Notice how Chell never calls the manor her home, Wheatley may, but she doesn't… Just food for thought at the moment at least. Oh, and the 'her's might get a bit confusing in this chapter with separating Caroline from the demon, but I think you get the picture generally. Also, thank you all for the support, I expected this community to be pretty much dead or moved on but hey it seems like people are still willing to read silly stories on these two goofs.
They sit together, basking in the dappled morning light under the willow tree, facing the manor's porch. His hair shimmers gold in the warm summer sun, and luckily for him ghosts don't need SPF 50 to enjoy the sun, otherwise he'd be shouting his ramblings at her from the open kitchen window to their right. She's continuing the book she was reading on her first full day in the house, and Wheatley's flipping through his blue manuscript book, rambling at her this time not to her. He knows she's only half listening, but he shoots some questions her way regardless, things about her friends, what's on her mind, and any silly thought that crosses his own. "You know, you never really struck me as the type to even have friends."
She sneaks a glare over her shoulder at him, subtle to look like a passing glance, but enough to make him stutter through his next foolish thought. "I-I mean, n-not that you're not likeable or anything! I just always thought you'd keep to yourself too much to really care for others– not that you're not caring either! Oh my goodness the hole's just getting deeper innit? You're definitely not selfish, or unlikeable, that's not what I mean. It's actually very selfless of you to be helping me with, you know… Her, and for the record, I like you–r company, a lot."
She tends to zone out through his cyclical ramblings quite a lot, he gets himself stuck in a loop or endlessly correcting himself too often for her to fully listen in. This time was slightly different though, when he took a sharp turn to instead compliment her after the brash comment, she feels her cheeks heat up slightly at the praise. She desperately hopes he passes it off as a slight sunburn. Wheatley keeps checking over his shoulder to gauge her reaction, but when she doesn't make it clear she's been listening, he quickly changes the subject, praying his voice crack and stuttering didn't break her out of her immersion in the book. "So, jazz saxophone ey? And you played piano too? Should have let me know, love, that's bloody brilliant!"
She scoffs and responds this time, not wanting to continue this line of questioning but sure as hell can't let him stay misinformed. "Not jazz, Bossa Nova. Maybe a bit after your time, but anyway. I barely played piano too; I virtually know nothing about it."
"Well, you know what they say, seeing is believing… not too sure who 'they' is but considering everyone quotes them, they must be pretty insightful."
She chuckles at his endearing antics, wanting this moment to extend just a little longer. These periods of downtime and tranquility between them have been awfully comfortable and becoming more frequent as they get to know each other. It fully confirms Chell's suspicions and concerns, she really is beginning to like him, at most just as a close friend (who am I trying to fool?), but she can't help but chastise herself over it. Only a few days and I actually trust him? What a weird situation she's found herself in. Looking at this mess from a bit of a distance she could almost laugh at how insane the past couple of days have been, she really is making friends with a ghost!
But she can't stay too long in these peaceful moments, it's not healthy for her to get so comfortable or dependent. What if he pulls the rug out from under her at some point? Shifting her chuckle into a low hum, she pivots back to the question that's been on her mind since their argument at the park. "So, if you won't let me know your story yet, what's Her story?"
He shoves his manuscript book into his blazer pocket, lets his eyes flutter closed, and swallows out of a nervous habit. Chell awaits a response, begging him not to back down at this point. After what they've been through together, and the massive favour she's doing for him by getting Her off his back, she knows she's entitled to this information. It's only fair that she's told the backstory of the demon squatting in her basement.
He shakily gets to his feet, glaring one last time at the house before them. "Follow me, love."
He places his arm around her shoulder, ushering her away from the crooked wooden house and down the path again. He's abnormally quiet on their way down their winding driveway. He fidgets with his hands, runs one through his honey locks frantically, and chooses the opposite direction from the main road and busy shopping strip they were at a few days prior. They tensely pass the neighbouring houses, monumental and well kept in comparison to their run down and overgrown plot. "This place was gentrified well before I even moved in, love. I never really fit in with my neighbours– what with my money situation as well as just generally… obviously."
