Work Text:
Monday, December 17, 1984
"So, Wheatley, are you going to participate in the company Secret Santa this year?"
Wheatley shifted his gaze from his computer screen and blinked over at his labmate, Hannah, who was at her station working on her robotics project. He gave her a tentative smile, not really sure why she was asking, though he saw no reason to lie. "I wasn't planning on it, no."
She quirked her head to the side and something warm and tingly inside of him quirked to the side as well. That was happening around her a lot more lately and he was really starting to wonder if maybe he should be seeing a doctor about it.
But he immediately forgot about writing a reminder to himself to make an appointment when she inquired further, "How come?"
"Oh, well, I just think it's a bunch of rubbish, really."
"Really, Wheatley?" she smirked, "Do I need to start calling you 'Grinch-ley' now?"
Wheatley frowned. "It's not like that. It's not that I don't like Christmas or anything - because I do! I mean, who doesn't like Christmas right? It's just that, well, every time I've participated in the past, I've always gotten a bunch of rubbish, you know?"
She gave him a questioning look. He liked that she did that - actively listened to him and responded to him, even when he was just complaining, rather than tuning him out or rolling her eyes at him the way a lot of other people did. Her engagement with him prompted him to elaborate.
"Like, the last time I participated, at my last job, this girl who worked in my department gave me a paperweight. Yeah! A paperweight, if you can believe it! It wasn't even something that was on my list! Useless. I mean, what kind of person gives someone a paperweight as a gift, huh? A bloody moron, I'll tell you, that's who." Wheatley paused, taking a quick sip of coffee from his mug. "And it was a paperweight of Big Ben - you know, the big clock tower in London. Like, is that supposed to be an insult or something, because I'm British?"
"Oh," said Hannah, softly, looking down, "I'm sure it wasn't meant as an insult. Maybe it just reminded her of you, maybe because you're really tall and particularly good at telling time?"
"Oh, right," Wheatley snorted, but then doubled back when he saw patches of red blossoming on Hannah's cheeks. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sure she meant well and all, although she could have just gotten something directly off my list. Would have been easier for all of us, anyway. But um, anyway, like I was saying, I've never gotten anything good out of it, so- so I just gave up on it. That's all."
"I'm sorry," she muttered. There was a beat of silence between them in which Hannah focused extra hard on what she was doing and Wheatley observed her. He had the distinct impression that he had just done something wrong - upset her somehow - and that he had to fix it. But before he could figure any of that out, she said, "I've never participated before - I've always been too busy. But this time, I was kind of wanting to."
While his brain was still scrambling for solutions, Wheatley's mouth beat it to the punch, "I'll participate with you!"
Hannah looked up, her eyes reflecting amusement and something else Wheatley had yet to identify. "You will?"
"I mean, y-yeah, sure. Sure, I'll do it for you," he stammered, feeling flustered and wondering what the heck he was thinking, "For- I mean, as friends, as your friend, I'll do it. You said you've never participated before, so why not let's do it together? I mean, what's the worst that could happen - I get another paperweight?" He offered her his best grin as well as a small chuckle, hoping that would undo the damage he had unwittingly caused.
It seemed to work because she smiled back. "Maybe we'll get each other."
At that, Wheatley's grin softened into a more sincere one. "Yeah, wouldn't that be ironic and predictable? And funny, of course."
Tuesday, December 18, 1984
This is ironic and predictable! And not the least bit funny! Wheatley's thoughts ran a full marathon as he stared at the slip of paper in his hands.
Secret Santa Questionnaire
Name: Hannah Stella
A few of my favorite things...
Color: Pink
Candy: Skittles
Snack: Extra buttery popcorn
Drink: Lemonade
Scent: Any gentle, sweet smell, like vanilla or freshly-baked goods
Restaurants: Anyplace with good pasta or seafood
Places to Shop: None in particular, the supermarket or a hobby store
Hobbies: Drawing and writing fiction whenever I am not working on robotics!
Oh, bloody hell, how could this happen? How could this happen?! What was he going to do? What was he going to-
"Oooh, who'd you get?" asked Hannah as she leaned over him as if trying to get a peek for herself.
"Nobody!" he immediately blurted, pulling away from her and crumpling the paper and shoving it into his pocket, eyes darting everywhere, looking at anything but her face. He then hurried to amend, "I mean, somebody, somebody of course, it has to be somebody, doesn't it? Yep, that is definitely somebody, some person from around here who I will have to get a gift for. Ahem. Who'd you get?"
"Well, if you aren't going to tell me who you got, why should I tell you who I got?" she teased in response.
