#c. chell.

hap new! / @timetear. 

     chell is new to this— this … well, everything, really. it’s hard to continue traditions she can’t remember. it’s hard to find the things she loves when she can’t recall ever loving them. she can’t comment on ketchup, she can’t comment on mustard. she’s never read a book with her after-eyes (after, because it isn’t like she knows what came before) and, unless she finds something written entirely in binary, she certainly can’t manage it now.

     but wheatley is easy.

     he shouldn’t be, either. not with all of the awful things they went through. sometimes her fault, sometimes his. but maybe that’s it. maybe that’s the trick: they did it all together.

     the earth is greener than she’d imagined. cleaner, too. colder. none of it is familiar to her. she sits huddled next to wheatley, expelled breath turned foggy and white in the winter air, seeking warmth at his side. he runs hotter than any human she’s met so far. something with the processors, she thinks, or the circuitry sparking inside of his chest. so, she sits as close as she can.

     they’re finally out. free, boundless soil to explore. anywhere in the world, anywhere they want. the idea of going alone didn’t occur to her. and if it had— who would she go to? who could do better?

     anyone, glados might say, still too sharp.

     chell doesn’t want better. she doesn’t want different. she wants wheatley. imperfect, impractical, and warm against her side.

     even when he chatters on and on. he fills her silence, fills her hand with his, and reads her as keenly as anyone else might read book. who else?

     she squeezes his hand, a call that slows his tongue to half-silence.

     ‘ am i going on again? ’ wheatley asks. ‘ you can stop me anytime, you know. really. any time. just — ’ he cuts himself off with a laugh, almost nervous. as it always is. just squeeze my hand, is what he was going to say- is something he has said many times before and will likely say many times after.

     they aren’t alone, not distantly, not really. there are people scattered all around them, paces away at least and meters at most. there’s a hush on them all, a warmth and a weight in the silence that’s finally caught her notice.

     she squeezes his hand again. and this time he looks at her.

     a new year, she says, extricating the one hand and telling him once she has both free. she doesn’t understand the significance, not fully, but she thinks she likes the idea. something about freedom.

     the crowd is no longer silent, a rush of cheers rolling over them in the final snapping of a clock’s hand. he looks away, off toward the noise.

     she goes for his cheek, but then he’s turning again to say something, gleaming eyes and excitement in the wake of something new, something bright— so whatever it was finds itself smothered under the press of her mouth on his.

     and if she could laugh, she could, but he cracks and does it for her— a good laugh, a full laugh, a laugh that suggests he doesn’t mind the way things landed, either.

meme. surprise, being found without an article of clothing. / @timetear​. 

     chell remembers the rough and tumble of their escape. 

     she carries the marks to show for it, how couldn’t she? she is reminded daily, glimpses of the faint streaks of white and silver inlaid against her tan skin. and it isn’t that she minds them, really. most of them are topical. what’s more, she can read them as easily as binary, can recall every single failing, every single misstep that brought her here. in appearance alone, and all this time later, they seem as painless as a wash of errant freckles. 

     and it’s true, for the most part.

     the prosthetics, however, were never meant to be worn long-term. they were designed for temporary wear, to be undone and redone each time she reached the relaxation vault. glados’ directive had always been fluid, shifting to suit their own evolving whims. discomfort meant nothing if there was still use to be made of her. 

     she does not mind the latticework of incision scars left behind, necessarily, but there are days when her muscles ache and her bones seem to click and grind like long-neglected machinery. it is on those days that she leans her weight against walls, against railings, against the ever-solid and ever-warmth of wheatley. 

     oftentimes wheatley is the one to wake first, consistent and punctual. the only variance comes from chell’s own sleep cycle, as it is inconsistent and only mostly punctual. she prefers to wake second, to his careful entrances in her doorway. it is sometimes easier to resolve her limitations when she does not have to face them in the first place. 

     today, she wakes first. 

     when she swings her legs off her bed and stands, the pain greets her as a dull throb. she knows that it will grow sharper if she ignores it, knows that she will be worse for pushing it, and she is resigned to the knowledge that they won’t be exploring the wreckage of the laboratory. she knows she doesn’t need to leave her room, knows that wheatley will make his entrance eventually, but she has always been a stubborn thing. 

     when she reaches his door, she looks before she knocks. 

     he is already awake, blinking away the dregs of his buffering cycle, and, for a brief moment, unaware of her presence. it’s a rare occurrence for her to see him like this, and rarer still is his state of undress. he’s turned at an angle that leaves much of his backside revealed to her, a pale expanse of skin that contrasts sharply with the navy blue trousers that sit at his waist. 

     she forgets, sometimes, how completely unmarred he is. unblemished and unscarred, he is devoid of any lingering proof of their time below. she knows his processors are an incredible thing, unbelievably advanced technology in a compartment no larger than one’s fist. she can only imagine how detailed his memories must be, even without a visual roadmap of his own to remind him. and she wonders -- but then he’s pivoted, twisted to face her with the bright flash of a smile, and she has no time linger on her thoughts. 

     i think we deserve a morning off, she tells him, leaning heavily against his doorframe. maybe even an evening, too.