Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this piece, just took a bit of a break so I could get 'For The People Who Are Still Alive' ideas out there before they escape me. I'm also very much struggling to decipher what exactly to do with the ratmann plot for now as well as making my ideas fit with where I assume the original was heading with Thomas' late wife, so I'll be hashing that out in the meantime too, but since I have a lot more prepared for FTPWAST, that might be something to check out as well if you enjoy this piece!
Her work isn't difficult to her by any stretch of the imagination; she's spent the entirety of her waking life (she remembers) around computers and technology after all. Tapping away at her keyboard, searching and sorting through databases and spreadsheets she has no care for whatsoever other than the paycheck they're associated with, Chell sighs in exasperation behind her screen. She's deeply overqualified for the job, that much she knows, and underpaid at that after now being one of the lowest waged departments in the corporation, but her (mostly female) coworkers and herself bite the bullet every time. A degree like hers is hard to come by nowadays, and the workforce has been limited to neighbouring towns after the Combine invasion, yet a company like this can benefit and exploit them even worse by undercutting their wages– there may be competition between workers, but there's virtually none between the few employers in the city.
She takes a swig of her ice cold water, shivering as it cools her hands and syphons the heat from her oesophagus and mouth. Quite unusual that is today, even her own coworkers go through cup after cup of coffee every shift, but today Chell feels strangely rejuvenated, well rested for the day. It certainly helped with the 6'7 radiator gently embracing her for the duration of their night, but that's not the only thing. Sure, she appreciated the company and his soft breath on her neck that much is for certain, but she's mostly anticipating what's coming after her shift.
It's a Sunday, and yes, she's aggravated that she has to work Sundays just to pay the bills. However, that means Wheatley's off work, and a devious smile pulls at the left corner of her lips, she eyes up the clock as it approaches her shift's conclusion. She takes her sweet time in the final minutes of her job, they may as well not be paying her for it anyway at her rate, and when she gets the opportunity Chell rushes out the building with intention.
Wheatley may have a day off, but she knows the music shop is still open. Thomas takes no breaks, not even on a widely accepted day of rest. Perhaps he considers his music store an essential service for the local area, but either way she's grateful as she steps through the threshold and out of the fresh spring air and into the heated room. "Fancy seeing you here, I would have thought you would know the vertically gifted one was home for the day, but welcome anyway. Chell, right?"
She meanders through the store after briefly nodding in his general direction, acknowledging the invitation inside and scours the shop floor for a moment. "Looking for anything in particular today, miss Chell?"
She smiles and sighs at the formal title, finding it quite amusing especially considering no one's ever addressed her with quite that level of respect before. Admittedly, Wheatley kisses her feet every second they're around each other, but this is a different form of respect– it's dignified on both ends. She waves him over with a smirk on her face, pointing to the digital piano section with intrigue. "Oh I see, you have your fun so why not let him, ey? What are you after for today– 88 keys? Weighted preferably? How many pedals?"
She's a bit overwhelmed by the choices, opting to shrug and pass the decision making to Thomas himself. Chell's no pianist, she knows better than to pretend this is anything other than out of her skillset, so she gestures aimlessly at him to go on. "Well, your British roommate is a really talented player, that's for sure, just like you in that way. I'm inclined to say he deserves a high quality instrument– of course it's dependent on your budget too, miss. I'll go through the models and features, and you point out if a price isn't right for you, sound like a plan?"
And so they slowly amble through the shop, Thomas talking, and Chell listening intently. They stop by a dark wooden digital piano in the far corner of the store, its deep red wood stand immediately pleasing to her eye, and she points to prompt him to begin his pitch. He begins to chuckle softly at the request. "Oh, miss Chell, this one is one of my more pricey ones on offer; if the last one was cutting it close to being too much this one might just take the cake. It's a Bechstein upright piano, 88 weighted keys, three pedals, beautiful tone quality and responsivity. This is a proper piano, not digital, it has to be quite well maintained and cared for, but isn't that the case for all instruments?"
He gently strokes the top of the piano, as if in agony to even consider parting with this treasured piano. "I get most of my older instruments from salvaged warehouses and opportunity shops, but none have been quite like this beauty, it would be great to go to a home that will make sure it's well loved," and she watches Thomas test the solid keys and pedals, the rich sound reverberating around the small, sound dampened room.
"This was the first piano Wheatley played for me. It was quite a hilarious moment when he turned to me in complete shock and tried to explain that he didn't even know the damn name for the thing, let alone the piece he was playing!"
She taps the top of the piano expectantly, then as she's caught his attention, she nods in affirmation. That was all she needed to hear.