Wheatley drooped in his chair. "Fair enough, fair enough. But I bet the person you got will be way easier than the one I got."
"What, did you get Cave Johnson himself or something?" she chuckled.
"Oh, believe me," he sighed, feeling panicked and distraught and about a hundred other things that left him barely able to function to the point where he just wanted to slump down onto the table and stay there until the cows came home, "I'd prefer to have gotten him."
Later that evening, after he had returned to his on-site Aperture dorm, Wheatley could be found performing actual marathons by pacing around his little space.
"Oh, God, how could this happen?! Why did I have to get her?" he cried, flailing his arms and gesticulating as if he had an actual audience to exhaust with it all. "I can't get her exactly what she asked for - then it would look like I didn't put any thought into it! And then what kind of friend would that make me, huh? Just some boring rubbish guy - a, a, a colleague - who can't even use his own brain to come up with something nice for his friend. But what could I get her? What does she even like? Oh God, if I can't find something nice enough for her, I'm going to have to ask to switch labs. I can't show my face around her every day if I get her something crummy! Or what if she doesn't want to show her face around me anymore because she hates what I got her? That's it, I'm going to have to leave Aperture and find a new job! My life is over!" He paused in his restless pacing, wove his fingers through his hair, and gave a good, frustrated tug. "This is exactly why I didn't want to sign up for this bloody thing! Well, okay, fair enough, it's not the exact reason, but it's an unforeseen reason that is still reason enough! What am I going to do?!"
He huffed, released his hair, and looked off to the side, his eyes landing on the plain, tan-colored, Trimline telephone sitting there on his bedside table. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was snatching up the phone, punching in a series of numbers, and waiting while it rang, worrying his bottom lip through the whole process.
A sweet, airy voice came on the line, "Pendleton residence, this is Gloria speaking."
"Hi, Mum, it's me."
"Wheatley? Why, we just spoke the other-"
"I know, I'm sorry, but it's an emergency. I promise, I'll pay you back for the cost of this call. I'll wire the money to you tomorrow if you like-"
"Oh, dear, what's happened? Tell me what and I'll fly over there immediately-"
"Nononono, it's nothing like that, everything's okay and I'm still coming to visit," he said, sighing. "I, um, I need your help, actually. What sort of things do women like?"
There was a short pause in which Wheatley sat down on his bed before springing back up, unable to sit still for very long.
"Now that's a strange question even for you, dear," said his mother, sounding a bit perplexed. "What exactly do you mean by it?"
"Erm, you know, women, right? Like, adult women? What sort of things do they like?"
"Things? How do you mean - things?"
"You know - things. As in objects. Like as gifts."
"I'm not quite sure what you're getting at there. Why would you be asking-" And then the confusion switched alarmingly fast over to joy: "Ohhh, Wheatley, dear, I'm so happy for you!"
Wheatley blinked. "Uh, well, thanks, I'm happy for me, too?"
"So who is she? What's her name? Tell me all about her, dear."
"Uh-.. Well, she's a colleague. We actually work in the same lab together. Her name's Hannah and she's- she's-" Wheatley felt his face heating up as he struggled to describe her. "-she's very nice, very, um, womanly - which, you see, is why I'm calling-"
"Hannah! She sounds lovely! I'm so happy to hear you've finally moved on from - oh, I forget her name, but what's that matter? You have a new girlfriend now and I'm so happy for you! Will you be bringing her home for Christmas so I can meet her?"
"Girlfr- excuse me, girlfriend?!" Wheatley spluttered before letting out a yelp as he tripped over the telephone cord, dropped the handset, and nearly ripped the whole thing out of the wall in the process, while he hit the floor, hard, knocking the wind out of him.
Breathless, and while acquiring some slight rugburn on both of his elbows, he scrambled to pick the phone back up just in time to hear, "-over there? I heard a noise-"
"She's not my girlfriend!" he nearly shouted as he fumbled with the cord, trying to untangle it from around his ankles and nearly yanking it out of his hands again. "She's a-.. well, I mean, she is a girl and she is a friend, but like I said, she's my colleague. Lab partner. We work in the same lab, that is. And that's it, that's all there is. I just got her as my-"
"Oh I'll bet she's lovely, dear, just lovely. A smart lady for a smart young man. I'll be sure to make extra pudding for our guest."
"But it's like I said, she isn't my- my girlfriend, she's a girl I work with - and yes, I do like her - as a friend, I mean! But... she's a very nice person and I just wanted to get her something nice, that's all."
"Well it sounds to me as if you really have a crush on this girl, luv."