They come across a roundabout connecting their street, another continuing road, and more iron gates similar to her own, the words 'Aperture Cemetery' written on a plaque beside the entrance. Wheatley pulls in front of her and pries the gate open with a bit of trouble. She doesn't want to consider how rusted shut it would be if even he struggled to move it, so she slips through the gap, waiting for him on the other side. He squeezes through and lets the door slam shut again, and Chell once again wonders why he looks anxious to be in a cemetery. He fundamentally lives in his own graveyard, why is he so on edge at a regular cemetery? Should I be concerned he's leading me somewhere dangerous? Should I even trust his guidance here, alone at that? She stiffens as he pulls her closer to himself, hand on her shoulder, once again oddly protective in just a graveyard of all things. She's slightly annoyed that he thinks she needs his assistance and protection, he was pretty much on the mark with his 'friend rant' earlier, but she lets herself accept the help, knowing there's so much she still doesn't understand. "There may be some… others here with us too. I can't really predict how many, but just stick by me and you should be fine, alright?"
He seems to be really only attempting to convince himself, but she nods in response to let him know she's picking up on what he means, and they begin on their way through the paved path around the weathered tombstones. He clutches her close to his side, and her eyes dart wearily around, weaving through the stones and engraved plaques surrounding them. If she really focuses and squints against the harsh sunshine, she can see wavy light around a couple of graves, like heat radiating off of scolding hot asphalt on a sunny day. The wavy light materialises into flickering figures, some tall, some tremendously shorter than herself, and they slowly watch the pair pass by. One is a little closer than the rest, almost obstructing their path forwards, but Wheatley is determined to push through, undeterred by his presence. "Hey there, pretty lady. What, you going with that guy there? I can help you out, take you on an adventure, darling, you don't need him," the ghost whistles at her. He stares her down like a piece of fresh meat, but Wheatley interjects before he gets the chance to make another advance. "Whatever you do, don't make direct eye contact with them–" he whispers to her, and then continues in a half shout. "No thanks! We're good, just going through here, mate, none of your business."
Chell begins to avert her gaze from the flickering figures that begin to surround them, as they watch him guide her to the back of the long abandoned graveyard. The gravestones thin out the further they go, and where the sparse, dry grass almost meets the patched-together back fence stands a gazebo, followed by two incredibly worn monuments. He lets her approach the gazebo and stare out at the statues in solitude as he waits by the front for a moment. Chell squints at the engravings below the broken and weathered figures, the letters covered in moss and chipped overtime, but just clear enough to estimate who they were in the likeness of.
Cave Johnson
Mayor and founder of Aperture
Caroline Johnson
Herbalist and wife of Cave Johnson
Wheatley slowly places his hands on Chell's shoulders again, catching her off guard at how close he got within the span of a few seconds. "This little part of the city used to be a small town on its outskirts once upon a time. I'd say maybe the late 18th century, but I could be completely off– a lot of the information is fully eroded away at this point. A-anyway."
He clears his throat behind her as if he didn't already have her attention in the, pardon the pun, dead silent cemetery. "The Johnsons were the wealthiest family in this town, enough money to run the place eventually, and placed it on the map– A little town called Aperture in the middle of nowhere, quite a ways north of Detroit. Powerful, rich, and clearly had some… eclectic interests to say the least. From the research I did do on these two, Caroline was a bit more than meets the eye, you could say."
He paces side to side around Chell during his monologue, and he settles beside her, resting his forearms on the old wooden balustrade. He inhales slowly, staring down at the unkempt grass before the statues. "She was the town herbalist, really just an old timey doctor I guess, but liked to dapple a bit in the mystical. She started with palm reading, a bit of a phase of being a spirit medium, and as she grew older, well the rumors said she was a practicing witch. I don't really know when the Salem witch trials and all that were, but I assume it was just as… what's the word? I guess sacrilegious? Blasphemous? I'm not sure, the point is it was probably still as unconventional at the time, but I guess who'd be the chap with the guts to lift a finger against the mayor's wife?"
He stares back up at Caroline, the fear that was clouding his eyes dissipated in an instant. "I always got the impression she was really well liked regardless, you know? A talented healer, the town really did appreciate her work it seemed, so who would even testify against her anyway? I read up a lot about her in the archives of a nearby library when I was alive– don't think that exists anymore but maybe it's moved to the interwebs or whatever it is you young folk have nowadays. That fence back there?"
He points back over his shoulder to the way they entered, the sturdy brick wall standing tall and guarding the cemetery. "–I used to jump that fence a lot, wasn't strong enough at the time to pry the gates open, but I'd cut some flowers from my garden to leave at her monument, just to pay respects to the previous owner of my home. Sometimes I'd bring extra and walk around the place more, finding forgotten graves or people taken too young and just prop up a lily or tulip if I had one."
Chell points in question to the statue of Cave, and Wheatley cracks a smirk. "I don't think he was particularly as loved as Caroline, for good reason too. Apparently he was just fuming at everyone constantly, even his own wife. So no, I didn't bring him a single flower, not even a dandelion."
