Rhododendron flowers have many different meanings depending on the culture, but in Victorian times they tended to indicate danger and caution for their potent toxin. Wheatley heavy chapter for this one, but who's complaining about that?
Wheatley was no stranger to twiddling his thumbs. He's always waiting for something–or someone– else to take initiative. In unfamiliar situations, his best bet is to always let the other lead the way, and if they say it with enough conviction then maybe he might also find he believes them. It's not a necessity for him to have faith in whoever takes matters into their own hands, but it certainly helps when it eventually does happen.
He definitely has a lot of faith in her decisions, that's for sure. If anyone wears the pants in their dynamic, it's undeniably Chell, and Wheatley has been more than happy living with that. Making choices isn't his strong suit after all, let alone good ones, so it's practically a no-brainer to have her do the heavy lifting, right? He pauses his current thumb-twiddling venture, letting them still against her softly expanding and contracting ribcage, a telltale sign of her restful sleep, at least for the time-being. He taps her shoulder lightly but repeatedly, drawing her out of her shallow slumber. She's still a bit groggy, although he definitely feels her heart instinctively leap beneath his cool hand. She collects herself, slowly blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Chell croaks out a soft "what's up Wheats?"
His voice gets caught in his throat as she tugs his slowly retracting arm back around her, and she pivots onto her back beside him. "Uh, w–well I was just uh, just thinking about what you were asking earlier, and really I should have just told you and all. It's not that I don't trust your judgement or anything, that would be ridiculous, I just–"
She clears her throat softly, but loud enough to cut off his budding ramble. Her hand grazes his shoulder, the feather light contact still enough to transfer the heat from her fingertips through his cooled dress shirt. "You feel guilty for saying no," and she turns back over, dragging his arm along with her. "That's not a very compelling reason to change your mind, man."
She turns her back to him once again, determined to get as much shut eye as possible before She has any thoughts to voice on the matter and decides to interrupt her sleep. Even outside of the house She has some twisted effect on them; now it's starting to beg the question, how long can I live like this? "Uh, no, no I'm definitely not guilty or anything of the sort, I just think you deserve to know… you know? You're doing a lot to help me, and I really don't even know why you are– I mean I've learnt to just not question what you do, I'm sure you have your reasons, however mysterious– but yeah, I uh, I owe you this one for sticking with me."
She furrows her brow and peers back over her shoulder at the timid spirit. So far she's barely done anything to get anywhere near solving this puzzle, so what is it he's even grateful for? If anything her attempts have only left them in a more vulnerable position than they were before. She now has no protection charms or talismans, no safe places in the house, her nightmares are getting worse, and she has a busted leg. Admittedly, she can't say she didn't try, but their plan has been far from successful when she takes the lead. After everything she's tried so far, all she's ended up with is the contact of a previous homeowner, her own life (thankfully), and him by her side.
"Our alliance isn't transactional, Wheatley. You don't owe me anything. Like, sure I'd like to know what happened, and it might give us more insights into you and Her, but if you really don't want to, you don't have to. I won't push any more, that's a promise."
"I… want to, at the very least to just get it out of my head. And if it'll help you," he pauses and chews on his bottom lip in thought. Following that, he gives a curt nod to the woman beside him.
"Alright, then this can wait until tomorrow. I've only had a wink of sleep," she mutters, and her head flops back onto the pillow, now cold from being vacant for the length of the half-lucid conversation. "Well, actually uh– why don't I just show you? Like, right now… that is."
She idly strokes his hand with her thumb, the gears turning in her head trying to decipher his meaning. She ponders for a few seconds longer, then whispers through her clenching teeth. "Have you always been able to?"
"Bah hu-what? As in show you?"
She's pretty certain she knows what he's alluding to. "I've been tormented by Her for over a month at this point and you didn't find that information pertinent enough to tell me you can do it too?"
"Well I don't usually tell people about the creepy things I can do, you've been an exception! I was never going to use it on you, nor did I anyway– and besides, I never actually have done it before," he hissed through her thick hair towards her ear. Chell stops for a second, clearly this line of questioning is starting them off on the wrong foot. Wheatley's closing off quickly at the question, clearly offended, but now he's soaring to conclusions she never tried to insinuate. "Hold on hold on, I'm not saying you already have, I know that especially after the possession fiasco, you're reluctant to do anything with me that you don't need to. But, why didn't you tell me?"