The red in Wheatley's face deepened another shade and his lungs felt like a boa constrictor was coiled around them. "A crush? I don't-"
"You know what I think? I think you should invite her over for Christmas anyway, even if things between you aren't official yet. This could be the little nudge that is needed-"
"Ah, you know what? I, um, I didn't catch what you were saying there," he interrupted, looking around quickly for something to use to distract his mother and get out of this mess.
"I said-"
"Sorry, you're breaking up!" he said and snatched the notepad from off his bedside table. He ripped off a single sheet of paper and began crumpling it right in front of the receiver. "I can't understand what you're saying. Argh, bloody AT&T and their shoddy long distance connections."
"What?"
The rustling intensified. "I said you're breaking up!"
"Breaking up? But you just got together and I haven't even met her yet, don't go making hasty-"
"Sorry, I really can't hear you! I'll try calling again later! Bye!"
And with that, Wheatley hung up the phone and sat there for a few seconds, racking his brain on what the hell had just happened there. Why in the name of David Bowie did he think that was a good idea? Calling his mother. Honestly. That whole hullabaloo had solved precisely none of his problem. All he had gotten out of it was a spike in his blood pressure and still no ideas what to get Hannah.
And- girlfriend? What was his mother thinking? It was just as he had said - she was a girl and she was his friend, but girlfriend? Wheatley thought it was feeling rather hot in his room, prompting him to get up and check the thermostat, though he didn't know why he should be feeling so flustered by his mother's incorrect assumptions. Hannah was just a friend, his very pretty, very smart, very kind, very charismatic friend, who he very much wouldn't mind bringing home for Christmas, even if it meant exposing her to his mother, even if his mother made a fairly decent pudding.
Wheatley groaned. This, he realized, must be why some people hated the holidays.
Wednesday, December 19, 1984
"All right there, Wheatley?"
Wheatley lifted his head up from the table in the break room and regarded his coworker, Simmons, with a glazed-over, malaised stare. The man had been standing there for several minutes, flipping through a Sears catalogue while he waited for his coffee to brew, but until that moment Wheatley had not paid him any mind.
"No..." he replied, listless, before putting his head back down. "I think I'm coming down with something."
"Ah, sorry to hear that," said Simmons, not really sounding all that sorry, though Wheatley didn't particularly care at that moment either. He had bigger fish to fry. Actually, he wished all he had to do was fry up some fish, because that would be a whole lot simpler, even if he always ended up with soggy fish at the end.
At that moment, the coffee maker signaled that its brew was finished, regaining the other man's attention. He tossed the catalogue down onto the table, eliciting a flinch from Wheatley, and went to tend to the fresh brew. Normally the smell of coffee alone would be enough to perk up Wheatley, but in this case he just sat there, slumped over the table like soggy fried fish, listening to the sounds of the other man pouring coffee into his cup, the ripping of sugar packets, and the light sloshing as it was stirred around.
"Well, hope you feel better," his coworker called over his shoulder before taking his leave.
"Right, you too. I mean, you- whatever," Wheatley mumbled, trailing off as the other man had already walked out of earshot. It didn't matter. The time of the gift exchange was drawing nearer and he still had no idea what to get Hannah, so nothing mattered anymore. Not any of his projects, not the Christmas holiday itself, not coffee, not even getting to see the newest episode of The Golden Girls.
Maybe he should just get her something straight off her list - head to K-Mart and pick up some Skittles, some popcorn, and some lemonade and call it a day. But nothing about that idea sat right with him. He wanted to do something really nice for her, something truly special because she was truly special and he wanted to make sure she knew it.
With a groan, Wheatley absently reached out for the discarded catalogue, slapping a hand down on it and dragging it over to him. He turned his head sideways, cheek pressed against the cool table, observed the cover with weary eyes, and... bolted upright in his chair. He beamed as he drank in the words printed right there on the front, bold and crisp and clear like a beacon in the darkest of nights:
Looking for something truly special for a truly special someone? Come browse our new Truly Special seasonal collection!
This place sure looked like it would do the trick, he thought as he browsed through all the shiny, sparkly merchandise behind the glass display cases.
Jewelry. It was almost too simple. All women liked jewelry, right? Well, they must - most of them at any place he had ever worked were wearing some piece of jewelry or another, and all those ads in the catalogue seemed convincing enough. He never saw Hannah wearing any pieces, but maybe that was because she had nothing nice enough to wear, or nobody had ever given her anything nice before. Well, he would change that, yep, he certainly would. He would pick her out the shiniest, sparkliest piece of them all and present it to her on a satin pillow. Of course he'd also have to find and purchase a satin pillow first, but he wouldn't let that deter him, nope. This was his idea and he was sticking to it.