Sure, it was pricey, but it suited the living room so well, especially right next to her mahogany red cello sitting in the corner of the room. She was ever thankful that Wheatley's the most hyper person she's ever come across, otherwise Thomas and herself wouldn't have had the element of surprise they did now that he's out taking a walk at the park. The doorknob shimmies in its socket as he jams the key every which way before realising he had it right the first time, then deposits his jacket on the clothing rack by the door. The presence of her own jacket there before him has Wheatley slightly confused, hadn't he practically memorised her schedule at this point? It was a Sunday, right? It seems as though she had come home early, and so he calls out to her (as if she could respond back anyway).
He rounds the corner into the living room and she's sitting there in the corner, with an extra piece of furniture he couldn't quite recall ever being there, him being his overly inattentive self as usual. However, he knows that shape from a mile away; the colour, the height, the wood grain, all essentially committed to his memory from the time he spends at his work passing a glance back at the thing. He closes the distance between himself, and his two most cherished things in the world– not that he would call either of them just things to himself, really. "Did you really…? Is that what I think it is? Well I know it is, but I– well I guess I need confirmation before I realise this marks my slow descent into insanity. Can't be hallucinating this early in my human life yet, can I? Thought it was reserved for the elderly or something."
Even if she could respond, it wasn't the best way to confirm his question. She lets the piano speak for itself, and she opens the fallboard for him to further gawk at, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. "Oh it's even more beautiful than I– well I knew it was beautiful, I practically saw it every day for heaven's sake, but it's so different knowing it's…mine."
His hand ceases tracing the smooth polished corners of the instrument, suddenly a thought crossing his mind for the first time in a while. "How much do I owe you, love? I can't quite remember how much this one is, but I can't say I've made enough just yet to pay it off–"
She silences his blossoming ramble with a swift kiss to the cheek as she rises from the plush seat in front of it, and she opens the folded up music stand above the keys, revealing a small piece of lined paper which catches his attention. He unravels it carefully in his sturdy hands, and reads to himself. 'Happy one year of your freedom– or in a few days, at least. I'm so proud of how far you've come, and thank you for all the singing lessons.
P.S. You don't need to pay me back, it's a gift, Wheatley. ~Chell'
His shocked inhale turns into uncontrollable and unmistakable excitement, and he channels that all in her direction. He drops the paper for the time being and peppers her face with kisses (after now understanding what it means and how to do so), spending every bit of breath in his lungs to remind her how much he appreciates her. Being in the position she is at that moment, being squeezed at the shoulders and ravaged by this lunatic she's glad to share a home with, she finds she can do absolutely nothing but graciously accept and receive the attention. He's just taking the time to purge his pent up energy, and she hopes he'll calm down for the rest of the night going forward– although she can't say she doesn't enjoy his unabashed affection.
After he's done rubbing one and a half cheeks and a forehead's worth of concealer off her face, he backs off more gently than the onset of his barrage. "Sorry I got a bit carried away I–," and he stops at the warm smile on her face. It's soft and inviting in a way, telling him there's clearly nothing to apologise for anymore, and especially not his own emotions. She jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen, the only other indication to Wheatley that time must be passing if they've been so busy that day that they hadn't even started making dinner yet.
They work together like two well oiled parts of a machine, each needing the other to make something beautiful in the end– Wheatley definitely in more need generally though. Whilst he doesn't often have the dexterity for Chell to even consider handing him a kitchen knife to cut the vegetables, he's allowed to wash the bowls and utensils used along the way, making the clean up after their dinner even more streamlined than usual, and he's hoping to put that piano to good use straight away. They spend the rest of their time leisurely preparing and eating dinner together, exchanging few words over the meal on each other's days by note or gesture, and fairly vocally on Wheatley's part.
He was over the moon (this time without requiring a fight to the death he notes bitterly to himself) to finally show her his talent. His talent, he can barely even believe it himself too. Being exiled into orbit for years on end gave him ample time for self reflection, including many breakdowns and quickly cycling back to denial, but in his grief he came to an epiphany. Everyone around him already knew it like it was common sense, but the realisation finally hitting him that everything he does is doomed to fail because of who he is was a tough pill to finally swallow.
He wanted to make her proud in some way, to prove to her still that he's worth her time, effort, and (god knows how much) money she's spent on him already. He's indebted to her, that much he's certain on, because she had no reason to take him in, after the lack of mercy he showed her back There he was truly expecting to have been left to fend for himself. Chell didn't leave him out to eventually succumb to the elements though, and she didn't even just provide shelter to get him back on his feet– she gave him a home to return to every day. It needn't be a physical apartment, or house, or anything tangible, it's the confirmation that no matter what happens they have each other in the world they've finally returned into.