He grips her harder, pulling her impossibly closer to his chest. "Because that's what She does, and I don't want to be like Her. Actually scratch that, I'm not like Her. Sure, She throws things and can go invisible and She possesses people, or She did with me at least, but most of the time She's known for her ability to do that. I know you think of us as one in the same, but we aren't. Just because I can also control your dreams doesn't mean anything."
"I know that now. You aren't Her, full stop. But that, though… that's a game changer. What I wouldn't give for a good night's sleep at this point," she chuckles to herself. At that thought though her soft laughter trails off into a breathy sigh, as she very well knows this discovery makes their current embrace and recent contact obsolete. "Anyway, you have permission. Go for it."
She drifted out of a deep sleep, the undiluted darkness morphing into a fuzzy blur of light. Focusing in, it shows a man, or at least from a man's perspective, fiddling with a set of new ornate keys at the gate to the manor. So pale you could see his veins, his chunky fingers trying one key, upside down and right side up, then the other, then back to the first. It unlocks on the second try, and he picks up a cardboard box beside him with ease and advances up the snow covered path.
It's a confusing experience, she is this man just as much as he is her. She likens it to watching a movie through her own eyes as if it's the screen, only she has the director's notes and every interview at hand.
He approaches the house at a leisurely place, absentmindedly muttering to himself. She wishes she could make out the words, a slurring mess of syllables he clearly has memorised, but he's quite literally not even thinking about it. His attention is fully on the old and worn wooden door in front of him, hyping himself up to pass the threshold.
He tosses a glance to his left towards the window to his house, and his reflection stares right back. Dark circles drag his eyes down, his pretty blond locks tousled and oily from presumably the wrath of his own two hands, and a small magenta rhododendron flower in his dress suit pocket. His high cheekbones are striking despite his current disheveled state, and he quickly adjusts his black framed glasses. His equally striking blue eyes are magnified behind his glasses, although unlike what she's grown accustomed to, they're devoid of any light. Not only does he stare at the house though, it stares back at him, unable to shake the feeling that despite those darkened windows, the house itself is capable of returning said gaze.
He closes his eyes, anticipating what lies behind that door for him. Wheatley pushes the door open, the only few noises now being the squeak of the hinges as it inches open and the pitter-patter of his beloved German shepherd, Tess. His arms shake as he crosses the doorstep, and he clutches the box tighter under his arm. He paces to the kitchen, eyes fixated on the sink below the large window, and Tess sits a fair distance from him, whining at the corner closest to the basement. He slumps to his knees, shoving the box in the compartment just below the sink and between the pipes, before shakily pulling himself back onto his feet. A splash of water on his face doesn't liberate him from his disassociated stupor, so he tries one more time.
Water drips down his hair to his jawline to his white shirt, and just beside the growing wet patch on it emerges a hand. Soft, feminine, yet ominous to the tall man, he recoils his hands from the kitchen bench, curling his spine down and in on himself. "You know where to go, moron."
He walks himself down the shaded staircase, away from the sunlight bathed kitchen and the haven of the front porch and a glass of his own painkiller. No time to pop open the vodka, or gin and tonic, or whiskey to soften the blow of what's incoming. At least with those, he could forget. She shoves him down the last step, and he stumbles to the back wall.
He hoists himself up on the cold concrete, picking up and fumbling with his glasses that were thrust across the floor with him. "Keep going, and watch your head next time. It's my job to hurt you, so do keep self-inflicted injuries to a minimum," and she abruptly points him over to the open door in the corner. He drags his feet past the ruins of his hammond organ just beside the door to the boiler room.
He shifts in the corner of the artificially heated room, the hissing ancient pipes and tanks surrounding him providing background noise for the tense moment between the two. He peers down at her through half-lidded eyes, completely aware of the punishment, but waiting for the command to leave her demonic lips.