A store associate suddenly appeared at his side, coming from straight up out of the floor for all that he had been paying attention. "Can I help you find anything in particular, sir?"
Wheatley flinched, and then gave a tentative smile. "I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for, if I'm honest. You see, I have a very special lady friend who I was looking to give something quite nice to, and, um, well I'm- I'm honestly not sure what she might like."
The associate brightened, her teeth so perfectly straight and white Wheatley wondered if they were real. "You've come to the right place, then. I think I know just what you're looking for. If you'll follow me over here, I'll help you select the perfect ring for her."
"A ring?" Wheatley echoed, lips curved into a faint, dreamy smile as he followed her. "Oh, that could be nice, she does have lovely hands. Well, I mean, the rest of her is lovely, too, to be honest." His face grew hot again. "A-At least I'm sure it is, not that I've seen all of-"
The associate blinked at him with that same, customer-friendly smile, although she now appeared to be a bit flustered herself.
"Ah, you know what, you were- you were showing me something, weren't you, Miss? A ring, that is?"
"Yes," she said, gesturing to a cabinet full of rings that to Wheatley looked nearly all the same, "These here are our best engagement rings."
"Oh! These are nice, very nice, very- very engaging, as you said. But I'm not really sure which one she'd like."
"You could always come back with her so she can pick one out herself - that way, you're guaranteed to get one that she will like."
Wheatley pulled his lips into a thin, flat line, baffled by the suggestion. "But it's supposed to be a surprise..."
"Well, what is she like?" the associate inquired, not to be deterred.
"She's, ah, she's... well, she's a little short, but- well, I suppose everyone is short in comparison to me, so that's a bit pointless of me to say, isn't it?" He gave a short laugh - the associate giving him a conciliatory chuckle as well - and went on, "But really, she's a very nice person, very smart, and... and I think she has a big mind, like she's always coming up with brilliant ideas, the best ideas, unlike me - seriously, she's going to change the world, I swear - and she's just- she's just good, you know? A good person."
While he had been elaborating, the associate had pulled out a tray of rings to present to him. As he finished speaking, he leaned down to inspect them. Most of them, again, looked the same to him, but that didn't make them any less shiny or sparkly or pretty. Still, there was no way he would be able to just pick one for her. Then again, maybe that's all he had to do. Maybe he could just close his eyes and the planets would align and by the will of the universe he would pick out the best one.
"Have you set the date yet?"
Wheatley blanched, caught off guard and overcome by a sudden case of vertigo, and just about knocked over the entire tray when he pressed his hand against the top of the glass case to balance himself.
"Date? Excuse me, d- What do you mean by 'date'? Nobody said anything about a date!"
The associate now looked a bit wary and moved to retrieve the tray from his immediate vicinity. She said, "The wedding date, sir," her voice having lost its edge of patience, though still with that forced friendliness all customer service employees used. The smile, now, was definitely more forced as well.
"...Wedding? What wedding?"
The smile faltered. "You are here to pick out a ring for your fiancé, aren't you?"
"What?! No!" he spazzed, and this time, in an effort to back away quickly from the perceived threat and despite the associate's best efforts of getting out of the way in time, he did knock into the tray of rings, sending them all over the floor in a sparkly, shiny rain of gold and diamonds. And while all this was going on: "She's not my-! We aren't-! Why is everyone-?! She's just a friend! A colleague! We aren't getting married! It's nothing like that at all! I'm- She- WE'RE JUST FRIENDS!"
Wheatley fled the scene, the bell on the door jangling in annoyance after him, leaving a very nonplussed associate and a floor littered with engagement rings in his wake.
Thursday, December 20, 1984
Wheatley was miserable. Absolutely, totally, unequivocally miserable. He had one day left to pick out a gift. Just one day - today, as the gift exchange was tomorrow. He felt like he may as well be on death row for all the hope he had in the world at that moment. There wasn't even any point in going into work, but alas, there was science to do and he had bills to pay, and so he dragged himself in.
He entered the lab he shared with Hannah with the haggard look of a man who relived his worst memories every night while sleeping. The subject of his forlorn appearance was already there in the lab, working on her project, although when she looked up and saw him, she immediately stopped what she was doing.
"Wheatley?" she said, aghast, staring at him from across their shared workspace. "What on earth- Are you okay?"
"Yeah..." he replied, giving her a lackadaisical thumbs-up before flopping down into his chair, "Why? Do I not look it?"
"No, you look like something the cat dragged in."
"We have a cat?"