He chuckles with her, and then fixes his gaze in the distance, beyond the fence only he can see over, and out into the surrounding lake and trees. "That's as much as I know about her currently. Never did figure out why she got into demonic rituals, maybe accidentally, or maybe intending to get back at someone, I-I don't know. But that's one part of Her you at least know about. It's… not the main one you'll encounter, you'll see pretty much zilch of her and more of Her, if you get what I mean?"
"The demon, you mean," she tilts her head for confirmation, and he nods. "She calls Herself GLaDOS to me–" he shivers at the name, but presses on, "–but I refuse to call Her by that, it's just not right." Chell gets the idea that whatever happened to Caroline, it's this demon, GLaDOS, that's leeching off of her spirit and home. So she hasn't been resting for at least over two hundred years–?
"I'm different."
The pair whip around, Wheatley cowering for a second before remembering he's nowhere near as vulnerable as her, and so steps cautiously between her and the young ghost. He calls out to her behind him, and she gets curious and peeks around at the young boy who looks innocent enough to her. "Don't step out from behind me, love, just because he's small doesn't mean he's harmless."
"Her name is Caroline."
"Yeah, we know that, mate, anyway we best be going now–"
"The minotaur, half man and half bull, was trapped in a labyrinth after Poseiden punished Minos for disobeying his orders to sacrifice the minotaur's father. Theseus volunteered to go, along with the help of his lover Ariadne, and slayed the creature, escaping the labyrinth together."
Wheatley holds Chell behind him, side stepping around the other ghost. "Lovely story, little guy, and actually accurate too, surprisingly. Not sure where you heard it from, but you clearly got the nice end of that story, since, you know, there are the alternate endings of their tale. Riveting stuff though, fella. We'll be off now." As he turns around and tries to guide Chell back out of the cemetery, the little boy gets the last word. "Thank you for the flowers."
Chell decides to spend the evening on the front porch, a cup of wine in her left hand and Wheatley sitting to her right, emitting his usual assortment of noises to keep her company. Her half finished cup goes down smooth on a summer night, and it was quite nice of Wheatley to brave the cellar at the back of the house to retrieve it for her. She was never much of a drinker, but recent events have called for some stronger vices. She doesn't plan on getting drunk or anything, but enough to take the edge off of the undeniably stressful situation she's found herself in, and Wheatley doesn't blame her. As she gets to the last few sips of her drink, ready to turn back inside (either to get ready for bed or get more red wine since it hasn't set in yet), he catches her wrist, dwarfing her hand within his own. "Just before you head inside, and before the sun fully sets… have you ever been around the back of our home?"
She quirks a brow and gives him an inquisitive look, essentially telling him to lead the way. He stands up on the lowest step on the porch, looking up at her as she makes her way beside him again, and they walk. He meant to let go of her wrist, in fact he did to begin with, but Chell interlaced her fingers with his regardless. They make their way around the side of the house, hand in hand, and even though his hand is just as cold as usual, the hot flush the wine gives her makes it pleasant enough to keep holding. Chell stares at the empty looking back yard of the house, slightly disappointed there's nothing there, even though she's looked out the back windows before and confirmed that fact herself. There's large bushes coating the rickety and half broken back fence, probably an issue to tend to another time. Who knows how many rats or venomous insects reside back there? Maybe calling an exterminator wouldn't be just a convenient front for the scratching in the attic.
Wheatley continues to pull her towards said bushes however, and as much as Chell would love to just follow him endlessly to the ends of the Earth so long as he's there– wow I'm a little tipsy, huh? –she stops for long enough that he realises her hand is deadweight in his. "It's still this way, love, I know it doesn't look like much out here but we don't have that much time left before it's dark."
She glances up at the purple and orange sky, it's just about becoming dusk, and she notices Wheatley looks stunning with the final rays of sunlight streaming through his caramel hair and onto his fair skin. His deep blue eyes meet hers, and she blinks a few times to clear her head for a second, determined to stay on track and not let the wine make her do something embarrassing.
They walk up to one of the bushes, which on closer inspection is a little more like thick vines and foliage she realises, and Wheatley parts the way through them with his arms. He exposes the inside of a fairly well preserved but abandoned greenhouse, stretching the entire length of the back wall of the property, and it's awfully dim when he releases the vines. Chell is left in the middle of the greenhouse, only light being that coming from behind Wheatley, but it's growing dimmer by the minute. A scratching sound is followed by a lit match, and he turns beside the entrance to light the lantern mounted on the wall, then the one on the opposite side. "Well, what do you think? This used to be my little greenhouse. I grew all sorts of things in here: flowers, herbs, potatoes– you name it, I had it! Obviously, it's not particularly useful in its current state, with the vines creeping overtop and all that jazz it's not likely much is still living in here, but I can reminisce, ey?"