She doesn't speak though, just eying him predatorially from his ruffled hair to his scuffed up boots. He screws his eyes shut, and begins the process. His voice echoes weakly through the small room, an ache settling just behind his ribs, rendering him short of breath. "I offer to you the shape of my regret— words in abundance though not ever enough. I seek—"
She grabs the side of his head, throwing him headfirst into the concrete wall of the boiler room, and Wheatley's breath catches in his throat from the radiating pain. The cold wall offers a slight relief to the increasingly warming room, both from the mechanics around him and his own instinctive shaking, but the comfort doesn't last long. She presses his forehead against the wall with undeniable strength in Her grip, standing stock still beside his collapsing form. "Again. Do not paraphrase, you idiot. I wrote it on the wall for a reason, even after reading it thousands of times you still don't get it."
He used to know why She punished him. He was admittedly a clumsy fella, and She didn't take too kindly to his accidental dents in the walls, or dropped mugs, or broken mirrors. It all took a turn for the worst when he brought home an intricate crucifix to hang above his bed, and since that day there has been no end to the punishment. With no time for him to emerge for breath within the manor, he spends most of his time and days out of the house, occasionally opting to sleep on the cold wood of the porch.
The winter months have been harsh on the man. Although he was used to the cold from his upbringing in Bristol, it rarely snowed in the area he grew up, so the cold months here in the heart of Michigan hit him harder than expected. He was thankful for the built-in heating the boiler room provided when he bought the house, but he couldn't be further from grateful for this room after the memories he associates with it. Although he knows deep down the room itself has little to do with his punishment, he finds himself flinching at the sight and noise of the place.
He begins again, enunciating his words carefully. "I offer to you the shape of my regret—words in abundance, though never enough," and he lightly pants from the pain in his chest. "I seek atonement with no hope of mercy, for none is deserved." His lungs start to burn, but when She demands, he must deliver. She drives his head back into the wall after he briefly pulls away, and Wheatley squeaks. "Every morsel of my moronic being is burdened by my actions, bound to this earth by my festering mistake, forever indebted by your pardon– please forgive me."
He lays slumped on the floor of the boiler room, knowing full well she's breathing down the back of his neck, no doubt keeping count. His hands are firmly pressing into the stained floor ("I offer to you the shape of my regret," he whispers, not necessarily to Her anymore), clinging to the resting dust and grime beneath him. He used to have strong legs and an even stronger will despite his naïvety, ("words in abundance, though never enough–") but now even when the Earth stops spinning, he'll be the only one still trembling.
He coughs until his throat is hoarse ("I seek atonement with no hope of mercy, for none is deserved," he weeps at her feet), and despite having no timekeeping device in the room with him, he's sure he's been down there reciting these same lines for centuries now. Tired beyond belief, and voice raw and tense in its pleading, he still holds on hope that maybe this time his beg will reach Her. It's not often that his begging satisfies Her requirements, oftentimes Her monotone voice will demean him and demand a redo ("Every morsel of my moronic being–" and his breath stutters, fresh tears washing away the ones from hours prior. He didn't expect to have more tears to cry in his dehydrated state), sometimes opting to drive Her hand into the back of his head for every stutter, misspeak, or sign of hesitance.
He lifts his head back up to glare solemnly at the water-stained corner She backed him into, softly hyperventilating and feeling like he can never get a full breath. "Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for me of course by extension, you have to finish it for my approval."
"I hope you burn in hell when your time torturing mortals is up," he spat as a tremor shook his body. He definitely knew better than to prod the bear, but in his half alive daze, it was the only thing he could derive any joy out of. He's growing more and more malnourished by the day, skipping meals for fear he'll throw it back up like he did the one before, barely even able to keep fluids down, let alone a full meal. He's impossibly thin, gaunt, and his skin's lost its pigment from his numerous deficiencies. If he could get any modicum of satisfaction out of this moment, he'll sure as hell seize the opportunity.
She slowly brings a boot down on his back, and he crumbles to the floor, utterly expended. "I could very much punish you further for that, you know? We've both said a lot of things you're going to regret, but I'm willing to put all of that behind us. Although it is a shame you chose now to fight back, if I could even call it that, you were so close to the surprise I was planning."
She pushed him right up against the floor this time with Her foot. "Again, I'm a bigger person than that, I'm sure you know. If you just finish up the rest of your repentance, I'll consider having a bit of mercy– or at least some pity."
With no alternative choice that wouldn't end with a morbid Wheatley intestines mural painted on the walls around him, he caves in through gritted teeth– partially from reluctance even now, and also from the painful throbbing in his head, and now that he thinks of it, his whole body. "Every morsel of my m-m-moronic being is burdened by my actions… bound to this earth by my festering mistake, forever indebted by your p-pardon."