Hannah narrowed her eyes at him. "...Have you had any coffee yet this morning?"
Wheatley's only response was to shake his head before putting it down on his desk while he waited for his computer to boot up.
Hannah pressed her lips together and gave him a good, long, hard look. She then said, "I'll be right back," and left without any further explanation.
Wheatley just sat there, feeling miserable. Maybe this was what he deserved. He deserved to feel this way because he never tried to do better - not for someone else, anyway. He was always focusing on himself and how he could make his life better - that was what his ex had told him - right? - before she broke up with him: That he was too focused on what he wanted to do, what he got out of something, and not focused enough on her, or rather, not focused enough on their relationship and others in general. He had his head far up in the clouds. None of his ideas and inventions ever worked out, he had to accept that. Maybe one day would be the right time for him to show the world what he had to offer, but at that moment he had to focus on the here and now, put his skills to good use and resign himself to working for someone else to help them build their ideas and inventions. He had tried his best, but it was time to move on. He had become so bitter over it, looking for work, wrapped up in his own self-loathing over it all that he had neglected her, blamed her for telling him what he needed to hear but didn't want to hear. And now here he was, 761 days later, in the same boat.
But here, now, with Hannah - even if he wasn't with her - he wanted to do better. For her. Because of her. And yet he was failing at that, too. Everything he ever did came out wrong, so maybe he had the right idea by putting his head down and giving up.
"Here, I think you should drink this, stat, otherwise I might have to call a janitor down here to clean you up off the floor."
Wheatley looked up to see Hannah standing over him, one hand placed gently, warmly on his back and the other proffering a mug of coffee. He flushed and sat up, accepting the coffee and mumbling a quiet thanks.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Hannah asked, seeming genuinely concerned. "Maybe you should call out for the day or something."
Wheatley felt touched - he really, truly did - but he really didn't like the idea that he was causing her to worry. "No, no I can't do that, lots of work to do," he sighed. He offered her his best placating smile, took a sip from his mug, and perked up. The warmth of it suffused through his body, beckoning him to draw more from the mug. "Hey. Hey this is a really good cup of coffee."
Hannah, who had gone back over to her side of the lab, smiled over at him. "I know. Hazelnut creamer and two sugars."
"H-How did you know that?"
She shrugged. "I just noticed the way you always prepare your coffee. You have this methodical way of making it - one packet of sugar, stir, second packet, stir, creamer, stir, little bit more creamer, stir. Same way every time - it's not hard to remember."
"You're very observant," he said, feeling better already. And then he went and dashed all those good feelings by asking, "Hey, you know the Secret Santa thing?"
"Yeah?"
"How, um-.. How have you been getting on with it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, how did you know what to get your person?"
Hannah chuckled. "I just got them what they asked for on their list - that's the whole point of it, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah, but..." Wheatley hesitated. He peered into his mug, staring at the reflection of the overhead lights in the dark liquid before continuing. "What if you got someone special? Like... someone you really admire?"
Hannah paused what she was doing and looked thoughtful. "Well. You could always get them what they asked for for the gift exchange, and then something extra that you thought of yourself."
Wheatley glanced up at her, watching her as surreptitiously as he could without flat-out staring. He rather liked watching her - the way she moved, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke, and her hands, so small and delicate, yet able to create and assemble such wonderful things. He admired her probably more than anyone he had ever admired before, drawn to her like the moon is to Earth, as they had joked about before.
He cleared his throat. "Like what?"
"I don't know," she shrugged, "maybe something that reminds you of them, or will remind them of you. Something so that every time they look at it, they will think of you."
Anxiety flared up inside of him. "What if they don't like it?"
"That will be on them, then. Hey," she said, a little more shortly than normal, leaving him no choice but to look solely at her. "Seriously, it'll be okay. Don't overthink it. You'll know it when you see it. I believe in you." Hannah's smile softened and Wheatley felt his insides soften too. "So," she started, giving a funny little wiggle with her eyebrows, "who is this really special person?"
Under any other circumstance, her antics would have made Wheatley smile. Instead, Wheatley coughed and stooped over his work, avoiding eye contact, "Cave Johnson."
Later that evening, after work, Wheatley found himself tangled up in a crowd of frantic, mall-going, holiday shoppers, feeling utterly defeated. He was all out of ideas at this point - not that he had had many to begin with - and figured maybe she was right, he should just get something from off her list. At this rate, the best he could hope for was to find a pink gift basket containing Skittles, popcorn, lemonade, a cupcake-scented candle, a bowl of seafood pasta, and a hobby store gift certificate with it. That would at least make his life a whole lot easier. At least then it would have everything she liked in it. And as for that extra special something for she who was extra special to him? Well... he had no idea.
