chell abruptly stopped mid chuckle, almost coughing at the sharp turn in subject matter, and Wheatley awkwardly clears his throat after grimacing in pain at the memory. "Are you sure you're alright?"
Chell finishes her nightly routine swiftly, with a quick break from Wheatley to have a shower (and a lot of convincing on his part that he can't see through walls), and makes her way back to her dimly lit room. Wheatley's sitting on the stool at the foot of her bed, cleaning his spectacles on his grey tweed waistcoat. He looks back up at her as she settles into bed for the night, a friendly smile lighting up his face, and hers in return. "Well, love, it seems you're ready for bed huh?"
He paces over to her night stand and wordlessly places a green notebook and pen in her reach, exchanging a knowing glance with her before leaving the room and vanishing without another footstep. Chell questions how she's already gone from mildly distrusting this spirit to an almost de facto truce with him, but as she sits in the dark, alone with her thoughts once again, chastising herself for giving up on the 'keeping your distance rule' slowly becomes the last thing on her mind. Instead, she hyper fixates on her surroundings, the just barely open closet door, the waving curtains as the wind softly howls through the crack in her room's window sill, the odd paintings morphing into eldritch horrors before her very eyes…
Suddenly now she wants, no needs, nothing more than a bit of company to pull her out of this anxiously cognizant thought spiral. "Wheatley?"
She picks up on his soft footsteps approaching down the hall, ambling along at a leisurely pace, putting her surprisingly quite at ease– because if he's calm, then surely she has no reason to freak out, right? He pops his head into her room, and chucks a sheepish smile at her wide grey eyes in the suffocating darkness.
"Hey, did you miss me already or what? I'm right here, so no need to panic, what can I do for you?"
Her grin grows tenfold at his casual attitude. She doesn't need to say much, and she knows it isn't too much to ask for.
"Just talk to me for a bit, would you?"
His eyes almost literally brighten at the request. He takes no time at all to settle down, grabbing the chair at the end of her bed, and unleashes whatever inane and insane thought pops into his head first, entertaining it beyond any reasonable time limit. It doesn't take Chell too long to drift off to sleep at the gentle and soft lilt his voice takes on, as he seems cautious in order to not disturb her.