He stretches his hands, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles in preparation, and she shares the end of the piano stool with him, giving him some space but staying close by to watch. Wheatley gingerly rests his fingertips on a mix of the stark white and ebony black keys, both unsure of what he's about to do next but also confident his muscle memory will take over anyway. His fingers glide effortlessly across the piano, gentle and without tension. He skillfully hits the octaves, ever grateful for his gangly hands' reach, but as he progresses through this piece completely unknown to him, he trembles. A missed note here, unintentional rubato there, all culminating in him repeatedly restarting the same bar over and over again. He groans in defeat after some time of messing around with the rhythms, the notes and piece on the tip of his fingers and yet he's unable to reproduce its beauty. "Sorry, I swear I can play, love. I guess I'm just really not used to an audience– but I just played it the other day to Thomas and a customer, I know this piece! How can I forget just like that?"
She softly rubs his back as he slouches in vanquish, the slight mess up having trampled his mood in an instant. She locates her trusty notepad and pen to console the man who's curling in on himself in front of the instrument, making himself meek and small as if he's undeserving of ever being so confident in it's presence. Or hers either, given the way the folded away from her touch. 'That was beautiful, don't be so hard on yourself. Thomas said this piano's practically made for you and I already agree.'
"No– love, that really wasn't my best work, I thought I finally had something to be proud of, to make you proud of me even. For once I could stop being a mess up in everything I do and maybe just be a mess up in most things. I–"
She shoves the notepad under his nose to get his attention again. 'You heard my horrific cello intonation the other day, we obviously haven't played our instruments for a very long time, don't get yourself so worked up over it. Do you get this frustrated when I can't hum or talk?'
"Well I…" And he pauses. He's not that dense that he doesn't understand what she's getting at, but in his mind he can't compare him and her. She's Chell after all, the only one to make it out of There, a masterful puzzle solver with the endurance and tenacity to run through hell and back, even if she can't do a few things nothing's ever out of her reach, and especially not for long.
He, in comparison, has spent a majority of his life he remembers with this little voice in the back of his head passing inane and garbage thoughts and decisions to his conscious mind to act on unquestioningly, and even now that the pre programmed voice has gone with his own body back, to him it's only as if it's replaced with his own voice now. Despite how much he's changed, that's always going to stay the same, it was a part of him extracted and amplified by the scientists that he's always going to live with.
He doesn't spiral for too long, however, as Chell offers a comforting hug from behind. He melts into her touch. Even though he knows he's a screw up, she at least seems to accept him despite it. Why can't he do the same?
"Wow, love, your humming is incredible tonight. You really know how to surprise me and you just keep getting better each time!"
She returns his warm smile as the ticking ceases from between them. He's clearly got an idea, and usually she'd be concerned, but he seems to know exactly what he wants to do so who is she to hold him back? He has a certain determined momentum about him now, as he stands up and beckons her over to the piano once more, and her smile grows tenfold as he seems to be up to the challenge yet again. They really aren't as dissimilar as she may have thought, sure he may get demoralised way quicker, but he bounces back just the same.
"I was thinking, what if we both do something that gives us a little stage fright, ey? Why let you have all the fun when we can both be stressed? Who knows, love, maybe it'll make it easier for you to vocalise if I'm not staring you down," he chuckles as he takes a seat on the stool. He offers her the space beside him too this time. They begin after finding the sheet music for both of them to follow along with.
"So you know the vowels already which is already absolutely brilliant, you might be a bit rusty of course– it would make sense since you don't use your vocal chords often anymore– so we can go over them again, no worries! But, I do have another suggestion too for the night. Not to put too much pressure on you, though," and he chucks her a charming smirk over his left shoulder as they commence.
Her soft alto vowels are slightly drowned out by the piano which she appreciates, but Wheatley's not a big fan of that. He wants to fully hear her voice after all, so he secretly locks the practice pedal on to dampen the noise a little more. As they work their way through the vowels, solfege with simple scales, and even a canon scale like they ended on the night before, he abruptly halts his playing, turning to her with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You might not like what I'm going to request, but you are doing so well and I really think you'll be up to it sometime soon at least. Do you think you could give one of these words a shot from the song?"
He points to the sheet music of 'Come Wander With Me', and she turns her head away, slightly overwhelmed at the request. It's been so long since she's made any noises other than a sharp exhale or now recently disjointed vowels and singular syllables, does he really want her to do this just yet? "No, love, it's all going to be fine, I promise you– look I'll even play over when you're singing and sight read the piece. Whichever words you think you might be able to say, even if it's just the word 'me' or something simple like that! Do you think you can do that for me, love?"
She would call herself a strong headed person, very steadfast and unwavering in her decisions, and yet she can't find the strength to say no to his pleading voice. Fine, but only as much as I can.