He had already browsed through just about every store in the shopping mall, going through them with a fine-toothed comb - Macy's, JCPenney, Montgomery Ward, a new shop called Victoria's Secret (he had initially gone in there searching for something fragrant that could cover the "sweet smell" request on Hannah's list, and had instead turned himself out almost immediately, red-faced after a store associate offered to help him find something special for his lady friend by showing him some of Victoria's Not-So-Secrets), and a menagerie of smaller, not as prolific shops along the way.
Towards the end of the night, he was able to check off a good deal of the items, all except for the last one - something for her to use for drawing or writing her fiction. A good, sturdy notebook ought to do the trick, and there was no better shop than Waldenbooks for such a necessity - according to some of the ads he'd seen, anyway.
He shuffled into the bookstore, located the notebooks, picked one out for her - a pink zebra-striped one that came packaged with a matching pen - and was just about to turn and leave when he saw it. It was sitting there on the shelf, almost innocently, except that Wheatley's eye was drawn to it like a moth to a porch light. To him, it stood out more than anything else not only on the shelf, but anything else he had seen or considered so far during this whole debacle. It would be perfect, every bit as so as the person he would be giving it to.
His eyes nearly aglow with joy, he scooped up the piece and took it to the register where he waited, starry-eyed, while the cashier rang him up.
"Would you like these gift-wrapped, sir?" the cashier prompted.
"Huh? Oh, sure, sure, I suppose, if that's what people normally do with these sorts of things - which, ha, of course they do, it being that time of year and all and with this being a gift. So yes, please, giftwrap it. Not the notebook, though, just the- the other one, thank you."
The cashier handed the piece off to a young woman stationed along the back counter, whose sole purpose for being there was to giftwrap items upon the customer's request. While Wheatley was busy paying, the young woman placed it in a smallish, perfectly cubic black box and tied it off with a nice, neat, red bow. It looked really nice, Wheatley thought - perfect, even - much better than if he had attempted to giftwrap it himself, which probably would have just been a box layered in an entire roll of Scotch tape.
The treasured item back in his possession, Wheatley beamed as he exited the crowded mall, climbed into his car, and made his way back to his little dormitory at Aperture Labs, feeling accomplished and rather on top of the world. He had the perfect gift, he was sure of it. And for the first time in that entire week, he slept peacefully.
Friday, December 21, 1984
On the day of the gift exchange, Wheatley decided to put on his best, which was really just the same suit he always wore under his lab coat but with the addition of a blue bowtie - it really brought out his eyes, his mother had once told him - and made sure to carefully comb through his hair and sprinkle on a nice cologne that hopefully did not make him smell like an old man but rather a distinguished gentleman. He sneaked into the lunchroom, deposited on the gift table the pink bag with her name written on it, and went about the rest of his day, feeling like nothing could possibly go wrong, even managing to keep up a regular rapport with his labmate.
Later, though, when the entire robotics department gathered in the lunchroom for the gift exchange, all that anxiety from the rest of the week came rushing back. As they called out names, alphabetically, for each recipient to come forward and open their gift, his thoughts raced, pulling him every which way and leaving him a nervous, trembly mess.
What if she didn't like what he had gotten her? No, of course she would like it. Why wouldn't she? It was all things she had put on her list. But what about the last item? The special one? He stuck his hand into the inner pocket of his lab coat, fingers brushing the little black box that now felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. If she didn't like it, he decided right then and there that he was going to go to HR and seek a transfer to another lab. He had no idea what he would say when they asked him why - he supposed he would just have to wing it - all he knew was that if they didn't let him transfer, then he'd just flat out quit. On the spot. Just like that. Then he'd pull together all of his savings and fly back home to his mother, where he'd live out the rest of his days in her spare bedroom, consuming copious amounts of coffee, alcohol, and crisps, whatever it took to dull the pain of his miserable failure of a life.
He curled his fingers around the box, grasping it tightly, using it to ground himself as he watched each of his team members receive their gifts.
When he was called forward, he was full of so much anxiety he forgot what he had even put on his list for his Secret Santa. Maybe a new mug? Something about David Bowie? He pulled at the wrapping around the box and fought the urge to frown. Whatever he had put on his list, he immediately knew it wasn't a bloody Chia Pet, of all things. Great, something he would have to try to keep alive and was one of the most common gimmicky gifts around. Additionally, whoever his Secret Santa was didn't bother coming forward, as though they too were embarrassed by the crap gift.
