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“Agh– no! Dammit, God... N-not that I’m not happy to see you! Of course I am! I just ... thought you wouldn’t be back ... until later.”
That certainly wasn’t a greeting Chell usually met on her way through the door. Typically Wheatley’s eyes would light up, inflating with delight and, sometimes, relief, as he lifted his gaze from whatever he’d been doing. And then the corners of his lips would follow in that dazzling, toothy grin, and he’d open his mouth with the cheeriest “Hullo!”. He’d watch her for a moment, like he had no intention of moving. And then he’d remember his legs and stand so that he could welcome her properly. Wheatley would envelop her in a short hug, or perhaps offer a kiss to her temple. Or he’d take what she held in her hands, ridding her of burdens.
That was their routine. And, quite frankly, Chell missed it now, having been expectant of it, disgruntled and damp as she gripped her sopping purse. The files inside were doubtless ruined. She’d been angered by that earlier, but now her concern landed on her tall, lanky, clearly bothered partner standing in their kitchen twenty feet away.
Wheatley didn’t seem to have noticed her current state. He appeared preoccupied with an urge to bang his head against the wall.
“I– ugh, well, cat’s out of the bag now, I s’pose,” he said gruffly. Wheatley gestured to the table in front of him with a wave of his arm. Chell’s confusion only increased as she noted the several glass cups poised in a line before him. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about them from where she stood. Chell stared at Wheatley for a second, waiting for him to elaborate, but he avoided her gaze, glaring at the glasses like they’d offended him. Huffing silently, Chell moved to take her coat off.
“I mean, it’s not the end of the world. I was going to show you eventually anyhow, so it’ll do, but I’d meant for more time– OH!”
Chell spun around at his sudden outburst, coat in hand.
Wheatley gaped at her. He stuttered, stopped, then traversed the room in great, heavy strides, reaching with both hands. One of them was closed around something. “I– I didn’t notice...” He took her bag and placed it on the carpet beside them. When he turned back, he fiddled with the trinket he’d been holding before tossing it onto the couch behind him.
Chell watched as it reflected light from the ceiling lamp, but she didn’t see what it was.
Wheatley went to grab a hanger from the closet while she crouched to untie her squelching boots. She heard him try again, “I didn’t see you’d gotten rained on. Don’t know how, it’s quite obvious, actually, what with your hair dripping and that scowl on your face.”
She looked up at that. He was smiling at her lightly, over his shoulder. Chell narrowed her eyes in return, but he recognized her mutual teasing.
Wheatley disappeared once the coat hung in its usual spot. As she finished tugging off her boots, he rounded the corner back into view, equipped with a large bath towel. He approached her and began to wrap it around Chell but she stopped him with a raised hand. She wasn’t in the mood for a scrubbing, if that’s what he planned to do.
Eyeing him gratefully, Chell unfurled the towel herself. “It didn’t rain,” she stated plainly. Not while she’d been out. “A car drove over a puddle.”
“Must’ve been quite the puddle,” Wheatley supplied. His smile faltered at the look she gave him. “And– and how dare it, right? Totally against social etiquette, to be such a big puddle on the side of the road. And how dare that driver! Should’ve known better, whoever they were, or at least been more careful. Anyway, besides that, how was your day?”
Chell shrugged. Nothing special, though she’d been let off early. She was still a bit drenched, droplets trailing down her face and back, but that was subject to change. Standing by the entryway of their home, warm and drying and Wheatley close by, it wasn’t all that bad. Though, she definitely needed to examine the contents of her bag.
It could wait. She was still perplexed by Wheatley’s initial welcome. “What were you doing?” she asked.
“I– me? Well, I, uh...” he looked at the ground imploringly, like it would aid him with the rest of his words. A few instances passed where Wheatley seemed to be making up his mind. Chell didn’t rush him. Ultimately, he met her gaze, determined. “Come see.”
He led her almost all the way back to the kitchen before stopping with a quiet “Oh!” and returning to the couch, grabbing whatever tool he’d thrown down earlier.