Apart from the gigantic cobweb she accidentally walked into when she entered, she loved to take in the sizable interior, seeing all sorts of empty pots and patches of dirt he no doubt spent countless hours tending to. She turns back to him, and he's clearly read her expression given the warm and genuine toothy smile he gives her. All she knows is that her arms definitely belong around his waist right now, and her cheek against his cool soft button up shirt. And so she does exactly that, no questions asked to the corner of her brain that offered up that idea. "Oh, sugar! What's this, love? You liked it so much you wanted a hug? I do find that hard to believe, but I won't complain, I haven't really been hugged in many decades…"
His arms snake their way around her too to reciprocate the hug, settling in the small of her back and tugging her closer to him, although still a little weary of making her too cold after sundown. She pulls back slightly, and he lets go, concerned he did something wrong. He was slightly crouching down to properly hold her close, and at this point they're so close they would be sharing breaths if one of them wasn't a ghost. A part of Chell is demanding she back right up, especially before things get embarrassing, or heaven forbid she regrets something, but the executive decision was already made and that section of her isn't taking any feedback at the moment. "Love… Are you alright?"
She starts to lean in, half asking for permission by meeting him halfway, but Wheatley just smiles in response, hoping he's really doing the right thing here. "Right… of course, the wine. Don't get me wrong, you are absolutely amazing, and stunning at that– but um, uh I-I don't think sober Chell would be too pleased if I let you do that. How about a bit more of that hug though?"
He pulls her back in and she sighs into his embrace. Both of them are wracked with disappointment in that moment, but Wheatley recovers almost immediately, smiling serenely into her thick brown hair. Chell's mentally scolding the rebellious part of her brain that stepped out of line, infuriated that she's made things uncomfortable between them all over a few glasses of wine. "It's getting awfully dark, isn't it, love? Let's get you back inside and asleep, it's been a bit of an interesting day for you."
As he gently prods her inside and up to her room, she finds it hard to drag her feet around and do her night schedule. The rejection heavy on her shoulders still, the wine affecting her motor skills, as well as just general reluctance to sleep in this house, she finds it easiest to just change, and roll right into bed. She picks out some comfortable pyjamas, wrestles her way into them in the closet, and meets Wheatley back in her room. He's staring plaintively out her bedroom window and into the night when she walks in, but his eyes snap back to meet hers, and the grin on his face at just the sight of her lifts her mood, if only a little bit. The hole in her chest has a small bandaid over it with his cheery attitude, but she continues arguing with herself. She could have sworn in the moment it was the right thing to do, but also had she not learnt anything from being in this house? She should not just blindly trust appearances, she should never have let herself get anywhere close to being drunk in his company, shouldn't have let him lead her anywhere in the dark, shouldn't have let him pull her closer into his addictively chilled but gentle touch, shouldn't have–!
And yet, he could have done it, right? She settles into the bed next to him, as he begins his next rambling session, but she can't really bring herself back to the present enough to focus. She was right there, in a shadowy abandoned greenhouse, with a few candles as lighting, cornered by a ghost she's apprehensive about, and yes she knows she shouldn't have let that happen, but he also didn't betray her typical boundaries or make her uncomfortable. Despite him having her wrapped around his fingers, he didn't strike. He's either the most honest spirit to ever exist, or he's playing the really long game.
As she's about to drift asleep, Wheatley makes to stand up and leave the room, turning back to her and half whispering, "I know you usually want me in here, but I really want to make sure I'm not stepping on any toes anytime soon, I might wake up to a fist to the nose, you know?" He strokes her cheek with his cold hand, smirks down at the warm and exhausted brunette. "I'll be back very soon, so don't you worry, love."
"Thank god that little idiot's gone for once. I owe you one for getting him out of my hair this time, maybe I won't kill you."
She sits perched on Chells bedroom windowsill, She cracked the old window half open to give herself a higher vantage point over her bed. Her sinister smirk vanishes at the end of the sentence, and she flashes her a greaser full of disgust and repulsion. "That's a lie, but I'll tell you what, I'll make it a little more… fun than the end he got. I'm not sure how, just feeling like dragging it out would be a lot of fun," and she hops off the window, reveling in how Chell can't even cower from her when she's right beside her bed. "I know I won't have too much time or fun with you before that moron comes back, but I'd just love to take the time to inform you what a horrible mistake it is to get this close to someone like him. Trust me, good people don't end up here. Let alone like this. He also seems to be struggling a little more than usual with that itch he always goes on about, he caves in so easily to temptation, but you wouldn't know that yet, would you?"