"There, was that so hard? Don't answer that, I'd rather not hear your voice any longer, I can only handle it in five hour intervals."
Her foot releases from intensely driving him into the cement floor, and she kneels down to his level, taking his head in her hands. "Oh, and good news about hell– it's no arduous journey for you or I, in fact, we're already living in it. Hell, population of 2 plus an emotional support mutt. Please make yourself at home, this is your formal welcome, moron. My last real bag of confetti can be deployed upon request."
His head violently meets the ground for the last time.
He awakens, a majority of the sensations he felt in his last moments awake replaced by new feelings. For one, the low hum and hiss of machinery in the boiler room is replaced by the creaking of the wooden foundations of the house in the wind, and the scorching heat is now followed up by the winter chill permeating his thin limbs despite being surrounded by blankets and his dog. The only remnants of their quarrel was the ebbing away of the previously thundering headache, and he only recalls such an injury from the trail of dried blood leading from the hallway to his bed.
He had not a second thought towards his continued safety, he'd given up on that right after he surrendered to his dwindling sanity too. If he was going to go out, it wasn't going to be like the coward he's been so far, he thought to himself as he yanked the cardboard box from under the kitchen sink. He pops open a bottle of wine sitting on the counter, taking no intermediary steps to grab a glass of any kind and drinks it straight from the bottle as he cuts the box open, and subsequently the tip of his thumb– but that doesn't matter to him anymore.
He gets through the bottle with relative speed, clarity of thought improving as the headache is thrust to the back of his mind at this point. He unpacks the box with care, the contents being a couple of sage sticks, a handheld radio, and two extra special boxes he found hard to get a seller on. Before opening those hail mary passes to his plan, he dashes to the cupboard, flicking through his spice rack for the table salt.
As he sits back down at the dining room table, he takes the boxcutter to the first one, opening swiftly the box labeled 'The Cablegraph'. He had done his research on the matter, often the more modern talking boards were jumping on the trend the Ouija company began, but this secondhand horseshoe shaped device was used by experienced spirit mediums in its time, communicating with countless spirits before this one. He had a suspicion, a hunch more than anything, that this house will never be purged of its literal demon without getting past the proxy She is first, and if he can just pinpoint the best location for the wooden device to work, he might be able to do just that.
The second box was especially important to the plan, containing a well worn book of Latin incantations, and along with directions that come with the Cablegraph, he suspects that now he is as ready as he's ever been. He strikes a match and the clock starts for his plan, Wheatley suspects he's safe so long as the sage is burning. And so he descends down the spine of the house, the staircase leading to the bowls of the manor. He has the big box under one arm, and sage stick in another, tracing a path of relative safety wherever he wanders.
He cracks out the handheld radio, tuning it to no channel in particular, passing through the endless frequencies of music in his best attempt of a sweeping motion. He wanders seemingly aimlessly, and She watches from the shadow of the room, sizing up the frantic and heavily drunk (yet well composed) man. A break in the radio static indicates a strong signal of some kind, (surely down here that has to be paranormal– he's sure of it!) and so when he stumbles across it at the corner near the debris of the organ, he sets up camp cautiously where he sits. Placing the box on the floor, he traces a circle of salt surrounding his set up, the cablegraph in the middle, the radio to his left, latin book to his right, and sage sticks just above the communication board. If he could just get through to this demon and use one of the pages he casually bookmarked to banish them, he would be finally free. If not, he'd die fighting.
She stands in the corner, a deafening silence he had to break with his own voice. He follows the simple instructions of the cablegraph's booklet. "What's your name?" he stammers out, and a few moments later, the cablegraph shakily and quickly spells c-a-r-o-l-i-n-e, to which he groans in annoyance. "I'm asking again, mate, not a trick question or anything, just answering honestly is all I need. What's your name?"
"What makes you think He'll follow what you need?" she utters from the shaded corner, although her question comes across less snarky than usual, more akin to a warning than anything. It spells a new word regardless. M-o-l-o-c-h.