Chell took the opportunity to examine the table more closely. About a dozen glasses sat in a neat array, and they appeared to be filled with water. A metal spoon lay close by. As he approached, Chell understood that Wheatley had retrieved a second spoon, now held in a closed fist. He looked at her a bit nervously, chewing his lip and wringing his hands. Chell tried for an attentive but casual disposition, wringing out her hair with the towel.
He understood. “Right, so, I’ve been trying to, uh, learn something. Well, more like figure it out myself. ‘Cause, I sort of discovered, I guess you could say, that when you tap a spoon against one of these glasses–” he stopped to demonstrate, a chime coloring the air “–it lets out a note. Yeah, I thought that was curious, and – this is the interesting part – when you fill the glass with some water–” he tapped another glass, and another note sounded “–you get a different one.” As he shared, Wheatley’s voice danced with barely-suppressed excitement. He’d clearly forgotten about his nerves. “And so, I was thinking, ‘Why not keep doing that?’ Y’know, filling the glasses with different amounts of water, ‘cause that was definitely the critical factor in making the note change. So I did that, and...” He let his actions explain, tapping three glasses, a grin on his face.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Chell was no expert on music, but the pitches were obviously a sequence from some scale. Wheatley was right – it was interesting, and quite impressive, for Wheatley to have measured out the exact water amounts that produced the right notes. It didn’t escape her, though, that he must’ve been banging flatware on their glasses to have learned about the chiming noises.
Wheatley’s attention was still fixated on the arrangement in front of them. “And so I uh ... well, I’ve been practicing. Something. And I’m not sure if it’s ready, to be honest, I wasn’t sure when I’d be showing you, but...” He smiled sheepishly. He glanced at the funnel in the towel where she’d been collecting hair and squeezing out water, then back to her. “Now might be as good of a time as any. Hopefully.”
Wordlessly, he grabbed the back of a chair and sat down. Wheatley acquired his other spoon from the table, one in each hand, and looked over his ensemble of glass cups. Chell took a couple steps back to give him space. From this trajectory, she could see how each glass had been filled to a different line. Wheatley watched her as she shifted, hunkered down and close to his instruments before she offered an emphasized nod. Of course, Chell figured what she was about to hear, and she felt more than a little intrigued to see its execution. A look of heavy concentration flooded Wheatley’s face. He brought a hand up, the spoon shaking slightly in his grasp, hesitated, and brought it against the glass’s side.
Chell recognized the tune with about four clinks. Greensleeves. Interesting choice. It was a beautiful piece, one Wheatley knew she enjoyed, delicate but cleverly rich, the kind of music that would prompt her to choose a spot on the wall and watch it unseeingly. It had some sort of calming effect that coaxed her out of thought. Not many things could manage it. Chell usually heard Greensleeves on piano, soft and deep. This rendition was not much the same.
This was sweet. Stirring and light with each bump of the glass. Chell gazed at Wheatley, the maestro, as he persuaded every note from his orchestra, slowly but surely. The water would shake upon playing its part, but Wheatley didn’t. After his initial tension, his face relaxed, and his hands worked easily. He must’ve practiced thoroughly to gain such confidence. Or maybe he was in his element with music.
Given the nature of the instrument, Chell had expected some of the notes to come out harsh, maybe even abrasive, or perhaps the tempo to slow further, but nothing of the sort happened. She allowed herself to embrace the sounds as she did when she heard the song on the radio. Subconsciously, Chell trusted she could give herself up to the music, and Wheatley wouldn’t falter.
He played thirty-two measures, the renowned beginning of the piece, before his final note rang, clear as the rest. Wheatley looked at her nervously as Chell woke from her voluntary trance, but she saw the relief brimming in his eyes. She knew why. He hadn’t known if he could do it, if he could carry her from reality into a state of peace, even as her hair dripped and the towel weighed down on her. He hadn’t known if his idea was even all that interesting, but he’d tried to make something special for Chell. His song choice proved that.
It’d been short, but it’d definitely been memorable. A gift.
Eventually, Wheatley spoke up. “So, what do you think? Did you like that?”
Chell responded by crossing to his side of the table, sitting across his lap, and wrapping the towel around both of them. Their own little peace, like the one he created for her. Every day. She smiled brightly and told him she loved it before sealing her words with a kiss.