Chell knows and repeats to herself that nothing she says is true, or at the very least always exaggerated to get a reaction out of her, and so she calms her anger. She knows Wheatley is not a bad person, he's too authentic to be anything other than sweet. And he already admitted to her that sometimes the need to possess can get overwhelming, but that he'd never actually do it. What is however, quite disturbing is that she's picked up on (well basically was told the night prior, point blank) something she can now use as ammunition, that Chell trusts Wheatley. That's a problem. "While I do have your attention though, I'd love to take the time to let you know that when you do die, inevitably by my hand of course, I will not be bringing you back like I did with him. There will be no covenant, no cake for your death day, and not because you are a good person– believe me you're not– but simply because I don't think the astral plane has a weight limit high enough to accommodate all three of us. Usually it's calibrated for holding numerous spirits, but I feel your… generous-ness will far exceed the capacity."
She eyes up the doorway, presses Her hand to Chell's mouth, and whispers in her ear just before he comes stumbling back into the room. "Oh, and one more thing. How many others do you think he's done this to already? Just some food for thought, although don't indulge in it too much, you don't want more pounds on your stout frame."
She awakens with a knot in her throat, heavily breathing, and disoriented. "Oh no, I'm so sorry, love, I really shouldn't have left you, that was a bad idea. Me and my bad ideas– anyway I overheard a little, she was calling you generous? Not sure how that's an insult, you are pretty lovely but–"
She's not focusing on him at the moment. She's not breathing heavily or disoriented from the nightmare itself, no she's learnt to kind of deal with those and the plethora of insults She hurls at her, it's from that final question. How many others has he done this to already? The knot in her throat grows tighter as she tries to swallow it away. How could she let such a question go unanswered for so long? For all she knows this is all an elaborate trap! Sure, maybe they actually are different ghosts in the end, but what's stopping them from both being in on it, like this is more their plan than hers? Her breath hitches as she realises how much she's just accepted as truth from him, all that could essentially be hearsay. Who's to say he's actually saved anyone from this haunted house?
"–love? Love! Are you alright? You're just staring off into space! Here, at least log it before you forget." He's holding out her pen and notebook, expecting her to silently take it and jot down some notes. Instead, she shakes her head vehemently. "No."
"N-no? You don't want to, you mean, or that you're not alright?"
She knows that everything She says is to fan the flames and watch her suffer, but it's not like She's cursed to only tell a lie. Those two really could be two sides to the same coin. Sometimes the truth hurts more than a lie, right? She catches her breath, shoves the notebook away from her, and drags him by the collar. She lugs him out her bedroom door, down the hallway stairs, out the front door, and over to the willow tree. None of their secret plans leave the shade of this willow tree, and from now on no lies are allowed in its vicinity. He stumbles through the hanging branches and foliage. "Oh goodness, love! Was it about yesterday? Did I fail your test or something, what have I done this time? I'm sorry, I really am such a moron sometimes, you'll have to forgive me."
She makes her way over to sit him down and cover his mouth, clears her throat, and projects her voice loud and clear. She clearly means business. "No lies allowed under this tree, understood?" He nods fervently into her hand. "Even if it's a question you're uncomfortable with. You have to answer it to the best of your ability at that moment. Yes?" He pauses, looking down slightly, but eventually he hums an agreement. She lets go of his face. "How many others have there been before me?"
His brow furrows at the question, clearly taken aback. "Is-is that all this is about? Why are you so worked up over that?" She gives him a glare that tells him to cut to the chase immediately, and he folds. "Well-uh I stopped counting after some time, but I'd be willing to guess around thirty, maybe fifty maximum? Not many of them stayed around very long but–"
"Did you ever do… this with them?"
He blinked in confusion at her, then the pieces slotted together and took this to mean 'their plan'. "What? No no no! None of them would be alive if I did that, and I'm still here!"
"Who did you get along with the least?"
He's startled by her question, but nonetheless continues. "Uh… gosh the least? I didn't do too well with a lot of them to be honest, they all didn't particularly like me that much, but I'd say either Penelope Schroders or Alistair Parker. Neither of them were my biggest fans, but that's not necessary anyway when you're just trying to help someone. Why do you ask, exactly?"