Whatever. Deep down he had expected as much. Besides, his real reason for being there at all was Hannah. After all, he never would have participated anyway were it not for her. He forced a tight smile, gave a short "thanks" to the whole crowd, and stepped back to watch the next person go.
When it was Hannah's turn, Wheatley's stomach did somersaults. He watched while she picked the bag with her name on it off the table and pulled each of the items out, one by one, smiling and giggling like it was the first time she had ever received a gift in her life. For all Wheatley knew, that could be the case, which to him made it extra important that he give her the special gift here, now, in front of everybody. He felt warmth and excitement flood through him.
The next person was called over, but Wheatley nervously interrupted, "Sorry, sorry, just- I have one more gift for Hannah, something extra for my friend."
Hannah, along with nearly everyone else, looked shocked. As he made his way over to her, he pulled the box out from the inner pocket of his lab coat. Her eyes flickered from his face to the box - that small, black box with the nice, red ribbon - back and forth, setting his heart aflutter.
"Hannah, I- I know this is a bit, um, unorthodox, but- ack!" Wheatley stammered, and then proceeded to trip over his own feet. Down he went, nearly dropping the precious box in the process. "Sorry, sorry! Sorry, about that!" he said, feeling as if there was a live fire breathing beneath his skin, making it so that the cold floor actually felt kind of nice. On any other day he might have just stayed down there until he cooled off. Instead, he picked himself up off the floor, rising first onto one knee, and presented the box to her in his outstretched hands - "H-Here you go, sorry about that!" - eliciting a collective gasp from the rest of the room, interspersed with a few giggles, which Wheatley worked very hard to ignore. So he had tripped and fallen down. Big deal - plenty of people did that, especially with there being so much to be tripped on around this place, such as the perfectly-level, tiled floor.
In spite of himself, Wheatley flushed. So did Hannah, as if she was embarrassed for him. Either that or she was embarrassed for what he had just given her. She opened the box, trembling, and then her forehead crumpled. She looked confused as she blinked at the extra gift from where it sat in its box, as if she had been expecting something else altogether. He was still down on the floor, on one knee, but even from this vantage he could see her eyes, and he was petrified to realize that he could not identify what she might be thinking in that moment. The look told him nothing, and yet it told him everything.
"Wheatley, I-I-I-..." she whispered.
Shaking, lips pressed hard together, not wanting to hear her criticism or rejection, Wheatley blurted, "I'm sorry!" before scrambling up the rest of the way and bolting from the room.
"Should have bloody seen this coming. Should have just bloody stuck with the bloody gift basket idea and left it at that. Should have just- OW!"
Wheatley pulled his hand out from his desk in a hurry and blinked at his fingertip, from which a pinprick of blood emerged, and stuck it into his mouth. He yanked the drawer open further to reveal the offender - a thumbtack that had come out of its package and had been sitting around freely, waiting to poke someone's finger.
Wheatley narrowed his eyes at it.
"Bloody thumbtack!" he growled, throwing it into the trash - on top of the Chia Pet he had already tossed in - before moving onto the next drawer, ripping it out of its track and upending it over a box packed with his stuff. He gave the drawer a forceful shake for good measure, more supplies tumbling out - some landing on the floor, some in the box, he didn't care - incensed and taking it out on whatever came within his reach. "Who the hell thought those things were a bright idea to invent anyway, huh? Bloody things could kill someone!"
And that was where Hannah came in.
"Wheatley? What are you doing?"
Wheatley faltered, dropping the now empty drawer onto the floor. "Hannah- Um..." he trailed off without providing any further explanation. Instead, he stooped to retrieve the poor, abused drawer, spending an inordinate amount of time doing so in the hopes of avoiding any further contact with his labmate. Though, of course, he knew that was futile at this point.
"What's going on? Why are you packing?" she asked, clearly confused. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Going some- Ah, no, no, not going anywhere- Well, I suppose, um, well, I, uh, I figured, ahm, you probably- um- ugh," he gave up, hung his head, and then stood. "Look, I'm sorry but- but I just don't think I can work around you anymore."
Hannah's eyebrows knit together even more. "What are you talking about?" She looked and sounded every bit as hurt as he was.
Wheatley's entire face contorted, like he was in pain - and he was, really was in pain, a deep, searing pain that had been cut into him over and over, after every failure, leaving him feeling raw and more than a bit rabid. He couldn't control it. He had even less control over his mouth as words of pure vitriol came pouring out of him, "I'm, I'm sorry for the crap gift, I tried my best, I really did, and I'm sorry it wasn't good enough. Nothing I do ever is. I should have known not to try to think outside of the box - or, well, inside the box, I suppose, seeing as it was packaged- You know what, I never should have let you talk me into this. I've always been rubbish at this sort of thing and this is precisely why- one of the reasons, let's be honest, one of the reasons why I didn't want to participate in the whole Secret Santa thing. I knew I'd bugger it up somehow, just knew it, but you were just so, so-" He huffed. "Go on, then - go on and get it over with, laugh at me and call me a moron and tell me you never want to see me again."