She turns the other way, already having memorised the words to the song after reading them below the sheet music he handed her the other day. Chell needs a bit of the pressure relieved from having him beside her listening, she needs to somehow trick her mind into thinking she's alone again. They start the song as soon as she begins humming the anacrusis, leading into the soft and repetitive melody.
It takes her quite some time to muster up the courage to even open her mouth and sing some vowels alone, but slowly she emerges from her shell– and closing her eyes certainly helps too. A word small enough for her to sing on its own approaches steady, and she draws a sharp inhale, then shakily breathes the word out of her lips. It's soft, it's wavering, but it's there, and Wheatley tries his absolute hardest not to flinch at the noise. Even though he suggested this to her, he wasn't fully prepared for the moment when it finally arrived. He doesn't want to scare her out of saying any more words in the song though, so he continues like he never heard it.
A few more simple, almost english sounding words escape her lips as she tries to patch together the lessons he's given her so far, but just before they get too comfortable in the moment together, the song comes to an end. She leans backwards onto his strong arm, still resting shocked on the keys where he left it, and his head tilts back to rest on her own. "Blimey, you've got a voice as sweet as honey, I'll tell you that, love. Now, I don't want to have this come out wrong– I'm not criticising you or anything please don't take it that way oh golly I'd never– but, uh, well, one of those words you said… which was it? Wander maybe? Anyway, it came out a little, how do I say this," and he pauses, furrowing his brows. She stiffens in anticipation for his next words.
"And it's definitely not your fault, but… you sounded a bit, well, like me."
She bursts into soundless chuckles behind him, keeling over and leaving him in confusion with his head half thrown backwards where hers once was. "What? What's so funny, love?"
She passes him a note. 'I have your accent because I must hear you speak more than anyone else I encounter. That's unforgivable,' she jokes in her neat cursive writing.
Chell struts with intention down the street, heading home from her draining job, but her mood lifts the closer she gets to Wheatley's store. The weather is starting to warm up a bit recently, and the days are growing warmer slowly over time, nights like this however, remain bitterly cold. It's the Michigan weather, you can never expect a warm day to last, but she'd never complain. The chill may bite at her hands or redden her nose or dry her throat out, but it's all a reminder of the world she's fought tooth and nail to live in.
The streets are devoid of any human life, people must already be home and preparing dinner and for the rest of the week ahead of them. She confidently rounds the corner to the main street, and slams right into a man blocking her path. She tries her best to avoid fully throwing her weight at him, making apologetic hand motions and mouthing 'sorry', but he does something else fairly unexpected. He blocks her path once again, his hand reaching beside himself to hold her back in front of him.
Now that's awfully suspicious to Chell, and she takes a step back, wishing she could take a few more if it weren't for the darkened shop window looming behind her. "You can't talk, can you?"
She raises her hands, a half placating motion to hopefully deescalate the situation, give her time to find a way out or just simply catch him off guard when she does bolt. Sizing him up, she reasons with herself that running might get her into more trouble than she already is in. Considering his longer legs and her uncomfortable boots and skirt combination, there's not a chance she could outrun this guy, especially without adrenal vapor or a portal gun. She can't help but feel an odd sense of déjà vu as this situation unfolds. "That's perfect. Hand over your coat, sweetie. That right there's mink fur, it goes for a pretty penny nowadays. I suggest if you want to return home safely and in one piece, you'll consider my offer, won't you?"
She had not a clue her coat wasn't a blend of synthetic fibres, but it was of little importance to her anyway. She hastily parts with the warm jacket, not the hardest decision she's ever had to make considering how a-materialistic she always has been. The price of the coat means nothing to her, whether mink farms are common to come across anymore or not isn't the top of her list of priorities when considering the intimidating figure threatening her safety– if it ever did top her list, she would have been the very first to perish back at Aperture.
The man rudely shoulders her and vanishes around the corner in a hurry with her coat, and she pats down her pockets now too. Fuck, of course he pickpocketed me too, and she silently groans at the missing wallet that was in her walking skirt's pocket. At least she only had some of her identity cards in there, she never carries much physical cash to work anyway, but still a massive pain she's going to have to fix in the near future. She continues on her way down the street, the harsh cold seeping into her skin now without the extra layer on top of her white blouse.
"Bloody hell, love, why are you walking around with no coat on, I swear I saw you leave with one this morning. It's positively chilly out here, aren't you cold?" He presses her on it immediately as she walks up to the music shop, softly shaking from both the dwindling adrenaline from the encounter and the cool night breeze creeping down her neck. She waves his question off for the time being, after all it's not like either of them could do anything about it now, and they continue walking home.
Wheatley wastes no time in ditching his own tweed jacket to gently place over her small frame, pulling her closer to him by her far shoulder. His hand starts slightly trembling too from the cold, but he doesn't complain, just indefinitely talking about his day, the people he spoke to and things he saw at the park.