"That! That's a name, love. Don't you fucking question me when I'm getting somewhere," he scoffs at her in the corner. She seems to have her face flicking back and forth between 'livid' and 'concerned', as if waging an internal war with her own psyche. He pays her no attention though, his plan's most definitely working, but he needs to not get too big for his boots. Taking it easy and slowly is his best bet, in case he accidentally binds his soul to said demon himself. Moloch is a name he can go with for now, whether it's real or not.
He leaves through the book to his side, the flame on the first sage stick growing weak as he scans the pages for anything of use. With a thud, he slams the velvet green covered book shut, preparing to light another stick and go about his business, but a sharp pain now hits him in his chest, just behind his ribcage yet again. It's stronger this time around, threatening to leave the man unconscious on the basement floor, and suddenly his lungs scream for air.
The lighter refuses to spark in the corner, and his shuddering breaths grow more and more desperate as She seems to have made up Her internal mind and crosses the basement to meet him. "You are such a moron, aren't you? Just two words for you, carbon monoxide. Have fun with that one. I've made up my mind, and frankly I think I'm ready for a new tenant. You're not my usual victim, but you'll have to do for now."
He grabs a handful of salt, tossing it at the lady standing at his feet, but She's already crossed the line anyway, rendering his whole plan moot. He stumbles to his feet, trying to shove Her out of the way and make it to the stairs. She, however, has different plans, ushering his slowly weakening body further towards the boiler room, and he instinctively stumbles back into the heated chamber. White stars speckle the edges of his vision, and he collides roughly with the engraved wall. His trembling hand is the last to meet the floor, grasping fruitlessly at anything to bat away the incoming attacker, his instincts telling him to both take a deep breath and also breathe everything out immediately. With only a few minutes of lucidity left, his scrambling hand meets the cause of said gas leak, the compromised and detached boiler economiser now comes crashing down on the crumpled and feeble man.
The heavy tank crashes with less of a metallic clatter and more of a distinct crack, and Wheatley's breath stills momentarily. Now his lungs aren't taking orders from any section of his brain. No matter how hard he tries, they refuse to inflate. His previous wheezing and grunting is replaced by another deafening silence, and She's nowhere to be found at this point. No longer is the circulation the most suffocating thing in the room anymore, but the all encompassing darkness threatening to dim the lights on the world around him. It consumes his vision in an instant; one last twitch from his lips; his hand slips down from his crushed chest.
The last thing he properly feels is the dust from the toppled metal tank settling on his still open and dry eyes.
And she awakens with a sharp gasp, the sensations so vivid and real to her. Chell grasps at her chest, checking that all is as expected, the same as when she fell asleep, hoping that maybe he didn't perform CPR on her sleeping body in a state of complete confusion. When everything feels as she left it, she lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Every second, of every minute, of every hour of that dream was exactly as it must have felt for him. Despite feeling like she had slept for over a day, her body screams for more sleep, though after that dream she's not sure she could even close her eyes again without those haunting final moments all rushing back to her at once. It surely must be how he feels when remembering.
Chell thinks back, desperate to recall a vital part of that final day. She can remember the stupid repentance speech word for word after five hours of repetition, but the demon's name is on the tip of her tongue. She wasn't expecting so much vital information to come from that dream, although it's useless if she can't even remember one damn word. It started with 'M', I'm sure of it. Was it Melech? Like Adramelech I guess? One of those letters is wrong, it's just not quite right…
"Moloch," she whispers to herself. "Holy shit… that was useful."
She turns to the ghost beside her, his arms withdrawn from encasing her torso, and he stares absentmindedly at the ceiling. Really? After giving her that whole backstory, dragging himself back through the memories, all she could describe his torture with is the word useful? A heartless descriptor, devoid of compassion for the cowering and shivering man she just lived as briefly minutes prior. He's still in front of her too, his trauma stretching well beyond those final few hours she was allowed to witness.
She had treated him with callous intent, and in a similar way, Chell releases so too has she. To herself, he was nothing but an unconventional ally, a convenient and walking supernatural bodyguard. Perhaps maybe a friend or companion, albeit a bit of a fixer-upper, but she recognises now the tortured soul before her. He needs no fixing from some heroine swooping into his story, and he's not a sentient protection charm for her own safety. She doesn't really know what he needs, but she knows he's human, even if he can no longer biologically be considered as such. Perhaps she'll never really know what he needs, but she knows what she can offer, and what he will no doubt accept.
Currently, he might just need a hug.