Wheatley chanced a glance at her and saw that her mouth was hanging open. She seemed... stunned, hurt, concerned, but not at all about to laugh at him. The knife inside of him twisted at that look, piercing him further and draining out all of his anger; he immediately regretted everything he had just said.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any of that," he mumbled.
"Where is all this coming from?" she said, approaching him cautiously, stopping at the edge of his desk and setting down the bag of gifts he had given her. "Because you think I hate the gifts you gave me?"
Wheatley fidgeted with a paperclip that had fallen outside of the box and looked away, unable to meet her gaze. This coupled with his lack of response must have been enough to act as a confirmation for her.
She gently said, "I love the gifts you gave me - all of them - especially the paperweight."
He looked up sharply, nearly making himself dizzy from the motion, eyes wide. "You do?"
"Of course I do, Moon-ley," she grinned, pulling the paperweight in question out of the bag - a replica of the earth's moon, detailed with its signature pockmarks and shades of gray and fitting perfectly into the palm of her hand. "It's so cute! I just love all the details on it. And it's useful."
"It- It is? Well, I mean, it's not like we get a lot of drafts around here or anything, and- and you're always writing in spiral-bound notebooks, not exactly like those can get blown away-"
"I think it's useful. And I can tell you put a lot of thought into it."
"Oh," Wheatley said, flushing, "Well, I-I didn't really, I just sort of saw it sitting up on this shelf, yeah, but it- it- it really called out to me, right? I instantly thought of you when I saw it and thought, 'Ohhh, she's gonna love this!' and so I had to get it. There really wasn't much thought in it other than that - that it made me think of you, that is."
"And that's why I love it!" she said, her eyes bright and sincere, "It's so thoughtful. It's so you."
Wheatley watched as she moved over to her side of the lab and deposited the little moon paperweight next to her computer monitor. He still felt uneasy. While she had said she liked it - and certainly seemed like she did - there was still something inside of him that didn't believe her.
"Are you, are you sure you really like it? You aren't just saying that to spare my feelings? I mean, it's okay if you don't - honestly. If you really don't like it, if you really can't find any use for it, well, you can always use it to chuck it at my head. Or anyone's, really, doesn't have to be my head specifically..."
"I won't be chucking it at your head," she tittered. "Or anyone else's. Wouldn't want to go damaging it, would I?"
Wheatley wanted to laugh with her, but he couldn't.
"It's just that-" he hesitated, "I mean, back there, you didn't really seem, um- all that- that is, you didn't seem like you liked it much."
"Oh. That," said Hannah, her cheeks suddenly filling in with color in a way Wheatley would have found quite fetching, were it not for the more serious subject at hand. "I was just a bit surprised, that's all. Flustered."
"Flustered?"
"Yeah, the way you brought it over, for a second, I thought you were-" She then shook her head, turning away and repositioning the paperweight on her desk perhaps in an attempt to distract Wheatley from the fact that she was blushing even more now. He noticed, though, and felt his pulse jump as well, although he felt like there was something he was missing, or misunderstanding. He might have even worked up the courage to ask her to spell it out for him, but then she looked back at him and gave him the kind of smile that filled him with warm, skittery butterflies. "You know what, I don't know what I was thinking. I was just surprised. Really, I mean it. Thank you."
"All right. Well- y-you're welcome, then."
"So, are we still friends?"
"Yeah, of course... friends."
"And you aren't going to be... leaving or whatever it was you were planning on doing?"
"No. No, I'm staying, heh. Wouldn't dream of leaving. Stuck within your orbit and all."
"Then come on, I'll help you with this mess," she said, and began unpacking his box. She handed the supplies to him, where he began putting them back into their proper places.
"Sorry about all this," he said, feeling deeply ashamed.
"It's okay. I think there were just a few misunderstandings. No big deal. Hey."
Wheatley stopped what he was doing and blinked at her. Before he had any chance to react, her arms were around him, pulling him against her tightly. Well that set all the butterflies tickling through him all over again, but it wasn't unpleasant, not at all. He felt as high as the moon, actually.
"Merry Christmas, Wheatley."
He smiled, breathing in her closeness. "Merry Christmas, Hannah."